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Speaker 1: I work the night shift at a small, run down

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gas station on the edge of a highway that hardly

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sees any traffic past midnight. Its mediocre place at best,

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no security cameras, half the lights flickering like the dying,

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and a bathroom that no one in the right mind

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would use. Most of the time, my shift is dead, silent,

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truckers stopped to grab coffee and stretch their legs, and

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locals come in every once in a while, but after

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one am the place becomes a ghost town. It's just me,

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the buzzing of the old fluorescent lights, and the occasional

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coyote howling in the distance. That's why it stood out

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immediately when someone walked in on foot at exactly two

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a m. I was leaning back in my chair, absently

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flicking through my phone when the chime above the door rang.

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I barely looked up at first, expecting the usual, a

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trucker grabbing coffee, some lost traveler asking for directions. But

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when I finally glanced toward the entrance, I saw him

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for the first time. No headlights in the lot, no

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car idling at the pumps, just a man standing in

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the doorway, dripping in the station sickly fluorescent lights. He

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was thin, hunched slightly, like he'd been walking for miles.

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His clothes were ordinary enough, dark jeans stained with leaves

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and mud at the bottom, a gray hud he pulled

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over his head. He smelt faintly of gasoline. He took slow,

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dragging steps toward the counter. I cleared my throat, ay man,

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how's it going? No response? You need something? He didn't blink,

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just reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumbled twenty

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dollar bill and set it on the counter. One gallon,

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he muttered with a hoarse voice. I waited for him

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to say something else, maybe explain why he was on

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foot or where his car was, But he just stood there.

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You good dude. I tried again, ringing up the sail. Nothing.

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I slid his change across the counter, and he picked

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it up without counting it. Outside, through the station's dirty

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front windows, I watched him take an old, battered Jerry

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can from beside the pumps. The thing was weathered, sun bleached,

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cracked in spots. I figured he probably had a car

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stranded nearby. Maybe he was just mad or embarrassed. Honestly,

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I didn't care as long as he paid. Whatever he

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did with the fuel wasn't my problem. The next night,

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at exactly two a m. The door chime rang again.

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I looked up from where I was restocking cigarettes behind

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the counter, my stomach twisting before I fully registered why

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it was him, same hunched posture. I set the cartiner

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smokestown and straightened up, watching him closely as he stepped

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forward and wordlessly slipped the crumpled twenty dollar bill across

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the counter. One gallon, he muttered. I hesitated, before punching

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the sail. Something about him didn't feel right. You got

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a car this time, I asked, keeping my tone light.

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He didn't respond. His fingers twitched slightly where they rested

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on the counter. I licked my lips and rang him up,

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keeping my eye on his face as I slid his

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change across the counter. But he didn't even glance down.

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He just grabbed the coins and left outside. I watched

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through the grimy front window as he made his way

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back toward the pumps. He picked it up and filled

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it carefully, watching as the fuel poured into the old,

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cracked plastic. I noticed then how discolored his hands were, grimy,

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with dark stains under his nails like he'd been working

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with oil. I turned away as he capped the canister,

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telling myself once again that it wasn't my problem. The

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first time I hadn't. Really he paid attention to which

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direction he was headed in for this time, curiosity got

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the better of me. I expected him to head for

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the highway. Maybe there was a car waiting down the

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road out of sight, maybe someone was picking him up.

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But he didn't go toward the road at all. Instead,

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he moved toward the woods, the thick line of black

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trees beyond the gas station. I just watched him go,

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not quite sure what to think. He stepped past the

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last pump, past the edge of the lot, and into

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the grass, moving at the pace of a snail. I

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waited for him to hesitate, to glance over his shoulder,

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to acknowledge that he was leaving the only light for

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miles behind him, But he never did. He just kept walking,

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kept moving deeper and deeper into the trees, until the

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darkness swallowed him whole, and he never looked back. He

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came back the next night and the night after that.

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Every time it was exactly the same. Two a m

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one gallon, always cash, always silent. I honestly tried ignoring him.

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I get plenty of weird people here at times, and besides,

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people have routines, and maybe this was just his. But

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the longer it went on, the harder it was to

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shake the feeling that something was wrong. I started paying

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closer attention. I listened for a car engine approaching in

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the distance before he arrived. There never was one. I

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glanced out or the pumps after he left, expecting headlights

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flashing on the tree line. Nothing. I even shake the

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back of the gas station once, just to see if

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maybe somehow he was parking in the darkness behind the building,

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but it was always empty. All I knew for certain

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was that he came from somewhere, and when he left,

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he went back to it. Most of my shifts from

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then on were focused on keeping track of him. As

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soon as it hit the tree line. He wouldn't come

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back for the rest of my shift until the following one.

