Overnights

The coffee expired an hour ago, but I’m not making another pot. 

Technically, it expired at midnight. I changed the timer to two. If you come into a gas station this late, you deserve old coffee.

It’s mostly drunks or kids buying junk to stave off their munchies this time of night. Then there are the chronic losers who come in four or five times a night. 

Don’t you people sleep?

I don’t even greet the regulars anymore. They come in, buy a candy bar and a Monster, then come back an hour later for a frozen dinner and rolling papers. Another hour, another Monster and a bag of chips. Get everything you need in one trip. Why is that so hard?

I’ve started asking if there’s anything else they’ll need tonight when they come to the register. Nobody has caught on.

They usually bring their kids, too. Shouldn’t they be in bed? Sometimes I look at their little faces and wonder if they already know. If they understand that the overgrown child dragging them around a gas station at one in the morning is supposed to be the person teaching them how to survive the world.

I’m grateful the lottery machine shuts off at eleven. Doesn’t stop the addicts from coming in all night to buy tickets. They have their own ritual. 

Shut off the car. Come inside. Buy one ticket. Go back outside. Start the car. Scratch it.

Lose.

Shut off the car. Come back inside. Repeat. Sometimes for hours.

And God help me if one of them wins after the machine shuts down.

“But I’m a winner!”

Okay, buddy. Congratulations on spending two hundred and fifty dollars to win ten. Winner isn’t the word I’d use.

I hate this job. 

I’m grateful for this job. 

But I hate this job.

I hate the smell. The hot buzz of electronics around me all night. The fluorescent light above the register that flickers every few minutes. The ding when the door opens. The rule that I have to greet every person who walks through it or risk getting written up. I hate the ambulance sirens screaming past all night because the hospital is nearby. I hate the cameras moving back and forth overhead, making sure I don’t commit the mortal sin of looking at my phone when there isn’t another human being in the store.

Mostly, I hate going home and looking at the degree hanging on my wall and knowing the frame is worth more than the degree turned out to be.

Maybe I’m a loser, too. At least the lottery people still have hope.

Sometimes I have this nightmare: I’m driving along a winding road, and there’s a car behind me, too close, pressuring me to go faster. There are no guardrails. I know I should slow down, but I don’t.

Then comes the curve. I try to brake gently so I don’t flip but it’s not enough. The car goes over the edge. Sometimes it’s a cliff. Sometimes an overpass. Sometimes a bridge. But I always fall. And I feel every second of it.

Sometimes, when I’m awake, I wonder if I should prepare myself for it. Like the dream is some kind of prophecy. Which is ridiculous.

Nothing about my life moves fast.

Tonight is especially dead. I’ve done almost everything. All that’s left are the dishes, then front and face the store. Same old, same old.

I’m in the back room when the door chime goes off.

Ding.

It takes me a second to get out front.

“Hi, welcome to—”

Nobody.

I look toward the coolers. The aisles. Outside at the pumps. No car. Nothing.

Wind, probably. I don’t care. Back to the dishes.

A few minutes later—

Ding.

I roll my eyes and wipe my hands on a paper towel. Back to the front.

“Welcome to—”

Nobody.

This time I walk around the store. Check the aisles. Check behind the displays. I grab a drink from the soda fountain and step outside.

Empty.

I take a sip and look toward the fence lining the parking lot. Nothing moving. Nothing suspicious. When I come back in, I fiddle with the door, pushing against it lightly. It doesn’t move. Maybe the sensor is broken. Great.

I go into the back room for a trash bag. The outside trash needs changing anyway.

Ding.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I ignore it.

When I come back out, a man is standing in the middle of pump four. Staring at the door.

Staring at me.

The trash can can wait.

There’s no car near him. Nobody else around. He looks older, maybe sixties. His hair is long enough to need a cut. Shorts and a dirty tank top, even though it’s cold.

Then again, this is Massachusetts. Shorts in winter barely qualify as suspicious.

He keeps staring. Something about how still he is makes me feel like a kid, scared of the monster beneath my bed that might grab my feet if they come out from under the blanket. 

I want to hide under the covers.

I glance beneath the counter at the crowbar I keep there when I work alone. Just seeing it makes me feel better.

I look up.

He’s standing directly outside the door.

I gasp.

How did he—

I didn’t see him move. I can feel myself breathing heavier. I swallow.

“Are you coming in or what?” I yell loud enough that I know he can hear it through the door.

Nothing.

“I don’t know what you’re on, but either come in and buy something or I’m calling the cops.”

Nothing.

I want to lock the door, but that means leaving the safety of being behind the counter. Leaving the phone. Leaving the partition that, psychologically at least, separates me from every lunatic who wanders in here.

Junkies and degenerates aren’t new. There’s always some fresh variant of weirdo waiting to grace the overnight shift with their crazy.

But this is new.

I grab the phone and the crowbar. I decide to scare him right back. I’m a chunky woman. I can scare men with my girth if nothing else. Show no fear.

There is, for the record, a lot of fear.

I walk heavily from behind the counter. He doesn’t move. I lock the door.

Immediately, stupidly, I feel safer, even though it’s glass and I’ve seen videos of people kicking through doors exactly like it.

“I’m calling the cops, asshole.”

I turn away from him and dial the local number. The station is only two blocks away. They know me here.

