Why You Should Never Work Nights at a Desert Gas Station
I still lock my apartment doors before sunset. Double-check them. Sometimes I wedge a chair under the handle, even though I live on the third floor now. My neighbors think I’m paranoid, but they didn’t work the night shift at that gas station. They didn’t hear the voices.
There are rules out there, old ones. You don’t break them, not if you want to see the sunrise. I didn’t believe that at first. I thought they were stories passed down by old-timers to scare kids or keep drunks from wandering too far. But the gas station wasn’t built for laughs. It was built like a bunker. And those rules? They were carved into the foundation.
Keep the doors locked after sundown. Never open them again until morning. All business after dark is handled through the glass.
Simple rules. Until they started knocking.
The station sat along a dead stretch of highway, thirty miles from the nearest town. Desert all around, flat, dry, and silent. Most nights, it felt like I was the only living thing for miles. My shift started at 7 p.m. and ended at 7 a.m., twelve hours of quiet elevator music and the soft hum of fluorescents. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid well for a kid with no degree and no options.
The first night I clocked in, the station manager handed me the keys and said, “Keep the doors locked after dark. Window transactions only. And don’t open up for anyone. I mean no one.” He didn’t laugh when he said it. Didn’t smile either. Just handed me a keyring, clapped a hand on my shoulder, and walked out into the dusk like he was glad to be done.
The place had its share of oddities. A heavy-duty bolt on both doors. A drawer under the counter for passing cash and smokes. A laminated sign next to the register that read: Do not step outside between dusk and dawn, no exceptions. I assumed it was some kind of theft deterrent or desert safety thing. Coyotes, maybe. Or meth heads.
I should’ve known better when I saw the old Navajo carvings above the doorframe, symbols I didn’t recognize. I had never seen anything like them before. There was one over the pass-through window too. Subtle, almost hidden, like whoever put them there didn’t want them noticed… just obeyed.
The second night was slower. Only two cars the whole shift. One didn’t even stop. The other was an old pickup truck, some rancher grabbing diesel and the last lukewarm burrito. I kept the window shut tight and slid everything through the drawer like I was told. When I asked about the symbols on the building, he didn’t answer at first. Just stared at me through the glass like he was trying to decide something. Then he muttered, “Just don’t open your door. Doesn’t matter what they say.”
He drove off without another word.
I told myself it was just local superstition. Desert folks were full of stories. I’d grown up around that, heard all the legends about skinwalkers, and spirits that wore stolen faces. I never put stock in any of it. I was too tired, too broke, and too bored to care about ghost stories. At the end of my second shift, I was counting out my register when I noticed a note. Written on an old memo pad underneath the drawer, and from the looks of it, it had been under there a while.
It read, “In case of emergencies, get inside the metal cabinet under the pass-through window.”
“It will keep you safe”.
The cabinet had a number of different symbols drawn on it, among them two arrows, one facing left, the other facing right. With a few small holes drilled through the top of each door. The cabinet wasn’t that big, I would barely have enough room to close the doors. I remember thinking at the time, there was no way I would ever get inside that thing. I hate small spaces, I dont even like being in an elevator too long. I finished my count, then headed on my way home.
The next night was really quiet, didn’t see a soul. That’s until something started tapping on the glass around 2 a.m.
It was gentle. Deliberate. Like someone using a fingernail. I looked up from the magazine I was reading, but no one was there. Just empty desert and the edge of my own reflection. I stared at it for a long time, waiting for something to move. Nothing did. I flipped the switch for the outside floodlights to get a better view, but they didn’t come on.
I walked to the back hallway where the breaker panel was mounted. Everything looked fine, no tripped breakers. Still, the floodlights refused to come on. I flicked them off and on again. Nothing. That was when I heard the second tap. This time, on the side window, closer to the ice chest.
I walked back up front, keeping the interior lights dimmed. From behind the counter, I peered out through the window, careful not to lean too close. For a second, I thought I saw a figure standing just beyond pump three, but when I blinked, it was gone. I figured it was the desert night playing tricks on me, it messes with your eyes.
I shook it off and put on music, anything to fill the silence. But the feeling lingered. Something about the stillness outside felt unnatural, like the world was holding its breath. At 3:47 a.m., I heard the tap again. When I looked, I saw an older woman, late 60s with mostly white hair, streaked with gray, looking back at me from outside. “Why won’t you come outside?” she asked.