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One night, around midnight, a regular truckers stopped in for

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coffee and smokes. His name was Frank, and he was

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the kind of guy who talked to fill the silence. Normally,

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I let him ramble while I half listened that night, though,

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as he was stirring sugar into his coffee, he glanced

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out toward the empty parking lot and said, Hey, you're

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still getting that weird guy at two. I blinked, you've

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seen him? Frank shrugged, taking a sip. Couple nights back. Heah,

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I don't think you were on shift. Who's that weird

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kid that works on the weekends. I was sparked outside

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taking a break when he showed up. No car, just

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walked right up and bought gas. He chuckled, shaking his head.

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Figured maybe his truck broke down somewhere, but I didn't

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see one on the road when I pulled in here.

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Local no idea, I admitted. Frank took another long sip

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before muttering, creepy guy, ain't he? I didn't have an

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answer for that. A few nights later, a man came

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in looking for a can of fixer flat. Older guy,

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probably mid sixties, wearing a denim jacket that looked as

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worn out as he did. He paid in crumpled bills,

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then lingered at the counter, watching as the man in

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the hood. He walked back out into the darkness with

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his filled Jerry can. The older guy squinted. Hah, huh,

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what I asked? He rubbed a hand over his jaw,

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his gaze still following the figure as he disappeared past

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the tree line. I've been in this area a long

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time now, still see him here frequently. That got my attention.

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How long is a long time? He glanced at me,

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a solemn expression adorning his face. Then he grabbed his

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bag and said, long time. Guy doesn't seem to age.

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And if he does, boy does he age well. The

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door chime rang as he walked out. I stood there,

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hands resting on the counter, my skin crawling. Right after

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the men left and the station had gone quiet again,

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I pulled the transaction records from the last few weeks

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and flipped through them every night, one gallon, always between

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two and two three am. I kept going, flipping back

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through the old log books, same entry every night, weeks, months, years.

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I traced the records back as far as they went.

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The digital ones only went as far back as twenty thirteen,

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so I had to dig up an actual physical one

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from the back. My fingers were stiff from gripping the old,

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yellowed pages. The earliest entry I found was dated October nineteenth,

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nineteen ninety seven one gallon cash, and that was only

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as far as the log books went. I stared at

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the numbers on the page, my mind racing. I had

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only been working here a few months. Maybe the guy

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before me knew more. I reached for my phone and

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pulled up Jerry's number, the other night shift guy. He

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worked here for seven years. I'd only ever spoken to

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him once, when he handed me the keys of my

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first night Still, I hesitated. How do you even ask

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someone about something like this? It was nearly three in

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the morning, and I felt like an idiot for even

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thinking about making this call. But as much as I

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hated to admit, it was starting to get under my skin.

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I took a breath and dialed. The phone rang twice

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before a groggy voice answered, hullo, hey Jerry. Sorry, I

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know it's late. There was a pause, a sigh here

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you don't say what's up? I just I hesitated, feeling

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even dombin now that I had him on the line.

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I just had a question about the gas station, about

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some one who comes in at night. Another pause. I

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could hear him shifting, probably sitting up in bed, which

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some one A guy shows up every night around two

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by his exactly one gallon walks off into the woods

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behind the station. Ah, Jerry finally said, yeah, that guy,

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So you know who I'm talking about. The manager mentioned

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him when I first started, he said, figured i'd see

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him eventually, and yeah, sure enough, every night I worked,

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he showed up, never missed the night, never said more

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than a few words. I let out of breath. I

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hadn't realized I was holding. So what's his deal? Jerry

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led out a short laugh. And if I know, nobody does.

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He's just kind of an unspoken tradition for the night shift.

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Unspoken tradition. Yeah, I mean at first it weirded me out,

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but after a while he was just part of the routine.

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Didn't matter if it was raining snowing, didn't matter if

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the whole highway was shut down. That guy would still

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show up by his gallon walk off. Did you ever

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ask him anything? Of course I did, Jerry said. First

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time I saw him. I tried to be friendly, asked

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if he needed a ride, asked where his car was. Nothing,

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just stared at me, paid for his gas and left,

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not a word, not a damn thing. Eventually, I just

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stopped trying it. Was like talking to a brick wall,

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I exhaled through my nose. You ever think about following him?

