Speaker 1: I work the night shift at a small, run down
gas station on the edge of a highway that hardly
sees any traffic past midnight. Its mediocre place at best,
no security cameras, half the lights flickering like the dying,
and a bathroom that no one in the right mind
would use. Most of the time, my shift is dead, silent,
truckers stopped to grab coffee and stretch their legs, and
locals come in every once in a while, but after
one am the place becomes a ghost town. It's just me,
the buzzing of the old fluorescent lights, and the occasional
coyote howling in the distance. That's why it stood out
immediately when someone walked in on foot at exactly two
a m. I was leaning back in my chair, absently
flicking through my phone when the chime above the door rang.
I barely looked up at first, expecting the usual, a
trucker grabbing coffee, some lost traveler asking for directions. But
when I finally glanced toward the entrance, I saw him
for the first time. No headlights in the lot, no
car idling at the pumps, just a man standing in
the doorway, dripping in the station sickly fluorescent lights. He
was thin, hunched slightly, like he'd been walking for miles.
His clothes were ordinary enough, dark jeans stained with leaves
and mud at the bottom, a gray hud he pulled
over his head. He smelt faintly of gasoline. He took slow,
dragging steps toward the counter. I cleared my throat, ay man,
how's it going? No response? You need something? He didn't blink,
just reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumbled twenty
dollar bill and set it on the counter. One gallon,
he muttered with a hoarse voice. I waited for him
to say something else, maybe explain why he was on
foot or where his car was, But he just stood there.
You good dude. I tried again, ringing up the sail. Nothing.
I slid his change across the counter, and he picked
it up without counting it. Outside, through the station's dirty
front windows, I watched him take an old, battered Jerry
can from beside the pumps. The thing was weathered, sun bleached,
cracked in spots. I figured he probably had a car
stranded nearby. Maybe he was just mad or embarrassed. Honestly,
I didn't care as long as he paid. Whatever he
did with the fuel wasn't my problem. The next night,
at exactly two a m. The door chime rang again.
I looked up from where I was restocking cigarettes behind
the counter, my stomach twisting before I fully registered why
it was him, same hunched posture. I set the cartiner
smokestown and straightened up, watching him closely as he stepped
forward and wordlessly slipped the crumpled twenty dollar bill across
the counter. One gallon, he muttered. I hesitated, before punching
the sail. Something about him didn't feel right. You got
a car this time, I asked, keeping my tone light.
He didn't respond. His fingers twitched slightly where they rested
on the counter. I licked my lips and rang him up,
keeping my eye on his face as I slid his
change across the counter. But he didn't even glance down.
He just grabbed the coins and left outside. I watched
through the grimy front window as he made his way
back toward the pumps. He picked it up and filled
it carefully, watching as the fuel poured into the old,
cracked plastic. I noticed then how discolored his hands were, grimy,
with dark stains under his nails like he'd been working
with oil. I turned away as he capped the canister,
telling myself once again that it wasn't my problem. The
first time I hadn't. Really he paid attention to which
direction he was headed in for this time, curiosity got
the better of me. I expected him to head for
the highway. Maybe there was a car waiting down the
road out of sight, maybe someone was picking him up.
But he didn't go toward the road at all. Instead,
he moved toward the woods, the thick line of black
trees beyond the gas station. I just watched him go,
not quite sure what to think. He stepped past the
last pump, past the edge of the lot, and into
the grass, moving at the pace of a snail. I
waited for him to hesitate, to glance over his shoulder,
to acknowledge that he was leaving the only light for
miles behind him, But he never did. He just kept walking,
kept moving deeper and deeper into the trees, until the
darkness swallowed him whole, and he never looked back. He
came back the next night and the night after that.
Every time it was exactly the same. Two a m
one gallon, always cash, always silent. I honestly tried ignoring him.
