Horror Stories - 3 Disturbing TRUE Pizza Delivery Horror Stories That Will Terrify You

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Starting point is 00:01:18 Also, don't forget to like and subscribe if you're enjoying the episodes. Story 1 That summer I had just turned 17 and the night shifts at Quick Dash Courier were my way of saving for community college. The work was simple. pick up sealed packages at the hub, scan the barcode, let the GPS guide me, and snap a photo once the delivery was done. Most nights ended at well-lit porches or apartment lobbies. Occasionally I dropped something off at a warehouse out in the industrial zone.

Starting point is 00:01:55 Never once had I felt in danger, just endless miles of dark highway, cheap gas station coffee, and classic rock whispering from the radio. It was just past 11 p.m. when my dispatcher, her call broke in over the radio with a strange request. A small brown box, prepaid rush order, must be delivered that very night. His voice sounded half asleep. Last drop, Aaron. Address, 301 Old Quarry Road, outskirts. GPS says 22 minutes. The name rang a faint bell, out past the river, where farmland turns to forest and pavement crumbles. I didn't argue. More miles meant more pay, at least in theory.

Starting point is 00:02:40 The depot lights shrank in the mirror as I crossed the Cedar River and followed County Highway H. The mid-October air was sharp, crusting the ditches with frost. Houses I passed sat dark except for the pale glow of the occasional television. Twenty minutes later, my cell service dropped to a single weak bar. Normal for that area. Just empty fields, two-lane blacktop, and the red blink of radio towers. The GPS directed me left onto Old Quarry Road. What appeared before me was hardly a road at all, cracked, sinking asphalt lined with weeds and rusted mailboxes.

Starting point is 00:03:18 I slowed, checked the screen again. Arriving in 0.2 miles, the trees closed in overhead, swallowing the last streetlight behind me. My high beams painted the curve ahead. When the number 301 finally came into view, it wasn't like any house I'd delivered to before. four. A two-story farmhouse with paint peeled down to bare wood, sitting at the end of a gravel drive. Every window was either shattered or covered with crooked boards. The porch rail leaned like broken ribs. A yellowed newspaper from January jutted from an overflowing mailbox, its flag still raised. No curtains, no lights, no cars. Yet the GPS pinned it, green and insistent. Destination reached.

Starting point is 00:04:06 I cut the engine and listened. Nothing but cooling metal ticks and wind chasing through dead leaves. No dogs, no TVs, no sign of life in years. Company policy said to attempt delivery. Every instinct screamed not to. I was about to throw it in reverse when it came. Three knocks. Slow, solid.

Starting point is 00:04:28 Wood against wood. Not the hollow tap of a branch. My hand froze on the keys. A porch post blocked my view, but I caught the front door creaking open, rocking slightly as if whoever knocked had just stepped back out of sight. The phone clock read 1137 p.m. I dialed the number on the order slip, two rings then voicemail, a short muffled message like caught on a cheap recorder. Leave the box and go. Click. A chill ran down my ribs. If it was a prank, they knew the exact moment I'd call. The smart thing was to leave. Report failed delivery.

Starting point is 00:05:08 Argue later. But I pictured Cole yawning at the hub and those $30 bonuses. I also imagined my mom's face if I admitted I'd fled because a door moved by itself. Pride won at least for a moment. I grabbed the shoe box size package, plain cardboard, no return address, and stepped into the wet gravel. The porch groaned beneath my sneakers. Up close the door was worse. bubbled varnish, missing knob, loose hinges.

Starting point is 00:05:38 Behind it total black. I set the box on the faded welcome mat, snapped a photo, flash lit everything for a heartbeat. When it died, something new appeared, a narrow strip of light deeper inside, like a flashlight beam grazing the floor. It slid left and vanished. That was enough.

Starting point is 00:05:58 I bolted down the steps, slipped on moss, and dove into the driver's seat, Turn the key. The engine coughed once twice, then died with a sharp click. Impossible. I'd replaced the battery two weeks ago. Tried again, nothing but the dome light flickering. In the rearview mirror movement, the front door easing wider, half a meter now.