That’s when I noticed her eyes, a pale yellow. I remember them because I have never met anyone with eyes that color. Then other things about her started looking not quite right. Her smile, her hands, … she just looked off.
I told her, “Sorry, ma’am, Store policy”. I can’t come outside or unlock the doors until the morning shift at 7 am. Without saying a word, she turned and walked off towards the side of the building and out of sight.
I got up to do a perimeter check, staying inside the building. Checking every lock, the front door, and the back stockroom door. The floodlights outside were still dead, but the red neon OPEN sign buzzed gently in the window. That was when I noticed all the pumps were off. No error codes that I could see from the inside. No blinking lights, just dead screens, like they’d never been wired in the first place.
Around 4:15 a.m., headlights appeared in the distance. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Finally, another person. Hopefully not as weird as the last. Relief flooded me as the car, a silver sedan, rolled up to pump four. A woman stepped out. Mid-30s, maybe, brunette, wearing a light jacket. She looked around, then walked toward the door.
I hit the speaker button next to the transaction window. “Hey, sorry, the lobby’s closed. You can pay right here.” She looked confused. Then fearful. She leaned into the glass, by the outside microphone, and whispered, “There’s something out here.” I was about to respond when her face twisted, eyes wide with panic, and she screamed. Something dragged her backward into the dark so fast I barely had time to flinch. The scream cut off like a switch.
I stood frozen, unable to move, unable to think. The transaction window speaker still buzzed faintly in my ear. The pumps stayed dark. I couldn’t see the woman anywhere. Just silence. I stepped back from the glass, heart racing, every instinct in my body screaming to run, but where? This station was the only structure for miles.
Her scream echoed in my ears long after it had stopped. I checked the cameras, but the feeds were useless. Static. Four blank squares blinking like broken eyes. I tried calling 911, but my phone just rang once and dropped the call. Same with the landline behind the register. The moment that woman vanished, it was like the world had shrunk to just me and them.
That’s when they started talking.
From outside the building. Low, muffled voices, first one, then two, then five, circling the station. One of them sounded like the woman. Her voice came soft and pleading: “Please, help me. I’m hurt. Please let me in.” My stomach dropped. It was the same exact cadence as before. “Please, I’m scared, I need help.”
They came into view then. Figures at the edge of the inside light’s glow, just silhouettes. One of them waved, like they were greeting an old friend. Another tilted its head in a way that no human neck should bend. And all of them kept talking, in a chorus of familiar voices that were never theirs to begin with.
I backed away from the window and checked the lock to the front door again, even though I knew it wouldn’t matter. The locks weren’t magic. They weren’t strong. They were just metal and faith, and both felt like they were wearing thin. I turned off all the lights inside to avoid casting a shadow and crouched behind the counter, clutching the flashlight like a weapon, praying that the sun would rise faster.
A soft tapping started at the glass again, rhythmic, polite. Then a voice from the front: “You left the pump off. I still need gas.” It was the same woman’s voice, but flat now, emotionless. Like someone reading a script in a language they didn’t quite understand.
I didn’t answer, just sat there hoping they would just leave. That’s when they started getting more agitated, more aggressive, and more brutal with their words.
“What kind of man are you?”,
“Coward!”,
“You’re just going to hide in there like a child. We are going to kill this woman.”
The pass-through window speaker crackled. Not a loud burst, not static, just… open. It was as if someone had pressed the button down and left it there. You know the sound. That empty hum when a line is live, but no one’s talking. That’s what filled the room now. A constant, low hiss but no one was there.
And then it started.
Breathing. Shallow, ragged, wet. Not from outside, not from the door, this was inside the feed. Inside my ears. I stepped back, heart thudding. The line popped, shifted, and then a voice, my voice, whispered something unintelligible. Like a looped recording played backwards. I could hear my own cadence, my own rhythm, but none of the words made sense. The tone, though… the tone was hungry.
Then the other voices joined in.
Whispers, dozens layered under the feed like a chorus of broken transmissions. Male, female, young, old. They all said one thing, over and over again.
“Let us in.”
“Open the door, let us in.”
“Let us in.”
Some sounded mechanical, others choppy. One, unmistakably, was my mother’s voice. But she passed away three years ago.
