Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I Work at a Grocery Store for Monsters. This is my SCARIEST Story | Scary Stories

Episode Date: February 21, 2025

Story written by Stephen & Rachel of Lighthouse Horror. For usage rights or more information, please contact us at [e-mail] Art from NinerioMore of the artist’s works at ninerioarts   Original YouTube link: I Work at a Grocery Store for Monsters. This is my SCARIEST Story.     Merch: lighthousehorror.shopFor more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | PatreonMusic:Lucas King - YouTubeMyuu - YouTube IncompetechDarren Curtis Music - YouTube Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

If you ever meet me, you will probably find me rolling my eyes. It's not that I hate people. Maybe I do a little. But my patience has been worn so thin you could see through it. My name's Dante. I'm 32 years old and stuck running the family business. The name of this place, Graziano's groceries. Sounds normal, right?

Well, that's the whole point. I grew up here in Jersey, though my family's roots are deep in southern Italy. My grandpa's the real deal, born and raised in the old country, where every meal was a ritual, and family meant everything. He came to America with big dreams, as they always say, but life had other plans. My dad got sick young, my mom wasn't in the picture, and so it fell on grandpa and me to keep the store running. Now, well, Grandpa's in the back room most of the time, technically working, but he's in his 80s now. He mostly naps, plays cards with himself, and critiques my every move in that gruff Italian wave is,

Dante, why don't you clean the counters? They look like you serve soup on him. That's what he sounds like. Or, you call this a stock in shelves, my blind cousin Maria stock shells better than this. Now, you'd think I'd be used to it by now, but it's still great son-me. But despite the griping, grandpa's my rock. He always has been. Me. I'm kind of snarky, sure, and my sarcasm could cut glass, but I don't know.

Try being an Italian-American guy running a grocery store for the, well, let's just say, less-than-human clientele. It'll do things to your mood. See, this isn't your run-of-the-mill store. Sure, we have the basics, like eggs, milk, and pasta. God forbid, I run out of pasta. I'd hear it from the whole family, alive and dead. But are real bread and butter?

Catering to the supernatural. I'm talking about monsters. Yeah, you heard me right? Vampires, werewolves, banshees, shape-shifters, the occasional demon with a hankering for sulfur-flavored chewing gum. They all shop here. My family's been running this store for centuries, way before America was even a glimmer in anyone's eye. Back in Italy, it was a market stall.

Here, it's a grocery store tucked between a laundromat and a pizza shop that's been under renovation for as long as I can remember. I grew into this life, for better wars. As a kid, I thought it was exciting. Helping stock shelves with blood bags for less, or arranging silver-free razors for our werewolf clientele. But the novelty wore off when I started realizing what it meant for my life. Explaining why you smell like garlic and brimstone after work doesn't exactly win you friends, you know, let alone dates.

I was the weird kid. who didn't let anyone come over, who had that strange grandpa, and whose family was just a little too secretive about their business. High school was hell, let me tell you. But now, this is just my life. Monday through Saturday, I am here from nine to nine, dealing with everything from, do you carry ethically sourced moonstones, to, why are your ectoplasm jars always sticky? Sundays are technically my day off, but there's always some urgent issue that drags me back. Grandpa's too old to handle the crazier stuff, so it's all on me. Lucky me.

Physically, I'm nothing special, but I've got the hands of a worker, rough, calloused, and strong enough to haul a 20-pound sack of enchanted rice without breaking a sweat. I wear the same thing every day. jeans, a plain t-shirt, and a flannel shirt over it, because the store is always freezing. No matter how much I crank the thermostat, there's always a draft. The customers like it that way, though. Cold keeps the undead fresher, apparently. I live in a tiny apartment above the store.

It's nothing fancy. Just a bed, a couch, and a kitchen that barely fits one person. My only real luxury is coffee. Good coffee. I grind my beans fresh every morning. Now that you know me, let's talk about the store. Graziano's isn't big, but it's packed floor to ceiling with shelves. The aisles are narrow.

The lighting's dim. Monsters hate fluorescence. And there's a faint hum in the air from the enchanted refrigeration units. The sign outside says open 24 hours, but that's a lie. We close at 9 p.m. sharp, no exceptions. I don't care if Dracula himself shows up five minutes late. He's waiting till morning. Behind the counter, there's a bell.