Starting point is 00:06:21 No one stepped out. Instead, the box, my box, scraped across the boards, pulled inside by nothing. Then the door slammed shut. I screamed, raw wordless panic. Pop the hood as if checking cables would help. Shining my flashlight, I found nothing wrong, clean terminals, tight clamps. My hand shook the beam to shreds. From the house came a new sound, nails dragging across glass. Another shard fell from a shattered window. I slammed the hood and started walking down old quarry with my phone raised searching for a signal. Gravel cracked under each step too loud in the silence.

Starting point is 00:07:00 After 50 meters I thought I saw a faint flash back at the porch, a light, or just my nerves replaying the earlier glow. I didn't turn back. Help arrived 15 minutes later in the form of Sheriff Matt's cruiser cresting the hill. I waved until he braked. My story tumbled out in pieces, but he believed enough to radio in and offer me a lift. When his headlights hit the porch, the door was closed again. Shards of glass glittered. The package was gone.

Starting point is 00:07:33 Matt left his spotlight on the steps, drew his gun, and told me to wait. He nudged the door open with two fingers. It swung easily, like the hinges had never resisted. His flashlight swept across bare floors, peeling wallpaper, mounds of insulation. A stench of rot wafted out. Ground floor clear, he whispered into his radio. Going up. Minutes crawled.

Starting point is 00:07:58 The gutter rattled in the wind. Finally, Matt returned pale in the beam. No power. No furniture. Nobody here, he said. Except this. He held up a Polaroid in a plastic sleeve. The picture showed the porch in daylight years earlier.

Starting point is 00:08:17 Boards less warped. A different box sat on the mat. Underneath Scrawledon marker, a date. April 2018. Later I confirmed online. The Baker family vanished from Cedar Rapids that spring without a trace. Detectives found the 301 condemned.

Starting point is 00:08:36 Utilities cut. Title tied up in legal knots. Delivery companies had blacklisted it after several fake orders in 2020. How this one slipped through QuickDash's system no one could explain. By sunrise, I was back home in a loner van. Nerves shredded.

Starting point is 00:08:53 By noon, Curiosity won. I searched again. Found dozens of free stuff porch pickup ads using the same address. All vanished within hours. All ended with the same phrase. Leave the box and go. I shut the laptop and tried to forget. Weeks passed. Halloween came and went. I dropped night shifts for afternoons and stashed a cheap steel bar under my seat. On December 6th, sleet on the windows I came home from school, tossed my backpack, and went to fetch the mail. A package sat on the stoop. No tape, no label. just plain brown cardboard shoebox size my stomach clenched tied to it with string was a note thanks for your delivery errand here's our photo we thought you should keep it three hundred one inside lay the same polaroid mat had shown me but another was taped beside it the new photo froze my blood taken from the darkness of the 301 foyer aimed out through the half-open door at a teenage courier on the porch

Starting point is 00:09:59 The flash caught his jacket, my jacket, and the barcode scanner in his hand. My own eyes stared back at me, surprised, unknowing just a month earlier. I called Matt. Forensics bagged the photos, dusted the box, found nothing, promised extra patrols, admitted they had no clue who was behind it. By Christmas the case was cold. I graduated that spring, moved to Des Moines, buried the memory under a exams and dorm noise. And yet, every few weeks I wake half dreaming, hearing gravel crunch

Starting point is 00:10:35 underfoot and a voicemail whispering in my ear. Leave the box and go. And I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't. Before we move on to the next story, if it's your first time visiting our channel, don't forget to subscribe and hit the bell so you don't miss our future horror tales. Your support means the world to us. Share these stories with friends and family so they too can feel the chill of the unknown. Thank you for listening. What comes next will make your skin crawl. Story 2. I took the delivery shift at South Grand Pizzeria because the mileage paid better than my warehouse job and the tips felt like easy money. Mondays were usually slow but that evening the thermometer had climbed past 90 degrees Fahrenheit and nobody in Dutchtown wanted to cook.

Starting point is 00:11:27 I'd carried garlic knots up immaculate porches on Meramec, balanced two-liter bottles on crooked steps near Gravoix, and watched the gateway art shrink into a silver splinter above the rooftops. Routine, harmless. At 8.57 p.m., just as I thought the rush was done, the store phone rang. Tina raised her eyebrows behind the counter and waved the ticket. Cash order. Large sausage and mushroom toasted ravioli on the side. Address 4214 Clayton Avenue.