I get plenty of weird people here at times, and besides,
people have routines, and maybe this was just his. But
the longer it went on, the harder it was to
shake the feeling that something was wrong. I started paying
closer attention. I listened for a car engine approaching in
the distance before he arrived. There never was one. I
glanced out or the pumps after he left, expecting headlights
flashing on the tree line. Nothing. I even shake the
back of the gas station once, just to see if
maybe somehow he was parking in the darkness behind the building,
but it was always empty. All I knew for certain
was that he came from somewhere, and when he left,
he went back to it. Most of my shifts from
then on were focused on keeping track of him. As
soon as it hit the tree line. He wouldn't come
back for the rest of my shift until the following one.
One night, around midnight, a regular truckers stopped in for
coffee and smokes. His name was Frank, and he was
the kind of guy who talked to fill the silence. Normally,
I let him ramble while I half listened that night, though,
as he was stirring sugar into his coffee, he glanced
out toward the empty parking lot and said, Hey, you're
still getting that weird guy at two. I blinked, you've
seen him? Frank shrugged, taking a sip. Couple nights back. Heah,
I don't think you were on shift. Who's that weird
kid that works on the weekends. I was sparked outside
taking a break when he showed up. No car, just
walked right up and bought gas. He chuckled, shaking his head.
Figured maybe his truck broke down somewhere, but I didn't
see one on the road when I pulled in here.
Local no idea, I admitted. Frank took another long sip
before muttering, creepy guy, ain't he? I didn't have an
answer for that. A few nights later, a man came
in looking for a can of fixer flat. Older guy,
probably mid sixties, wearing a denim jacket that looked as
worn out as he did. He paid in crumpled bills,
then lingered at the counter, watching as the man in
the hood. He walked back out into the darkness with
his filled Jerry can. The older guy squinted. Hah, huh,
what I asked? He rubbed a hand over his jaw,
his gaze still following the figure as he disappeared past
the tree line. I've been in this area a long
time now, still see him here frequently. That got my attention.
How long is a long time? He glanced at me,
a solemn expression adorning his face. Then he grabbed his
bag and said, long time. Guy doesn't seem to age.
And if he does, boy does he age well. The
door chime rang as he walked out. I stood there,
hands resting on the counter, my skin crawling. Right after
the men left and the station had gone quiet again,
I pulled the transaction records from the last few weeks
and flipped through them every night, one gallon, always between
two and two three am. I kept going, flipping back
through the old log books, same entry every night, weeks, months, years.
I traced the records back as far as they went.
The digital ones only went as far back as twenty thirteen,
so I had to dig up an actual physical one
from the back. My fingers were stiff from gripping the old,
yellowed pages. The earliest entry I found was dated October nineteenth,
nineteen ninety seven one gallon cash, and that was only
as far as the log books went. I stared at
the numbers on the page, my mind racing. I had
only been working here a few months. Maybe the guy
before me knew more. I reached for my phone and
pulled up Jerry's number, the other night shift guy. He
worked here for seven years. I'd only ever spoken to
him once, when he handed me the keys of my
first night Still, I hesitated. How do you even ask
someone about something like this? It was nearly three in
the morning, and I felt like an idiot for even
thinking about making this call. But as much as I
hated to admit, it was starting to get under my skin.
I took a breath and dialed. The phone rang twice
before a groggy voice answered, hullo, hey Jerry. Sorry, I
know it's late. There was a pause, a sigh here
you don't say what's up? I just I hesitated, feeling
even dombin now that I had him on the line.
I just had a question about the gas station, about
some one who comes in at night. Another pause. I
could hear him shifting, probably sitting up in bed, which
some one A guy shows up every night around two
by his exactly one gallon walks off into the woods
behind the station. Ah, Jerry finally said, yeah, that guy,
So you know who I'm talking about. The manager mentioned
him when I first started, he said, figured i'd see
him eventually, and yeah, sure enough, every night I worked,
he showed up, never missed the night, never said more
than a few words. I let out of breath. I
hadn't realized I was holding. So what's his deal? Jerry
led out a short laugh. And if I know, nobody does.
He's just kind of an unspoken tradition for the night shift.
Unspoken tradition. Yeah, I mean at first it weirded me out,
but after a while he was just part of the routine.