Customers ring it when they need help, though I wish they wouldn't. Half the time, it's something stupid, like, do you have this in a different shade of black? The other half, it's a complaint. This blood is too warm, or these werewolf treats gave my pup gas. And then there are the ones who just want to chat. Dante, you look tired, been feeding on enough souls lately. Very funny. Grandpa's back room is off limits to everyone but family.

It's where we keep the good stuff, ancient relics, rare ingredients, and items that are too dangerous to put on the shelves. If a customer asked for something from back there, well, they'd better have the right credentials. Otherwise, they're getting a firm no. Running Graziano's groceries is like starring in a sitcom where the laugh track is replaced with groans and the occasional snarl. Most days, the routine is predictable. Unlock the door, flip the closed sign to open, and brace myself for the day's parade of monsters.

And no, I don't mean bad customers, though we've got plenty of those too. My morning start with a quick sweep through the store. The werewolves always leave fur everywhere, so I've got a lint roller in one hand, and a brim in the other. Next, I check the shelves to make sure everything stocked. We've got blood gummies in three flavors. Cherry, raspberry, and, oh, negative. Gluten-free vampire crackers, and protein shakes for ghouls. The refrigerated section has everything from...

fresh animal organs to pre-packaged zombie snacks. And let's not forget the cleaning supplies. Stuff like fur-be-gone shampoo and stain-away silver-free detergent. By the time I finish, the regulars start trickling in. First through the door, as always Mrs. Mabel, a banshee in her 60s who crochets little scarves for her cat. She doesn't scream anymore. Not since she got throat issue. But her voice still makes my ears ring. But she's nice and she reminds me my grandmother. Sometimes she even brings me cookies. Good morning, Dante, she says, dragging her basket behind her. Do you have any more of those licorice bones? Top shelf aisle too, I reply, without looking up from my inventory tablet. Such a sweet boy.

She croons, even though I'm ignoring her. Next up is a vampire in a tailored suit, slicked back hair, and an attitude that screams old money. He doesn't say much, just grabs two packs of blood gummies and a bottle of imported essence of twilight. Before he leaves, he gives me a look like he's appraising me for dinner. I shoot him a thumbs up. Then there's the werewolf pack. You can hear them before you see them, a group of four or five big guys with broad shoulders, loud voices, and more facial hair than a lumberjack convention. They're regulars, coming in every couple of days to stock up on meat snacks and specialty shampoes.

Today, their leader, a guy named Marco, looks especially annoyed. Marco slams a bottle of Fur-be-Gone shampoo out of the counter. Dante? What the hell is this? I glance at it. Looks like shampoo, Marco. You forget how to read? This isn't the brand I use, man. Where's the Wolfman and Sun's line? You're always stuck with it? Not anymore, I say. Discontinued. Discontinued.

Marco's voice rises. In a couple of his past, make's growl in agreement. You just can't stop carrying something like that. My fur in each premium care, Dante. It's Dante. I begin. My name's Dante. You've been coming here for like 30 years.

You know my name's Dante. In your fur, Marco? Looks like you've been rolling in a dumpster. I don't know. Maybe try this one. It's the same stuff, just a different label. It's not the same. He snaps, jabbing a finger at me.

You don't get it. It's a were a wolf thing. Oh, I get it. I've been selling you this stuff since you were a pup. You think I don't know shampoo? How dare you? Trust me, Marco, I know shampoo. And you'll take what I give you, or you'll smell like wet dog all week.

The other customers are starting to. stare now. But I don't care. Marco growls, literally growls, and slams his fist on the counter. You're lucky I don't shift right here and rip this place apart. Yeah, yeah, big bad wolf, I say waving him off. You gonna huff and puff, too?

Look, if you don't want the shampoo, don't buy it, nobody's forcing you, too. Marco's face is turning red now. Well, Redder. You know what? I'm going to talk to Tony about this. Now let me explain something about my grandfather. Tony Graziano.