“Hi, this is Ellie at Grovestand on South Main. There’s a guy standing outside the front door staring at me. He won’t leave and he’s blocking the entrance… Yeah. I asked him to leave. He doesn’t say anything.”

I glance back.

“He looks like he’s on someth—”

He’s gone.

I stop breathing.

“No, no, I’m still here. One second.”

I go to the window. Nothing. I move farther down the aisle, trying to see around the side of the building from the window.

Nobody.

An ambulance tears past, siren screaming, red lights washing over the store windows. I forgot I still had the phone in my hand.

“Yeah, sorry,” I say. “I… I don’t know where he went. I think he took off when I called you… Yeah. Could somebody still swing by? I’d feel better if they checked... Yeah. Okay thanks.”

I hang up and check the back door. Locked. Good.

I dig through my coat for my car keys. I want to move my car closer. Corporate says employees can’t use the spaces near the building because they’re for customers, so mine is across the street. Apparently, the convenience of someone buying beef jerky outranks whether I get murdered walking to my car at three in the morning.

Screw corporate. I head back out front.

My keys hit the floor.

There are more of them now.

At least ten.

Men. Women. Scattered across the parking lot. All facing the store.

All staring at me.

Some are dressed for winter. Some for summer. One woman looks like she’s wearing a hospital gown beneath an open coat. 

I step back slowly. I can’t breathe. I feel my whole body shaking.

Nobody moves. Their arms hang at their sides. Their chins tilt slightly downward.

But their eyes are on me.

Dead-eyed.

Watching.

I stumble backward, nearly falling as I run for the back room. I grab the crowbar and lock myself in the employee bathroom. The lock is flimsy enough that it might as well be a piece of gum, but it’s another door between me and them.

My legs are shaking so much I’m worried my knees might give out. I don’t know what to do. I press the crowbar against my chest with both hands and feel my heart pounding through it.

What is happening?

What the fuck is happening?

The phone rings.

I nearly scream. 

I left it on the counter. It keeps ringing.

Finally, I force myself out of the bathroom and run to the sound.

“Hell… hello?”

“Hi, this is Officer Saban. You called us to come by. We’re just checking on you.”

I could cry.

I run out front. He’s standing outside the door.

Uniform. Badge. Gun.

Human.

There’s nobody else in the parking lot.

I unlock the door so fast I nearly hug him when he steps inside. I think he could see it in my face.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. You alright?”

“Yeah. No. I don’t know. There were people everywhere. First there was this one guy staring at me, and then he disappeared, and I went into the back and when I came out there were more of them. Like a bunch. They were just standing there and—”

“Whoa. It’s okay.” His voice is calm. Normal. “I didn’t see anybody when I pulled in. Were they kids? People you recognize from around here?”

“No. I’ve never seen any of them. And they didn’t run. That’s what I don’t understand. How did they all disappear that fast?”

“All right. Give me a minute. I’m going to walk around the building and see if anybody’s hiding nearby.”

“I want to move my car closer.”

“Wait until I finish checking. Stay inside until I come back around. Did you see any cars?”

“No. Nothing. All I’ve seen tonight are ambulances.”

“All right. Lock this behind me.”

I do.

I watch him make his way around the building, speaking into the radio clipped to his shoulder.

I don’t know whether I want him to find them. Part of me does. Let it be teenagers. Drunks. Some stupid prank.

Something normal.

Something I understand.

A few minutes later, Officer Saban comes back around. I open the door.

“I checked everywhere. Nobody. Either they’re really fast or somebody had a car waiting.”

“There were like ten of them.”

“Must’ve been a big car,” he says. “Look, I’ll drive around and see if I spot anybody. I’m on patrol until six, so I’ll swing by every hour. Keep the door locked. If they saw my cruiser, they probably won’t come back.”

I want to believe him.

“Okay. Thanks. Can I move my car before you go? I’m off in a couple hours. I just wanna make sure I can get out safe.”

“Yeah. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

“Grab a drink if you want. Coffee’s old, though.”

He smiles. “No caffeine for me. New baby at home. Gotta sleep when I can.”

The normalcy of it almost makes me dizzy. A baby. Coffee. Some cop standing beside a rack of Doritos.

Normal.

I grab my keys.

Outside, the air has that particular bite of the first days when everyone knows winter has arrived but collectively agrees to keep calling it fall. My car is across the street. I start walking.

Halfway across the lot, I feel it.

Someone watching me.

I don’t turn around. I keep walking.

Then faster.

The dread crawls up my spine, prickling through my scalp like fingers reaching into my hair.

I jog past the pumps. Then run. Onto the sidewalk.

Into the street.

A siren screams. Tires screech. I turn.

Red lights. An ambulance. 

And then—

Dark.

So dark.

My eyes hurt. I try to open them, but they’re heavy, like there’s a weight on them. Cold wind moves against my skin.

I’m standing somewhere. Where?

I try to turn my head, but I can’t. Then I see them: the people from the parking lot, all around me.

I want to scream. I want to run. I can’t move.

They disappear, then return. Gone, back again, flashes of them in the darkness.

A tall rectangle of light glows in front of us. A doorway. Am I in the parking lot? Am I with them?

My neck is stiff. My arms hang at my sides. My chin points down. I try to look away, but I can’t. None of us can.

Ding.

We stand in the dark, staring at that glowing door like moths who can’t stop. We can never stop.

It’s the only light in our dark.