Didn't matter if it was raining snowing, didn't matter if
the whole highway was shut down. That guy would still
show up by his gallon walk off. Did you ever
ask him anything? Of course I did, Jerry said. First
time I saw him. I tried to be friendly, asked
if he needed a ride, asked where his car was. Nothing,
just stared at me, paid for his gas and left,
not a word, not a damn thing. Eventually, I just
stopped trying it. Was like talking to a brick wall,
I exhaled through my nose. You ever think about following him?
I asked, Jerry scoffed. Thought about it, sure, but I
wasn't that curious. His voice was light, but I could
tell he was fully awake now, probably sitting there picturing
the guy in his head just like I was. Listen, man,
he continued, I don't know what his story is, but
whatever it is, it's none of my business. Yeah, I muttered, Yeah,
I get that. Jerry yawned on the other end of
the line. Is that all? What do you need me
to tell you about all the widows that came in
at three in the morning too? Nah? I think I
got what I needed. Good. Now let me sleep. He
hung up before I could say anything else. I thought
about it. The tradition, as Jerry called it, kept going
for the next few days, and in that time, the
more I saw the man, the more I thought about
it about following him. It wasn't until nearly a week
later that I finally did. The night was cold and windless.
I stayed inside the station as long as I could,
waiting until I saw him fade into the tree line
like a shadow. Then I grabbed the cheap flashlight from
under the counter and stepped out onto the lot. For
the first time, I realized how quiet the place really was. Inside,
I had the hum of the drink coolers, the buzzing
overhead lights, the occasional crackle of the radio. Out there
nothing no cars, no wind through the trees, no chirping insects,
just my own footsteps against the pavement. I hesitated at
the edge of the lot with a gravel thinned, and
the dirt path began. It was in a proper trail,
just a narrow gap between the trees where the bush
had been trampled down over time. I had no idea
if I was actually making noise or if I just
felt like I was. Every step seemed too loud, the
sound of my breathing too obvious. Ahead of me, the
man moved at just the same pace as always. I
kept back just far enough that I wouldn't risk him
seeing me if he turned around. But he never did,
never even paused, just kept walking deeper. The further we went,
the stronger the smell of gasoline became. At first, I
thought maybe it was his clothes, A guy like that
hauling fuel around every night. Of course it'd smell like it,
but the air itself seemed thick with it. Not just
fresh fuel either, the stale, sour scent of old spills
mixed with something burnt. I could feel it coating the
inside of my mouth. The flashlight in my hands suddenly
felt useless. I didn't want a risk turning it on,
not yet, at least not while he was still moving
ahead of me. Instead, I relied on what little moonlight
made it through the trees, barely enough to see the
narrow path winding through the brush. My legs ached from
stepping carefully placing my feet exactly where he had, hoping
the ground wouldn't betray me. And then just ahead, I
saw the tree start the thin a clearing. The smell
of fuel was almost overpowering, choking in my throat. The
man stepped into the open space, disappearing from view. I
stared at the darkened clearing beyond, my fingers tightening around
the flashlight, and then slowly I stepped forward and finally
saw what he was walking toward. The clearing was small,
maybe thirty feet across a break in the dense trees,
where the ground a turned a dry, cracked dirt, and
in the center of it sat a car, or at
least what used to be one. The body was completely
burnt out, the frame rusted through, the metal twisted and
warped from heat. Whatever color it had once been was
long gone. The surface now just scorched, the black and crumbling.
I could see the remains of tires, but there were
nothing more than charred rubber fused to the ground. The
windows were blown out, melted along the edges. The most
recent fire couldn't have been more than a few days old,
but the car itself looked like it had been rotting
here for decades. I barely noticed the old gas cans
at first. They were scattered around the car, some piled
up near the driver's side, others half buried in the dirt.