Something scraped along the back wall, metal against concrete. I checked the monitors again. The feeds were still dead, but one blinked back to life for a split second. Just long enough to show a face, my face, staring into the back camera, too close, too still, a long smile started creeping along its face, then static.
That was when I noticed the front door. It had popped open. No sound. No warning. The bolt just hung there like it had been gently teased loose. I ran to it, slammed the door shut, but the lock wouldn’t catch. The mechanism jammed, stuck halfway, like something inside had warped. My stomach dropped. I was trapped inside a box with a broken door, and the wolves were at the door, except these wolves could talk.
I dragged the ice chest in front of the door, then the metal stool, then anything heavy I could stack without making much noise. Every click, every scrape, every movement felt like it echoed too loudly in that dark little box. And outside, the voices kept coming. Now they weren’t asking to be let in. They were describing me, what I was wearing, how I looked when I breathed hard, how I smelled. One of them said, “He’s sweating again.” Another said, “His left boot has a crack in it.” They weren’t guessing. They could see me.
Then silence. That was worse. I waited, crouched behind the counter, flashlight in hand, muscles twitching with every creak and groan of the building. I don’t know how long it lasted. Time bends when you’re afraid. But something shifted, the room felt colder. Not air-conditioning cold. Empty, tomb-cold. I heard the plastic curtain behind the stockroom rustle.
I aimed the flashlight toward the curtain, hand trembling. It moved. In a slow, deliberate motion, like someone brushing past. The smell of the air changed suddenly. The smell of copper, rot, and a whiff of desert after a rainstorm filled my nose. I pressed my back against the wall and held my breath, because I knew what I’d hear next.
My own voice. From the other side of the curtain. “Hey,” it said, casual, friendly, my exact cadence, the little rasp I get when I’m tired. “I think something’s wrong with the register. Can you come take a look?”
It laughed. Not loud, not exaggerated. Just a quiet chuckle, exactly like mine. That was the worst part. Not the words, not the imitation. The familiarity. It was like being stalked by your reflection. I gripped the flashlight tighter and focused on breathing, trying not to cry. My chest tightened, and I struggled to breathe. I backed myself onto the wall, then out of the corner of my eye, I saw the metal cabinet under the pass-through window. My mind was racing, face whatever was on the other side of that curtain, or climb into a cabinet with almost no room breathe.
Each sounded terrifying, but one, .. one gave me at least some chance of seeing the sun rise again. I got in, reluctantly, and closed the door. I sat in the dark for what felt like hours. At some point, I must’ve passed out. Not sleep, just pure panic, claiming me the way cold claims a dying man. When I woke, pale light crept through the small holes drilled into the top of each cabinet door, music was playing from the store speakers, and the register’s screen flickered back to life.
I slowly pushed the doors open. I stood, joints stiff, every nerve still lit like a fuse, and walked over cautiously toward the storeroom curtain. Nothing was there. Nothing had been moved. But the back door, the one I’d locked and checked two times, was wide open.
I didn’t step outside. Not right away. I went over and shut the back door slowly, then locked it. My hands were still trembling as I checked every inch of the building. Shelves undisturbed. Cooler doors shut. No footprints on the tile. No blood, no drag marks, nothing. It was as if the night had folded itself back in on the scene. But the air still smelled coppery, like something had been in here and just slipped away.
When the sun was fully up, I called my manager. Told him I had a family emergency and couldn’t finish the week. He didn’t argue. Just said he’d get someone else out there to cover my shift. I didn’t tell him why. Didn’t say anything about the woman, the voices, or what tried to mimic me from behind the storeroom curtain. Who’d believe me?
I called for an Uber, packed my things in silence. Left my uniform shirt folded on the counter with my name tag on top. And a short note was tucked inside for whatever poor soul showed up to put that shirt on, to take my place. It simply read “You’re not safe here, the locks can’t keep them out. Leave now before nightfall, and never come back.”
I didn’t bother locking up; I figured if they wanted in again, they’d get in regardless. When my ride arrived, I got in my car, and as we were pulling out, I glanced over my shoulder, looking back, just for a second. A shape was standing at the edge of the station lot. Not moving. Still. Just standing.
As the car pulled away down that long, cracked road, it raised its hand in a perfect imitation of a wave. Just like I would’ve done.
This has been Pale Lantern Media.
If the voices outside know your name…
If you’ve ever heard yourself laughing from the other side of the room…
If something ever waved to you, exactly how you wave to others…
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