I was twenty-one when I started working nights at the Burger Barn off County Road D.
It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid better than day shift, and no one fought you over fries at three in the morning. Midnight to eight. Four nights a week. Enough to keep my head above water while I figured out what I was doing with my life.
Most nights it was just me and Aaron. He worked grill, I handled front and cleanup. We didn’t talk much. He wore one earbud, nodded when required, and smelled faintly of oil and menthol cigarettes.
That was fine with me.
Quiet makes time move faster.
The first thing I noticed was the radio.
We left it on the same station every night—old rock, barely audible under the hum of the fryers. One night, around two, it clicked off.
Just… stopped.
I assumed Aaron had done it. I flipped it back on.
Ten minutes later, it shut off again.
I looked through the kitchen window. Aaron was still at the grill, hands busy, earbud in.
“You messing with the radio?” I called.
He shook his head without looking at me.
When I checked it a third time, the volume had been turned all the way down.
Small things followed.
The mop bucket would be full when I knew I’d dumped it. The back door alarm chirped once at random, then stopped. Paper towel rolls vanished and reappeared days later, half-used.
Aaron didn’t notice. Or didn’t care.
“Night shift’s haunted,” he said once, deadpan, when I mentioned the missing towels.
I laughed then.
The smell started in week three.
It wasn’t food. Not grease or garbage. It was warmer than that. Sour and human. Like sweat trapped in fabric too long.
It came from the supply hallway—the narrow stretch behind the walk-in freezer where we kept spare uniforms and broken equipment.
I sprayed cleaner. It came back.
I blamed the drains. Aaron shrugged.
“Probably just you,” he said. “Nights mess with your head.”
One morning, as we were clocking out, I noticed something odd.
My locker was open.
I never left it open.
Inside, my hoodie was folded. Neatly. Sleeves tucked in.
I hadn’t worn it that night.
I asked Aaron if he’d touched it.
He stared at me like I’d suggested something obscene. “Why would I touch your stuff?”
Fair point.
I told myself I must have forgotten.
That’s the lie I kept using.
It happened on a Tuesday.
Slow night. Rain. No customers between one and almost four. Aaron was on break, sitting up front scrolling his phone.
I went back to grab more cups.
That’s when I heard breathing.
Not loud. Not gasping.
Close.
I froze.
The hallway lights flickered faintly, casting shadows across stacked boxes. The smell was stronger here.
“Hello?” I said, my voice thinner than I wanted.
The breathing stopped.
I stepped forward, heart kicking against my ribs. Past the soda syrup crates. Past the old freezer we never fixed.
That’s when I saw the blankets.
Gray. Filthy. Carefully tucked behind equipment like someone didn’t want them noticed. A backpack. Empty bottles. A half-eaten sandwich wrapped in yesterday’s receipt paper.
Someone had been living here.
A sound behind me.
I turned.
He stood between me and the kitchen door.
Late thirties, maybe. Sunken cheeks. Beard grown wrong, like he’d forgotten how. He raised his hands slowly.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. His voice was soft. Almost polite. “Please don’t scream.”
My mouth went dry.
“You can’t be here,” I managed.
“I know,” he said quickly. “I’ll go. I promise. I just—” He glanced at the blankets. “I just needed somewhere warm.”
My fingers twitched toward my pocket. My phone.
He noticed.
“Please don’t call,” he said. “I’ll leave tonight. I swear.”
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
He hesitated. Then smiled, a little embarrassed. “Long enough.”
That answer crawled under my skin.
“You’ve been messing with things,” I said. “The radio. My locker.”
He nodded. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just… like routine.”
I felt sick. “You’ve been watching us?”
“Just you,” he said, gently correcting me.
My heart dropped.
He reached into his pocket.
I flinched.
Instead of a weapon, he pulled out a phone. Old. Cracked screen.
He tapped it, then turned it toward me.
Photos.
Me wiping counters. Me leaning against the register. Me laughing at something Aaron said, unaware.
Some were taken from far away.
Some were close.
Too close.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly. “I just wanted to remember. You make the nights easier.”
I took a step back.
“Delete them,” I said. “Now.”
His expression changed. Not angry.
Afraid.
“I can’t,” he said. “If you tell, they’ll take me away.”
“I’m telling,” I said. “You need to leave.”
He shook his head slowly.
“Just wait,” he said. “Until morning. Then I’ll go.”
“No.”
I raised my voice. “Aaron!”
Footsteps up front.
“What’s up?” Aaron called.
The man’s eyes darted toward the sound.
“Yeah!” I yelled. “Back here!”
He lunged.
I screamed and shoved past him, adrenaline burning hot. I hit Aaron full-on as he rounded the corner.
“There’s someone back there,” I gasped. “Call the police!”
The man ran.
Emergency door. Alarm screaming. Rain pouring in as he disappeared into the dark.
The cops came. Took statements. Found the blankets. The phone.
They showed me the photos.
There were hundreds.
Not just of me.
Other employees. Going back years.
The footage showed him slipping in during deliveries, hiding all day, moving only at night.
Watching.
They never caught him.
I quit the next day.
I work mornings now. A café downtown. Always busy. Always loud.
But sometimes, when I’m wiping the counter, I feel it.
That sense of being observed.
Last week, I checked my locker.
Inside was my scarf.
Folded.
Neatly.
I don’t wear scarves to work.
And I don’t work nights anymore.
Which means—
He didn’t stop because the store closed.
He stopped because I moved.
And now he knows where I am.