He's not just my grandpa. He is a legend. To the monsters, he's like a mix of the godfather and your friendly neighborhood butcher. He knows everyone. And everyone respects him. When things get heated, invoking grandpa's name is like pulling the,

emergency break. I sigh. I don't have to make my point. Uh, you really want to bother my 80-something-year-old grandfather because you don't like the shampoo. You know what, fine, be my guest. Marco stumps toward the back room, but before he can get there, the door creaks open. And there he is. Tony Graziano in all his glory. He's short and stooped, but still has this commanding presence. He's wearing a cardigan over his button-down shirt, a flat cap perched on his head, and slippers, because he never wears shoes inside the store. Hey, what's all this yelling out there? Grandpa, I start, but Marco cuts me off. Mr. Graziano, with all due respect, your grandson doesn't know how to run this place. He stopped carrying Wolfman in sun's shampoo.

Can you believe that? It's a disgrace. Grandpa stares at Marco for a long moment, then turns to me. Dundee, why'd you stop carrying the shampoo? It was too expensive, Grandpa. They jacked up the price, and nobody was buying it. Plus, you know, this new one looks just as good. Grandpa nods slowly, then looks back at Marco.

Marco, you come into my store, you shout, you disrespect my grandson. And for what a shampoo? But Mr. Grasiano, Grandpa holds up a hand, silencing him instantly. You want the other shampoo, fine. You bring me the money up front, I'll order it for you. But until then, you use what we have, or you don't use anything, capish. Marco hesitates, his bravado deflating. Ah, capish, he mutters, grabbing the bottle off the counter.

Grandpa gives him a hard stare. Good, now go. And next time, remember who runs this place? Once Marco and his pack are gone, the store settles into its usual rhythm. Grandpa shuffles back to his room, muttering something in Italian about kids these days. And I get back to ringing up customers. The Banshee Lady buys her. liquorish bones. The vampire leaves with his gummies, and I even sell a jar of ghost jam to some

guy with glowing red eyes. It's just another day in Graziano's. By the time the lunch rush is over, I'm already exhausted. But that's life here. Every day's a little chaotic, little weird, and a lot frustrating. A Tuesday mornings at Graziano's are what I like to call the calm before the storm. It's the one part of the week where I can pretend my life is normal. Grandpa's in the back, asleep in his recliner with a blanket over his legs, snoring just loud enough to hear. The store's quiet, aside from the soft hum of the refrigerators, and the occasional creak of a shelf under too much weight. I'm at the register, feet up on the counter flipping through the latest issue of Witch Weekly. Don't judge me. It's not my usual reading material, but it was sitting on the

magazine's rack, and I was bored. Plus, I find it hilarious. The articles are like 10 spells to keep your broomstick sparkling. And love potion recipes. What's safe? What's scary? There's even a quiz. Which famous witch are you? Apparently, I'm a mildred the meddlesome, who knew? Just as I'm reading an column about handling hex-happy neighbors, the bell above the door jingles. My first customer of the day is a goblin in a pinstripe suit, carrying a briefcase that looks older than my grandpa. He nods at me as he walks in, heading straight for Isle 3. Goblins love Isle 3.

It's where we keep the enchanted polishing cloths and anti-curse spray. Two things they apparently cannot live without. I go back to my magazine, but not even five minutes later. Another customer walks in. This time, it's a pale woman in a black cloak. Her eyes scanning the store, like she's never been here before. Excuse me, she says, approaching the counter. Do you carry powdered grave moss? Yep, aisle seven, second shawl from the top, right next to the dried night shade. I reply without looking up. Oh, thank you, she says shuffling off.

I flip a page in Witch Weekly and keep reading, but it's not long before someone else comes in. A pair of trolls, both wearing tattered overalls. One of them picks up a basket, while the other heads straight for the counter. Hey, Betty. The troll says, scratching his bald head. Where do you keep the troll better? I glance up from my magazine.

Ile four, bottom shelf, left side. It's right next to the jars of fermented toadstool paste. Get it. He says lumbering off. By lunchtime, the store is bustling with activity. I don't know why Tuesdays are so popular, but it's like every supernatural being within a hundred mile radius decided today was grocery day.

