There’s something wrong with the supermarket on Finch Street. It’s not the flickering lights or the stale smell in the air. It’s not even the coldness that clings to your bones like wet fabric. It’s something else—something deeper, darker. Something watching.
I never wanted the night shift. I was new in town, broke, and desperate. I applied to every job I could find, and Greenview Market was the first to call me back. The manager, a lanky man with pale skin and tired eyes, barely looked at me during the interview. He only said one thing that stood out.
“Don’t go down Aisle Thirteen. Not after midnight.”
I thought it was a joke, a weird initiation thing. I even laughed. He didn’t.
My first shift was on a Monday. The store closed at 11 PM, but the cleaning and stocking lasted until 6 in the morning. That night, I worked with two others: Beth, who was always chewing gum and scrolling her phone, and Carl, an old man with greasy hair who didn’t talk unless he had to. They both looked exhausted, and neither one offered much conversation. They just kept saying, “Keep your head down. Do your part.”
At 11:15, the automatic doors locked. Silence fell like a heavy blanket. That’s when I noticed something. The store was… wrong. Not broken. Just off. I’d walk past a freezer aisle and feel like someone was following me. A bread bag would fall off the shelf for no reason. Cart wheels would creak when no one was pushing them. I told myself I was imagining things. Stress. Fatigue.
It was nearly 1:30 AM when I realized I’d been assigned to clean Aisle Thirteen.
I froze.
Beth and Carl were nowhere in sight. The lights in that aisle were dimmer, like the bulbs were dying, though I’d seen them perfectly fine earlier. The sign that hung above said “Pet Supplies,” but the aisle seemed longer than the others, like it stretched further back than the building allowed.
Still, I didn’t want to look stupid on my first night. I pushed my cart of cleaning supplies forward and turned into the aisle.
The moment I entered, the sound around me died. The buzzing from the ceiling lights, the hum of the refrigerators, the faint static from Beth’s phone—it was all gone. Just silence. My ears popped like I’d climbed a mountain.
The shelves in Aisle Thirteen weren’t lined with pet food and toys like they should have been. No. They were empty. Dusty. Covered in scratches. Deep, gouging scratches—claw marks that tore through the metal like paper. I felt a chill roll down my spine.
I turned around.
The entrance of the aisle was gone.
Where it should have led back to the main floor, there was now more shelf. More aisle. I blinked, heart racing. I took a step back. Another. The aisle stretched with me, the exit staying the same distance away.
I started running. But the aisle ran with me.
That’s when I heard it.
A wet, scraping sound. Like flesh dragging on tile. Then breathing—low and guttural. I ducked behind one of the shelves, heart pounding like a war drum.
From the far end of the aisle, something stepped into view.
It was tall, nearly touching the ceiling. Humanoid, but not. Its limbs were too long, its fingers clawed and scraping the ground. Its skin looked like raw meat—no eyes, just a stretched, bloody face with a smile too wide and too wet.
And it was sniffing.
Sniffing for me.
I held my breath. I didn’t move. Not even a twitch.
It crept forward, each step squelching. I could see its ribcage through the torn skin of its chest. It twitched like it was constantly tasting the air, like it knew where I was—but wanted to play.
It stopped just inches from where I crouched. I could smell it now—rot, copper, and something like burning hair. It opened its mouth.
And whispered my name.
“Daniel…”
I didn’t know how it knew me. I didn’t care. I ran. I didn’t care if the aisle stretched or looped or trapped me—I ran with everything I had. My feet burned. My lungs tore.
Suddenly, I crashed into something soft. Beth.
“Jesus! What the hell, Daniel?!”
I looked back. The aisle behind me was… normal. Dog food, leashes, squeaky toys. No blood. No monster.
Carl stood nearby with his arms crossed. “You went down Thirteen, didn’t you?”
I nodded, shaking. “What… what was that thing?”
Beth glanced around nervously and lowered her voice. “People say it’s been here since the store opened. Some think it’s older than that—like the building was put here because of it. A trap to keep it contained.”
Carl sighed. “It doesn’t come out unless you go looking. We try to leave that aisle alone. The shelves restock themselves. Always have.”
My stomach turned. “Why didn’t anyone warn me?!”
“We did,” Carl said. “You just didn’t believe us.”
I quit the next morning. I didn’t go back for my paycheck. I left town within the week.
But sometimes… I swear I see it again.
In reflections. In my dreams. At the end of grocery aisles that shouldn’t exist. It watches. It waits.
It remembers me.
And it’s still smiling.
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