I always thought working at a pizza place would be a chill job—free food, flexible hours, and not too many responsibilities. That was until I started the night shift at Tony’s Pizza Corner.
Tony’s had been a staple in our small town for years. Located at the edge of a dimly lit street, the building looked like it hadn’t been renovated since the ’80s. The neon sign blinked sporadically, and the paint peeled off the wooden walls like dead skin. Still, people loved the place for its cheesy slices and affordable prices. I was just glad to have a paycheck.
My shift ran from 9 PM to 2 AM. Tony, the owner, warned me that things got weird at night, but he never elaborated. I assumed he meant drunk customers or prank calls. If only.
The first week was uneventful—slow business, the occasional rowdy teenager. But on the eighth night, things took a turn. It started with a call at 11:23 PM. The voice on the other end was raspy and hoarse.
“One large meat lovers… extra red sauce,” the voice croaked.
I paused. Something about the way they said “red sauce” made my stomach churn.
“Sure. What’s the address?”
“The old Willow Creek House,” they whispered.
Everyone in town knew that house. Abandoned for years after a gruesome family murder, it was the kind of place teens dared each other to enter. No one actually lived there.
Thinking it was a prank, I decided to make the pizza anyway. I figured it’d just be someone messing around. Maybe they’d even pay. Curiosity got the better of me.
I drove out in Tony’s delivery car. The road to Willow Creek House was lined with gnarled trees and broken streetlights. Fog hung thick in the air like a ghost refusing to leave. As I pulled up, the house loomed in front of me—three stories of rot, with windows like hollow eyes and a door barely hanging on its hinges.
Still thinking it was a joke, I stepped out with the pizza.
I knocked once. The door creaked open on its own.
“Hello? Pizza delivery,” I called out.
Silence.
A chill crawled down my spine. I should’ve turned back. But something pushed me forward—maybe pride, maybe stupidity.
I stepped inside. The smell hit me instantly: old blood and decay. The wallpaper was peeling, revealing scratches underneath. The kind of scratches made by fingernails.
Then I saw the footprints. Red, wet, and leading into the kitchen.
“Hello?” I tried again, louder this time.
Suddenly, a figure emerged at the end of the hallway. It was wearing a Tony’s Pizza uniform. My uniform. Except it was torn and soaked in something dark.
“You’re late,” it said in that same raspy voice.
I dropped the pizza and ran. I didn’t stop until I was back at the store.
The pizza box was still in my hand.
Only… it was empty.
The next night, I almost didn’t show up. But I needed the money. Tony acted like nothing had happened.
“Late-night deliveries keep us alive,” he said with a wink. “Don’t be scared of ghosts. They’re good tippers.”
I laughed nervously.
At 12:01 AM, the phone rang again.
“One medium pepperoni,” the voice whispered. “Extra… meat.”
“Where to?” I asked, trembling.
“Apartment 306. Ravenwood Building.”
That building had burned down a year ago. A gas leak, they said. Dozens killed. The structure still stood but was condemned.
I should’ve refused. Instead, I found myself driving there with another pizza in hand.
I climbed the stairs, every step groaning under my weight. Apartment 306’s door was ajar.
Inside, the apartment was untouched by time or fire. It looked lived in. A small TV buzzed with static. An armchair faced the screen. And in it, a figure sat—motionless.
“Pizza?” I whispered.
No reply.
I approached, my heart pounding. I tapped the figure’s shoulder.
Its head fell off.
Not in a jump-scare way—it rolled to the ground like it had been placed there. Hollow. Paper-mâché. A mask.
Underneath, the armchair was stuffed with meat. Raw. Oozing.
I dropped the box and bolted.
This became a pattern. Every night, another call. Another horrific location. Another nightmare. One night it was an old asylum. Another, a cemetery crypt. The pizzas were always the same—extra red sauce. Extra meat. And no matter where I delivered them, something always waited for me.
Once, it was a child with hollow eyes who asked me to come inside to meet her “family”—dozens of mannequins posed around a table, all wearing pizza hats. Another time, I was lured into a freezer that locked behind me, the walls covered in claw marks and names etched in blood. I barely escaped.
I tried quitting. Tony wouldn’t let me.
“The orders come whether we want them or not,” he said, his voice suddenly… older. “We have to deliver.”
I noticed something then. Tony’s reflection in the pizza oven window—it didn’t match his movements. It grinned when he didn’t.
That night, I followed him after my shift. He went to the walk-in freezer in the back.
Inside, I found shelves of… heads. Preserved. Wrapped in delivery hats.
One of them looked like me.
I ran.
I haven’t delivered a pizza since. I moved three towns over, changed my name, and blocked every number I didn’t recognize.
But the dreams still come. The same voice, whispering about extra red sauce.
Last night, someone left a pizza on my doorstep.
The receipt said:
“Final delivery. You can never leave.”
And the box?
Empty.
But my fridge was full.
With meat.
And I don’t remember going to the store.
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