And of course, they all have questions. Where's the silver-free detergent, they ask? Isle-6, middle shelf next to the hypoallergenic wolf collars. Do you sell bottled ectoplasm? Isle two, third shelf from the bottom, right next to the spectral sting remover. I'm looking for cursed apples. They're really good ones. Isle 8, top shelf, they're in a black box labeled Premium Hext Produce.

No matter how obscure the item, I know exactly where it is. I could give directions blindfolded. It's not because I care that much about the store or the customers, mind you. I just have a really good memory. Always have. It's like my brain automatically catalogs everything the second I see it. Grandpa says it's a gift, but honestly, feels more like a curse when you're constantly bombarded with questions.

Around mid-afternoon, a vampire named Victor strolls in. He's one of our regulars, always dressed like he's headed to a funeral. Today, he's wearing a long black coat with a blood-red scarf. Very dramatic. Dante, he says, Do you happen to have any more of that vintage plasma, the 1897 batch? Nope, my reply. Sold the last bottle last week.

But we got the 1912 blend in stock. aisle 5, second shelf from the bottom, next to the bottled despair. Victor raises an eyebrow. You remember every detail about every item in the store? Pretty much, I say, flipping another page in my magazine. It's not that hard. He looks genuinely impressed. How do you do it?

I shrug. I don't know, just got a good memory. Always have. Ask me where anything is and I can tell you down to the shelf number. Victor chuckles softly. Fascinating. You'd make an excellent librarian. Yeah, because that's my dream job, I say. Organizing books for undead nerds all day.

Victor smirks and heads off to find his plasma. I go back to my magazine, but the moment of peace doesn't last. Another customer, a harpy this time, flaps up to the counter. Do you sell feather conditioner? She asked me. Yep, aisle three top shelf next to the talon polish. By the time the afternoon rush dies down, I have answered so many questions I feel like a walking store map.

Grandpa's still asleep in the back, snoring like a freight train. The magazine is now crumpled from me flipping. through it too many times, and my patience is wearing thin. But that's just another Tuesday, at Graziano's. It was a day like any other Graziano's. Grandpa was in the back, dozing in his recliner with an old Italian movie playing on the tiny TV he'd rigged up. I was at the cash register, leaning against the counter and munching on a canoli I'd swipe from the bakery box we keep in the employee fridge. Tuesdays might be busy. But third, Thursdays are slow. A few regulars coming in for their weekly essentials and the occasional new face

who stumbles in by accident, looking for normal groceries. They usually don't stay long. The bell above the door jingled and in walked the first customer of the day, a werewolf named Tony. Not my grandpa, mind you, but a short, wiry guy with a scruffy beard and a perpetual twitch in his left eye. He nodded at me and headed straight for eyes. Isle 4, where we keep the meat snacks and wolf treats. Normal day, nothing to see here. Then the door jingled again, and two vampires strolled in. They were young, or at least they looked young, probably barely out of their first century.

They were dressed like extras from a twilight movie, all leather jackets and dark sunglasses. They didn't even head for the shelves right away. Instead, they lingered near the entrance, whispering to a little. each other and voices just loud enough for me to barely hear. Dangerous. No self-control. I rolled my eyes, took another bite in my canoli. Monster gossip. It's even worse than human gossip. I've learned to tune it out over the years, but every now and then something grabs my attention. Today was shaping up to be one of those days. The vampires moved on to Isle 6, still muttering under their breath. But before I could forget about

him. The door jingled again. This time it was Mrs. Mabel, our banshee regular. She waved at me with her gnarled hand and headed straight for the licorice bones, her cane clicking against the tile floor. I heard he was in town, she said to no one in particular. Such a shame he's in nothing but trouble. One of the vampires overheard her and replied, should have stayed where they sent him. Too dangerous to be around us civilized people. They were still talking when the werewolf Tony came back to the counter with a basket full of snacks.

He plopped it down and gave me a sheepish grin. It's crazy stuff, huh? I blinked. What crazy stuff. You know about him, Tony said. I sighed. and started scanning his items. Tony, I've been here all morning.