Starting point is 00:11:59 Note says use the back entrance. Front's under renovation. Clayton Avenue borders the north edge of Forest Park, about 15 minutes from the shop. Half-gutted duplexes stood there, mid-flip, their Tyvec wraps shredding in the wind. Dumpsters and ladders were part of the landscape. A backdoor drop hardly seemed odd. I slid the pizza into the insulated bag, stuffed a roll of receipts into my pocket, and steered my beat-up Corolla North with K-M-O-X-Muttering Cardinals post-game. The Midwestern sky sagged with humidity, lightning flickering behind clouds over St. Charles,

Starting point is 00:12:38 but the forecast swore the real storm wouldn't hit until midnight. When the GPS announced arrival, the streetlights had thin to almost nothing. 4,214 loomed across from a shuttered elementary school slated for demolition. From the sidewalk, it looked ordinary enough. Red brick, white trim, cedar shingles stacked on the porch. A contractor's dumpster sat in the front yard. The porch lamp was wrapped in painters' tape. Following the note, I rolled into the alley.

Starting point is 00:13:08 Towering maples pressed close, their shade clinging in the heat. My headlights swept over newly poured concrete steps descending to a basement entrance. A motion light snapped on, revealing raw brick walls and a yellow-painted steel door, wedged open with a paint can. I killed the engine and grabbed the bag. The alley buzzed only with saccadas. I wrapped on the frame. Pizza, I called, hoping someone inside would hear. Footsteps clanged below.

Starting point is 00:13:39 A man filled the doorway. Late 30s, trimmed beard, slicked hair despite the heat. Gray work shirt, black knee brace under cargo shorts. His face wore the calm of someone who had rehearsed. Hey, sorry. Can you bring it in? Supposed to stay off this leg. Tips on the workbench.

Starting point is 00:13:58 Company rules said never to cross a threshold, but in practice everyone broke it. Elderly customers, parents wrangling kids, college drunks fumbling for cash. Still, his tone wasn't weak or embarrassed. It was steady, expectant. I gripped the handle tighter. Could you come to the door? He shifted, frowned. Stairs are rough today. It's 15 feet. Cash is ready. A damp breath wafted. it out. Concrete, wet wood, garlic from past deliveries, and beneath it, something metallic. Not blood exactly, but close enough to rattle my instincts. I nearly refused. Before I spoke, he turned and stepped down, nodding for me to follow, as if my choice was already made. My mind spun through options, cancel the run, pay out of pocket, argue over a tip, pride-edged out caution. I crossed the threshold. The motion light died, plunging us into dim stairwell. A single bulb swung at the bottom. His shoulders filled the narrow space. The door behind me drifted half shut with brushing my back. At the landing he flicked a switch. The basement bloomed into view. Half-framed walls, coils of wire dangling, tarps over power tools. A dented chest freezer glistened with condensation. A long folding table divided the room. That's when I noticed. them. Dozens of greasy takeout bags stacked in loose rows. Domino's, Panda Express, Jimmy Johns,

Starting point is 00:15:36 Chick-fil-A. Some days old, sauces congealed in the seams. Only one folding chair sat among them, its cushion hollowed by a single occupant. He chuckled. Contractors eat like garbage, been feeding the crew all week, but there were no boots by the door, no radios, no belts of tools, just him. He yanked open a drawer, pulled out a thick white envelope, and thumped it on the table. Appreciate you coming round back, he said lightly. Names Jason. The envelope bulged with folded twenties.

Starting point is 00:16:11 Too much for a tip. It looked like hush money. Consider it hazard pay, he joked watching me. I handed him the pizza. He opened the box, knotted once, then slid it, untouched into the freezer. The metallic odor deepened tinched with rot. My laugh cracked in my throat. I've got more runs.

Starting point is 00:16:32 Could you open the door? He tilted his head, studying me. The genial mask slipped. Something colder surfaced. He reached for a heavy pry bar on the bench, let it hang loose at his side. These old houses hide surprises, he murmured. Never know when you'll need leverage. The moment stretched, four maybe five seconds.