Some were so rusted they had collapsed inward, eaten away
by time. Others were newer, some were still full. But
my eyes weren't drawn to the gas cans. They were
locked on what was inside the car. I could see bones,
a skeleton still strapped to the driver's seat. The seat
belt had melted across the chest, and the remains of
charred fingers were fused through the steering wheel. The skull
had tilted slightly, as if watching me through the hollowed
out sockets, and the back of my throat burned. I
could see him just a few feet away, pouring gasoline
into the car's open fuel tank. The metal was melted through,
split in rusted wounds, yet he was still trying. I
watched as the fuel spilled out the other side, pouring
onto the dirt like water through a sieve. He didn't stop,
he just kept pouring desperately. The smell was suffocating. The
puddle of fuel spread beneath him, soaking into his jeans,
his boots, the sleeves of his hoodie. As he dropped
to his knees, shoveling at the dirt, trying to scoop
the gasoling back into the tank with his hands, he
was muttering, shaking, It's never enough. His voice was hoarse,
almost pleading, it's never enough. To leave. His hands gripped
the dirt, fingers curling, knuckles white. How much more fuel
do I need to get out of here? His voice
rose sharp and uneven. Why won't it let me leave?
His breathing was ragged, wheezing. I took a step back.
The snap of a twig beneath my boot sounded like
a gunshot in the dead silence. The man froze, his
hands hovered above the dirt, still trembling, and then slowly
he turned. His movements were stiff, like his body was
just now realizing it had been noticed. The white of
his eyes were stained yellow, bloodshot, and glassy, but locked
onto me with startling focus. For a long moment, neither
of us spoke. Then, in that same dry, rasping voice,
he asked, do you know why it won't start? I
didn't answer. My heartbeat thudded in my throat, but I
didn't dare step back. The man blinked once, as if
waiting for something. Then he turned his head, staring down
at the rusted out wreck beside him. I put the
fuel in, he muttered, fingers twitch at his sides. I
keep putting the fuel in, but he won't start. It
never starts. I clenched my jaw, trying to keep my
breathing even. He tilted his head slightly, his lips peeling
back into a strained, almost confused expression. You know what
I have to do, don't you? His voice was barely
a whisper. Now to start the car, to go back
to my family. I shook my head. I don't know.
His fingers twitched again, then curled into fists. For the
first time, he looked frustrated. From the pocket of his hoodie,
he pulled out a crumbled twenty dollar bill and held
it out toward me. His hand was shaking one gallon
and just stared. His face twitched, his breath grew ragged.
Give me the damn fuel. The words came out as
a snarl. His hands lunged forward. I staggered back, nearly
slipping on the dirt. The twenty crumbled in his grip
as he stumbled toward me, his movements now animalistic. One gallon,
he shrieked, one gallon and I can go home. His
hands clawed the air between us. Wheezing gasps came out
of his throat. His eyes were wild, his body jittering
like a puppet on broken strings. And then he charged.
I didn't wait. I turned and ran. The last thing
I heard was his voice beside me, screaming, I just
need one more gallon. The trees blurred past me, shadows
twisting and snapping under the flashlight's weak beam. The smell
of gasoline still burned in my nose, Clinging to my clothes,
I could hear something behind me. Maybe it was him,
maybe it was just the echo of my own footsteps.
But I wasn't stopping to find out. I could see
the glow of the station's neon lights ahead, just beyond
the trees. I hit a gravel lot at full speed, stumbling,
my knee nearly giving out. My chest was tight, my
legs felt weak, but I didn't stop until I was inside.
I slammed the door shut behind me, locking it without thinking.
My hands were shaking. The station was silent. I stood
there for what felt like ours, staring out at the
empty lot, waiting, but the man never came back. I
didn't go back the next night or the night after that.
I sent a text to my manager first thing in
the morning. I quit no notice. Didn't care if I
burned a bridge, didn't care if I got my last
paycheck or not. I just knew I wasn't stepping foot
in that place again. A week later, I was almost
out of town. I'd packed up what little I had,
ready to leave this place behind for good. But as
I was driving past the station, something in my chest tightened.
I don't know why I pulled in. Maybe I wanted
to convince myself it was all in my head and
that my morbid curiosity made me go through a fever dream.
The station looked the same as always, same flickering open sign.
A new guy was working the counter. He looked beyond board,
scrolling through his phone, barely paying attention, and standing in
front of him, handing over a crumpled twenty dollar bill
was the same man, still buying exactly one gallon. I
sat there, gripping the steering wheel tight, watching as he
took the cherry can and walked out of the station.
He just turned and started walking, his feet crunching against
the gravel, heading straight back into the woods, and just
like every other night, he never looked back.