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I asked, Jerry scoffed. Thought about it, sure, but I

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wasn't that curious. His voice was light, but I could

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tell he was fully awake now, probably sitting there picturing

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the guy in his head just like I was. Listen, man,

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he continued, I don't know what his story is, but

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whatever it is, it's none of my business. Yeah, I muttered, Yeah,

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I get that. Jerry yawned on the other end of

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the line. Is that all? What do you need me

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to tell you about all the widows that came in

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at three in the morning too? Nah? I think I

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got what I needed. Good. Now let me sleep. He

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hung up before I could say anything else. I thought

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about it. The tradition, as Jerry called it, kept going

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for the next few days, and in that time, the

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more I saw the man, the more I thought about

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it about following him. It wasn't until nearly a week

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later that I finally did. The night was cold and windless.

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I stayed inside the station as long as I could,

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waiting until I saw him fade into the tree line

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like a shadow. Then I grabbed the cheap flashlight from

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under the counter and stepped out onto the lot. For

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the first time, I realized how quiet the place really was. Inside,

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I had the hum of the drink coolers, the buzzing

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overhead lights, the occasional crackle of the radio. Out there

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nothing no cars, no wind through the trees, no chirping insects,

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just my own footsteps against the pavement. I hesitated at

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the edge of the lot with a gravel thinned, and

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the dirt path began. It was in a proper trail,

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just a narrow gap between the trees where the bush

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had been trampled down over time. I had no idea

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if I was actually making noise or if I just

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felt like I was. Every step seemed too loud, the

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sound of my breathing too obvious. Ahead of me, the

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man moved at just the same pace as always. I

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kept back just far enough that I wouldn't risk him

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seeing me if he turned around. But he never did,

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never even paused, just kept walking deeper. The further we went,

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the stronger the smell of gasoline became. At first, I

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thought maybe it was his clothes, A guy like that

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hauling fuel around every night. Of course it'd smell like it,

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but the air itself seemed thick with it. Not just

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fresh fuel either, the stale, sour scent of old spills

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mixed with something burnt. I could feel it coating the

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inside of my mouth. The flashlight in my hands suddenly

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felt useless. I didn't want a risk turning it on,

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not yet, at least not while he was still moving

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ahead of me. Instead, I relied on what little moonlight

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made it through the trees, barely enough to see the

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narrow path winding through the brush. My legs ached from

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stepping carefully placing my feet exactly where he had, hoping

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the ground wouldn't betray me. And then just ahead, I

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saw the tree start the thin a clearing. The smell

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of fuel was almost overpowering, choking in my throat. The

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man stepped into the open space, disappearing from view. I

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stared at the darkened clearing beyond, my fingers tightening around

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the flashlight, and then slowly I stepped forward and finally

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saw what he was walking toward. The clearing was small,

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maybe thirty feet across a break in the dense trees,

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where the ground a turned a dry, cracked dirt, and

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in the center of it sat a car, or at

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least what used to be one. The body was completely

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burnt out, the frame rusted through, the metal twisted and

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warped from heat. Whatever color it had once been was

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long gone. The surface now just scorched, the black and crumbling.

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I could see the remains of tires, but there were

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nothing more than charred rubber fused to the ground. The

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windows were blown out, melted along the edges. The most

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recent fire couldn't have been more than a few days old,

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but the car itself looked like it had been rotting

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here for decades. I barely noticed the old gas cans

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at first. They were scattered around the car, some piled

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up near the driver's side, others half buried in the dirt.

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Some were so rusted they had collapsed inward, eaten away

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by time. Others were newer, some were still full. But

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my eyes weren't drawn to the gas cans. They were

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locked on what was inside the car. I could see bones,

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a skeleton still strapped to the driver's seat. The seat

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belt had melted across the chest, and the remains of

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charred fingers were fused through the steering wheel. The skull

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had tilted slightly, as if watching me through the hollowed

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out sockets, and the back of my throat burned. I

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could see him just a few feet away, pouring gasoline

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into the car's open fuel tank. The metal was melted through,

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split in rusted wounds, yet he was still trying. I

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watched as the fuel spilled out the other side, pouring

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onto the dirt like water through a sieve. He didn't stop,

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he just kept pouring desperately. The smell was suffocating. The

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puddle of fuel spread beneath him, soaking into his jeans,

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his boots, the sleeves of his hoodie. As he dropped

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to his knees, shoveling at the dirt, trying to scoop

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the gasoling back into the tank with his hands, he

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was muttering, shaking, It's never enough. His voice was hoarse,

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almost pleading, it's never enough. To leave. His hands gripped

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the dirt, fingers curling, knuckles white. How much more fuel

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do I need to get out of here? His voice

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rose sharp and uneven. Why won't it let me leave?

