章 277: Chapter 277
Dean had worked at Weller's Market for just over three months, but he was already exhausted. It wasn't the kind of tired that came from manual labor; it was the kind that felt like it was sinking deep into his bones. The fluorescent lights above were harsh, casting long shadows on the aisles, even though it was well after midnight. The store should've been empty by now, but the hours dragged on, filled with nothing but the sound of his footsteps against the cold linoleum floors.
He was just getting ready to close up when he saw the note on the counter. It was odd because he had worked this shift dozens of times before and never had anyone left him a message. There was a strange feeling about it, like it had always been there, waiting for him.
The note was simple.
1. Check the milk in aisle 3.
2. The stockroom door needs to be locked.
3. Look at the back wall in aisle 7.
4. Don't forget to take the trash out.
Dean frowned. It wasn't a list of tasks he recognized, and it didn't feel like something his manager would leave. The handwriting wasn't familiar either—sharp, angular strokes. He rolled the paper in his hands, feeling a strange pull in his gut. He shrugged it off, thinking it was just a prank. The night was wearing on, and he didn't want to be stuck here longer than he had to.
He glanced at the clock. 12:05 AM.
The first thing he did was head to aisle 3. The milk was always a problem. Some of the cartons tended to leak in the back, and the store manager was always on his case about making sure everything was fresh.
Dean pushed the creaky door open, and the cool air from the fridges washed over him. There, near the middle, was the display of milk. He checked the cartons, pulling out a few that were nearing expiration. But there was something wrong about the way the light hit the shelves—too dim, as if it had been dimming for hours without anyone noticing.
He started to leave, but a voice—low, muffled—seemed to echo from the back of the aisle.
He froze, but it didn't sound like anyone was there. Dean stepped backward, scanning the empty shelves.
He shook his head. It was nothing. The list wasn't real, and he was probably just tired. He turned and left the aisle, the odd sensation in his chest still lingering.
The next task was simple enough: check the stockroom door. The door to the back storage area had a reputation for being temperamental, but Dean wasn't expecting any trouble tonight.
When he reached it, he found the door wide open. The faint scent of damp cardboard and cleaning chemicals hit him. He checked the lock. It was secure. Still, the door seemed to move slightly, as if it had been pushed recently.
Something scratched at the back of his mind, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn't alone. He pushed the door shut with a force that made the hinges creak, locking it tightly.
As he turned to leave, he glanced at the note again.
"Look at the back wall in aisle 7."
Aisle 7. That was near the back of the store. Dean didn't want to go—there was something wrong about it all—but he couldn't ignore it. Something about that note compelled him, like he needed to follow through, no matter how ridiculous it seemed. He made his way there, his feet dragging as he passed through the aisles.
Aisle 7 was one of the least visited. It was where they kept the dry goods: canned vegetables, bags of rice, pasta. The shelf was stacked high, and the overhead lights flickered as he walked past.
When he reached the back of the aisle, his breath caught in his throat. The wall was covered in something he didn't remember being there before.
The floor was sticky, and there were scratches, deep ones, along the base of the wall, like something—or someone—had been dragged across it. There were black marks smeared along the shelves, too, like someone had been here recently, doing something... horrible.
Dean stared at the marks for too long. His heart was racing. He took a step back, but something about the wall held him in place. The marks weren't just stains—they were deliberate. Shapes. Patterns. As if they had been arranged.
He didn't understand it. It didn't make sense.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Something was wrong.
Before he could take another step, there was a sound from behind him—soft, quick, like the shuffle of footsteps.
Dean spun around, his breath short. The aisle was empty.
His eyes darted to the clock. 12:15 AM. He felt like the time was stretching, bending in some unnatural way. He needed to finish what the note had told him to do. He couldn't leave, not yet. The list… it felt important.
The last thing on the note was to take the trash out. Easy enough. Dean rushed to the back of the store where they kept the trash bins. The flickering lights above him seemed to grow dimmer with every step, and the silence grew heavier.
The trash bins were all lined up, waiting to be taken outside. Dean dragged the first one across the floor, but as he reached the back door, he froze.
The door wasn't locked.
He had locked it earlier. He was sure of it.
He hesitated, but something pushed him forward. The door creaked open, revealing the dark alley behind the store. It was quiet out there, too quiet. No one was around, but the air felt thick, as if something was watching.
Dean turned around to head back inside, but then, from the corner of his eye, he saw something. A figure. A person.
It was standing near the dumpster, too far away for him to make out any details, but there was something off about the shape. It didn't move. Just stood there, completely still.
Dean didn't know why, but he started walking toward it.
The closer he got, the clearer the figure became. It was tall—unnaturally tall. Its limbs were long, stretched in ways that didn't seem possible. As he took another step forward, the person turned its head, slowly, as if it was made of something far too stiff.
Its face was hollow, empty.
Dean's stomach dropped, and before he could react, it lunged. Not forward. Not toward him—but into the ground. It crawled beneath the earth, pulling itself out of view with terrifying speed.
Dean stumbled backward, tripping over his feet. The trash can tipped over, spilling garbage all over the ground. He wanted to scream, but his throat was dry. He turned and ran, tearing down the alley, back toward the door, but when he reached it, the door wouldn't open.
He was trapped.
The sound of scraping metal filled the air, and he spun around. The figure was coming back. This time, it wasn't crawling beneath the earth. It was moving through the walls, slowly, like a nightmare that wouldn't end.
Dean pounded on the door, frantic. His heart raced in his chest, but the door stayed shut. And then, from the corner of his eye, he saw the list again.
The note was on the ground, half-buried beneath the trash. The first item was crossed out: Check the milk in aisle 3.
The second: Stockroom door needs to be locked.
The third: Look at the back wall in aisle 7.
The final one wasn't crossed out.
Don't forget to take the trash out.
Dean's body shook, the cold creeping in. He couldn't breathe. His mind spun in circles, trying to piece it all together.
And then, there was a crack—small at first, barely noticeable—but it grew louder. Something was breaking. Something in the walls. The figure. It was coming for him.
He reached for the door again, but it was too late.
The last thing he saw was the figure's face, hollow and staring, as it crawled up from the floor.
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