Starting point is 00:16:54 hands. Then instinct shoved past politeness. I bolted for the stairs, slipped in sawdust, and his hand clamped my elbow within human strength. The bar clattered away. His other hand crushed my neck, shoving me toward the table. I drove my shoulder into his ribs. He grunted, but his grip only tightened. The envelope fell, Bill's scattering. He hissed, stop fighting, you'll make it worse. I twisted, it slammed him toward his bad knee. He stumbled, cursed, and for a heartbeat released me. I sprinted, not up, but sideways, toward a loose plywood chute in the wall. Snatching a two-by-four, I jammed it through the freezer's handle, then heaved another board at the window. Glass exploded into the alley. Jason roared, grabbed the bar, and smashed the freezer lid, denting the enamel. I dove through

Starting point is 00:17:47 the jagged frame. Shards raked my arm. His fingers clamped. my ankle yanking me back. I kicked wildly, caught him in the shoulder. The grip faltered. I dragged myself free, tumbled onto asphalt, blood streaking my sleeve. Keys in hand, I staggered to the corolla. Gravel crunched behind me. His steps, then silence. A whistle in the crash of metal. He'd hurled the bar. It slammed the trunk, dented deep. The engine caught. I tore down the alley. In the rear view, Jason stood beneath the motion light, chest heaving, one hand raised, not waving, just marking me. By the time I hit King's Highway, traffic and neon convinced me I was safe. At South Tucker Precinct, I spilled everything.

Starting point is 00:18:36 The envelope, the bags, the freezer, the throne tool. The officer typed possible abduction attempt, serial luring. Then came the question I dreaded. Why'd you go inside? No answer sounded less than stupid. I muttered something about customer service. She didn't laugh. Cops later searched 4214.

Starting point is 00:18:59 The dumpster gone. Windows boarded. Locks changed. Freezer vanished, floor patched. No permit records. No owner since foreclosure five years back. Jason was smoke. I quit the pizzeria, took a FedEx Day shift at Lambert Airport.

Starting point is 00:19:16 months blurred until September when the first envelope arrived plain white St. Louis postmark. Inside, a Chick-fil-A receipt dated two days after my escape. Initial J. The second held a newspaper clipping. My dented corolla parked outside my apartment. The third contained a single line, typewritten. You left before dessert. Detectives traced the mailings to random suburban drop boxes. cameras dead are missing. They advised moving, changing routines, calling 911 if I saw signs of

Starting point is 00:19:51 pursuit. I moved across the river to Collinsville, dyed my hair dark, sold the corolla. Three quiet months. Then winter storms hit. Ice felled power lines across Metro East. One blackout night wrapped in blankets, phone battery draining. I heard hail hammer the roof. Past midnight a text buzzed, Unknown number. A photo of my new back stairwell. Motion light glowing. Fresh boot prints and slushed to the basement door. Below a caption, tips on the workbench. I packed before sunrise and never went back. Now it's 2025. I work cash under another name, long-haul trucking state-to-state. Most nights I see nothing but truck-stop fluorescence and highway beams. Yet any time I pick up takeout, I scan the lot. Check dumpsters. Watch for a lean man favoring one knee. An envelope heavy with bills and eyes

Starting point is 00:20:51 heavier still. Last week, somewhere between Effingham and Tara Oat, I passed a roadside diner. Delivery bikes idled by the kitchen door, their branded bags glowing in neon. A man leaned against the wall. He bent at a strange angle, chatting with the cook. My hands locked on the wheel until horns blared behind me. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was him. Maybe it doesn't matter. Because I've learned two things since that sweltering night on Clayton Avenue. Nobody orders that much food for a crew that doesn't exist. When someone says the tip is in the basement, the basement is never all their offering. And if you ever find yourself at a yellow steel door under a motion light, remember this. It's easier to disappoint your boss than to bargain

