CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I Work at a Gas Station. Someone Keeps Buying Fuel, but They Never Have a Car" Creepypasta

Episode Date: March 21, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Frequent-Cat:   / i_work_at_a_gas_station_someone_keeps_buyi...  Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creep...  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

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. It's 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. Truck has stopped to grab coffee and stretch the legs, and locals come in every once in a while. But after 1am, 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 2am. I was leaned 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 traveller 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 grey hoodie pulled over his head. He smelt faintly of gasoline. He took slow, dragging steps toward the counter. I cleared my throat. Hey man, how's it going?

No response. You need something? He didn't blink. Just reached into his pocket. pulled out a crumbled $20 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 sale. Nothing. I slid his change across the counter, and he picked it up without counting on. it. Outside, through the station's dirty front windows, I watched him take an old, battered cherry can from beside the pumps. The thing was weathered, sunbleached, 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 a fuel wasn't my problem. The next night, at exactly 2 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 carton of smokes down and straightened up, watching him closely as he stepped forward and wordlessly slipped the crumpled twenty-year.

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 saw. 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 discoloured 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 paid attention to which direction he was headed in.

But 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 glit. 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.

2 a.m. 1 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 toward the pumps after he left, expecting headlights flashing on the tree line. Nothing.

I even checked 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 he 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 trucker 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. A couple nights back, yeah, I don't think you were on shift. Who's that weird kid that works on the weekends? I was parked 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. You're 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-60s, wearing a denim jacket that looked as worn out as he did. He paid and crumpled bills, then lingered at the counter, watching as the man in the hoodie walked back out into the darkness with his filled jericho. The older guy squinted. Huh? Huh. Why? Why? Heardness. Why? Hector. Why? 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 man 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 2 and 203 AM.

I kept going, flipping back through the old logbooks. 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 2013, 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 19, 1997. One gallon.

Cash. And that was only as far as the logbooks 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 on my first night. Still, I hesitated. How did 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 seat. skin. I took a breath and dialed. The phone rang twice before a groggy voice answered. Hello? Hey Jerry. Sorry, I know it's late. There was a pause, a sigh. Yeah, you don't say. What's up? I just... I hesitated, feeling even dumber now that I had him on the line. I just had a question about the gas station, about someone who comes in at night. Another pause. I could hear him shifting, probably sitting up in bed. Which someone?

A guy shows up every night around two, buys 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 a night, never said more than a few words. I let out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding.

So, what's his deal? Jerry let out a short laugh. And if I know, nobody does. He's just kind of a... 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, buy 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'd just stop trying.

It was like talking to a brick wall. I exhaled through my nose. You ever think about following him? I asked. Jerry's scum. 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 weirdos 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 ground. travel 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 he'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 to 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 trees 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 30 feet across, a break in the dense trees where the ground had turned to dry, cracked dirt, and in the centre 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 colour it had once been was long gone. the surface now just scorched 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 seatbelt had melted across the chest, and the remains of charred fingers were fused to 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. grew, split and 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 gasoline 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, vocals 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 the 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 was 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 twitching at his sides. I keep putting the fuel in. but it 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 bowled out a crumbled $20 bill and held it out toward me. His hand was shaking. One gallon, I 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 movement's now animalistic. One gallon, he shrieked, one gallon, and I can go home. His hands clawed at 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, shadowed. was 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 hours, 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 to be on board, scrolling through his phone, barely paying attention, and standing in front of him, handing over a crumpled $20 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 carrie. 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.