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His breathing was ragged, wheezing. I took a step back.

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The snap of a twig beneath my boot sounded like

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a gunshot in the dead silence. The man froze, his

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hands hovered above the dirt, still trembling, and then slowly

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he turned. His movements were stiff, like his body was

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just now realizing it had been noticed. The white of

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his eyes were stained yellow, bloodshot, and glassy, but locked

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onto me with startling focus. For a long moment, neither

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of us spoke. Then, in that same dry, rasping voice,

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he asked, do you know why it won't start? I

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didn't answer. My heartbeat thudded in my throat, but I

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didn't dare step back. The man blinked once, as if

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waiting for something. Then he turned his head, staring down

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at the rusted out wreck beside him. I put the

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fuel in, he muttered, fingers twitch at his sides. I

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keep putting the fuel in, but he won't start. It

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never starts. I clenched my jaw, trying to keep my

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breathing even. He tilted his head slightly, his lips peeling

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back into a strained, almost confused expression. You know what

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I have to do, don't you? His voice was barely

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a whisper. Now to start the car, to go back

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to my family. I shook my head. I don't know.

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His fingers twitched again, then curled into fists. For the

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first time, he looked frustrated. From the pocket of his hoodie,

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he pulled out a crumbled twenty dollar bill and held

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it out toward me. His hand was shaking one gallon

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and just stared. His face twitched, his breath grew ragged.

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Give me the damn fuel. The words came out as

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a snarl. His hands lunged forward. I staggered back, nearly

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slipping on the dirt. The twenty crumbled in his grip

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as he stumbled toward me, his movements now animalistic. One gallon,

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he shrieked, one gallon and I can go home. His

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hands clawed the air between us. Wheezing gasps came out

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of his throat. His eyes were wild, his body jittering

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like a puppet on broken strings. And then he charged.

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I didn't wait. I turned and ran. The last thing

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I heard was his voice beside me, screaming, I just

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need one more gallon. The trees blurred past me, shadows

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twisting and snapping under the flashlight's weak beam. The smell

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of gasoline still burned in my nose, Clinging to my clothes,

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I could hear something behind me. Maybe it was him,

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maybe it was just the echo of my own footsteps.

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But I wasn't stopping to find out. I could see

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the glow of the station's neon lights ahead, just beyond

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the trees. I hit a gravel lot at full speed, stumbling,

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my knee nearly giving out. My chest was tight, my

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legs felt weak, but I didn't stop until I was inside.

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I slammed the door shut behind me, locking it without thinking.

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My hands were shaking. The station was silent. I stood

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there for what felt like ours, staring out at the

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empty lot, waiting, but the man never came back. I

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didn't go back the next night or the night after that.

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I sent a text to my manager first thing in

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the morning. I quit no notice. Didn't care if I

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00:27:27,359 --> 00:27:30,000
burned a bridge, didn't care if I got my last

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paycheck or not. I just knew I wasn't stepping foot

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in that place again. A week later, I was almost

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out of town. I'd packed up what little I had,

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ready to leave this place behind for good. But as

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I was driving past the station, something in my chest tightened.

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I don't know why I pulled in. Maybe I wanted

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to convince myself it was all in my head and

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that my morbid curiosity made me go through a fever dream.

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The station looked the same as always, same flickering open sign.

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A new guy was working the counter. He looked beyond board,

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00:28:19,200 --> 00:28:23,880
scrolling through his phone, barely paying attention, and standing in

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front of him, handing over a crumpled twenty dollar bill

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was the same man, still buying exactly one gallon. I

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sat there, gripping the steering wheel tight, watching as he

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took the cherry can and walked out of the station.

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He just turned and started walking, his feet crunching against

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the gravel, heading straight back into the woods, and just

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like every other night, he never looked back.