Starting point is 00:21:37 with a man who saves your favorite meal in his freezer, just in case you come back to finish it. Story 3. Making late-night deliveries the week before Christmas felt like driving an obstacle course on too much caffeine. Midtown traffic never really sleeps, but in December it mutates. Ride shares blocking lanes. Bundled up shoppers jaywalking for last-minute gifts. Ambulances wailing down peach tree every half hour. For the past semester, I'd been driving a battered red Nissan Versa for Varsity Slice, a family-run pizza joint on Ponce de Leon, while finishing classes at Georgia State. The job covered rent for my Grant Park studio and kept me stocked in ramen long enough to survive finals. That Thursday started off uneventfully, miss softening headlights, the temperature just above freezing, the kind of night people order in instead of going out. Eight deliveries done, no issues. Then at 1018 p.m., my dispatcher, Marlin, slid order number nine across the steel counter. Customer, Jordan C. Address Rowan Heights apartments, Building D, Unit 4, cash order. Note, please knock softly. Caring for an elderly

Starting point is 00:22:56 person. Don't waker. Rowan Heights sat three blocks from the belt line, a 1970s brick complex that perpetually smelled a fabric softener and boiled vegetables. I'd delivered there before. Elevators worked, which already ranked it above half the downtown buildings. Easy order. Large pepperoni, salad, extra ranch. I dropped the insulated bag on the passenger seat, tuned into WSB's traffic updates, and headed west. The mist thickened into rain as fine as needles,

Starting point is 00:23:29 glowing under sodium lamps on North Avenue. Christmas carol sputtered between ads for cheap tires and personal injury lawyers. By 10.41 p.m., I rolled into rolling. in Heights's south lot. Building D rose 10 stories. A red D stenciled on a peeling door beside the trash corral. Inside smelled like wet carpet and lemon disinfectant. Flickering fluorescence led past jam mailboxes to the elevator. A woman with a plastic shopping cart waited, eyes fixed on the floor tiles. Her card overflowed with yarn skeins and cat litter. I held the door. She murmured thanks without looking up. Tinny Holiday Jazz played from the ceiling speaker as we rode up. She got off on three.

Starting point is 00:24:14 I kept going to four catching a whiff of burnt bacon. Unit 402 sat directly across from the elevator. I knocked twice softly as the note requested. Footstep shuffled closer. A chain rattled, then the knob turned. A gray-haired woman in a faded falcon sweatshirt peered over half-moon glasses. Evening, I said, lifting the box. Large pepperoni for Jordan. Cash order. She frowned. Sweetheart, Jordan's my grandson, but he's away this week. I didn't order anything. I showed her the ticket. Rowan Heights Dee knocked softly. She shook her head. Just me and Mr. Boots here. A tortoiseshell cat darted between her ankles, hissed at the pizza, then vanished. apologized, blamed a typo, and started back toward the elevator. That's when a call-mail voice

Starting point is 00:25:09 floated from the stairwell. Actually, that was for me. Sorry about that. A man in his late 30s emerged, tall, thin black hoodie zipped to the neck. Messenger bag slung across his chest. He smiled politely at the woman. My mistake, Mrs. Briggs. Wrong unit. I'm in D-418. She gave a curt nod, closed her door and slid the locks. The man turned to me, hand half extended before remembering the pizza. Chris, he said, I must have typed the wrong number in the app. Appreciate your patience, man. His accent carried a faint Carolina softness.

Starting point is 00:25:51 Happens more than you'd think, I said. I handed him the steaming box and salad. He pulled out a thick white envelope sealed with a strip of tape. Tips in here. Don't count it now or you'll lose hair. half. Call it a holiday bonus. Thanks, Chris. Merry Christmas. I slipped the envelope inside my jacket. We exchanged nods. He walked toward 418. I hit the elevator. By the time I reached my car, something felt wrong. Maybe the sudden heat, maybe exhaustion. My stomach nodded,

Starting point is 00:26:26 headlights smeared into amber smudges. Vertigo tipped me sideways. I pulled over near Paris on Ponce, forehead on the wheel, breathing shallow. The envelope pressed into my ribs. Curiosity beat nausea. I tore the tape, no bills. Just a dusting of fine white powder clinging to the seams. Some of it puffed into the air, coating my fingers, bitter on my tongue. My pulse spiked.

Starting point is 00:26:54 I resealed it, stuffed it in a spare takeout bag, and blasted the AC despite the freezing rain. Marlon texted, where are you? I thumbed back, pulled over, not feeling good. The next thing I knew, daylight burned through the windshield. Someone knocked on the glass. I jolted awake in the driver's seat, seatbelt digging into my collarbone. My versa was parked crooked in a Kroger lot miles from where I'd stopped.

Starting point is 00:27:22 A police officer peered in, flashlight raised. Sir, you all right? Manager thought you were unconscious. Must have dozed off, I croaked. My tongue felt like sandpaper. On my lap sat the same crumpled envelope, dust haloing the flap. The officer Denning spotted it, pulled on latex gloves and lifted it carefully. What's this?

Starting point is 00:27:46 I stammered out the story. The wrong door, the grandson, the man in the hoodie, the envelope. Paramedics checked me. Tachycardia, dehydration, nothing obvious. I refused hospital admission. tuition bills already buried me. Denning sealed the envelope as evidence. At the station, under humming fluorescence,

Starting point is 00:28:09 detectives swabbed my nose, scraped under my nails, drew blood. Two hours later, Denning returned grim-faced. Preliminary shows opioid residue, likely fentanyl, maybe carfentanyl, potent stuff. You got lucky it was weak or old. He explained units had checked 418,

Starting point is 00:28:29 vacant. No furniture, no tenants. Cameras down since August. Mrs. Briggs confirmed she saw the man but couldn't describe much beyond the hoodie. Lease records. No Jordan C. No Chris. Back at my apartment, I replayed the night in obsessive slow motion. The spotless sneaker soles underworn jeans. The way he never glanced at the pizza box. The missing steam. Varsity sliced pies always fogged the lid. Why hand me a packet of powder when he could have hidden it inside? Maybe I wasn't the target. Maybe Mrs. Briggs was. Maybe the plan was for me to pass out, abandon the car, and he'd recover the envelope later. But I'd clutched it all night. Google turned up nothing. No fentanyl envelopes in Atlanta, just postal warnings. By Saturday, Denning called back,

Starting point is 00:29:22 lap confirmed, fentanyl analog mixed with caffeine. enough to level a dorm floor. Narcotics opened a case but had zero leads. I quit delivery work, took a bookstore job in Little Five. Risk of paper cuts beat mystery envelopes. May 2nd, 2025. Finals done. My phone rang, unknown number. Hey, it's Chris from Rowan Heights, the voice said smoothly. Heard you quit. Shame. You were good. My throat, I hung up, blocked it. Seconds later, another number. Voice mail.

Starting point is 00:30:04 Left something with security for you. No envelope this time. Promise. Dennings Patrol found a padded mailer with my name. Inside, a varsity slice receipt dated December 14th. Order number nine. My handwriting confirming cash order. On the back, in marker.

Starting point is 00:30:24 Catch you on the next run. Police posted a cruiser outside my building for a month. Nothing happened. Summer came. Braves traffic jammed the city. Life went on. Too normal, like a movie set after extras leave. Still, the calls keep coming.

Starting point is 00:30:41 One ring, then silence. Voicemails full of hallway echoes, microwave dings, plastic bags crinkling. All from mask numbers abroad. New phone, new carrier, no social media. It doesn't matter. matter. The rings follow. Last month I moved across town. New roommate, new locks, no forwarding address. First night back from a lift shift, the driver handed me a thin white envelope.

Starting point is 00:31:10 Guy flagged me in little five, he said, told me you'd know who it's from. It's on my coffee table now, sealed, weightless. Denning's lab team will collect it tomorrow. He warned it might never tie to anyone, just dust and paper. Sometimes I think of Mrs. Briggs of her cat hissing that night like it sensed what I couldn't. And I picture Chris, or Jordan or whatever his name is, somewhere in Atlanta, lining up burner phones, rehearsing the next apology, the next delivery, ready with the next envelope. Every night I rehearse too. Say no, step back, walk away. Easy in theory. Harder when you remember the December rain, the stale hallway heat, and the polite smile of a stranger who almost wrote your last line.

Horror Stories - 3 Disturbing TRUE Pizza Delivery Horror Stories That Will Terrify You

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