I don't know what you're talking about. Tony leaned in closer. His twitchy eye making him look like he was about to spill some serious beans. You really haven't heard? The big guy? The one who got kicked out a few years back. He's back in town. I shrugged.

So? Tony frowned. clearly unimpressed with my lack of interest. So, he's dangerous, Dante. Real dangerous. You know most of us have rules, right? Lines we don't cross. This guy doesn't care about any of that.

He does what he wants, and he is strong enough to get away with it. Uh-huh, what I said, sliding a pack of wolf jerky across the scanner. And what's his deal? He steals someone's parking spot. Tony shook his head. Oh, it's worse than that, my friend.

He's, let's just say he's got a bad temper. Heard a lot of people before. That's why they got rid of him in the first place. But now he's back. And everyone's scared. I nodded absently. Only half listening is. I bagged his items.

I've heard this kind of talk before. Monsters love a good villain. Every few months, some rogue vampire or out-of-control werewolf becomes the talk of the town, and everyone acts like it's the end of the world. Usually it blows over in a week or two. This guy was probably no different. As the day went on, the store got busier, and the gossip got louder. A group of witches and pointy hats came in around noon.

chattering away like a flock of crows. I heard he took out an entire pack last week. No self-control, they say. Shouldn't even be allowed back too dangerous. Then a couple of ghouls wandered in. Their hollow voices adding to the noise, If he comes around here, I'm not sticking around. Not worth the risk.

By mid-afternoon, I couldn't ignore it anymore. Every single customer had something to say about this guy, though no one seemed to agree on the details. Some said he was a vampire, others swore he was a werewolf. A banshee claimed he was something else entirely. A hybrid, or a freak of nature. The only thing they all agreed on was that he was dangerous, stronger than most, meaner than most, and prone to lashing out.

I didn't care much about monster politics, but I had to admit, this was starting to sound like more than the usual drama. Not that I'd ever let anyone know I was actually paying attention. It was almost closing time when a lone customer came up to the counter. He was tall, with broad shoulders, and a face that looked like it had seen its fair share of fights. His clothes were simple, jeans and a black t-shirt. But there was something about him that made me keep my guard up.

He dropped a jar of cursed honey and a pack of spectral mince onto the counter and gave me a nod. Evening, he said. Evening, I replied, scanning his items. He leaned on the counter, his eyes casually drifting around the store. Busy day? Always is, I said. You know how it goes. He chuckled.

Yeah, I guess I do. A lot of talk in the air today, though. You hear about the big guy? I gave him a look. You mean the guy everyone's been whispering about like he's Voldemort? The man laughed. A deep, gravelly sound. That's the one.

Folks are scared. And for good reason. He is not someone you will. want to cross paths with? I shrugged, sliding his items into a bag. Now I don't plan on crossing paths with anyone. I just work here. The man nodded, his smile fading a little.

Smart. Real smart. But just in case, you might want to keep an eye out. He's got a way of showing up where you least expect him. Noted, I said, handing him. handing him the bag. You have a nice night. You too, he said, giving me one last look before heading out the door. The bell jingled as he left, and I was alone again. The store finally quiet.

I leaned back against the counter and stared at the door, wondering if today was the start of something big, or just another day in Graziano's. It was just past nine o'clock, when I was just past nine o'clock, when I I locked the front door to Graziano's. The day had been longer than usual, filled with too many questions, too much gossip, and far too little patience. Normally, I'd head upstairs to my tiny apartment, heat up some leftover pasta, and collapse on the couch. But tonight, something about all the chatter wouldn't leave me alone. The way everyone kept talking about this mysterious monster, their hushed tones and nervous glances. It was sticking in my head. head like a splinter. I had to know more. I walked to the back of the store, where Grandpa was

still snoozing in his recliner, the glow of the tiny TV casting flickering light over his weathered face. Some old black and white Italian film was playing, the kind with dramatic music, and way too much hand-waving. I stood there for a second, debating whether to let it go, but curiosity went out. Hey, uh, grandpa? I said, given the side of his chair a nudge. Wake up. He stirred, blinking a few times before fixing me with a bleary-eyed glare. Ah, Dante, what do you want? I was dreaming about Sophia Loren. Charming, I said, crossing my arms.

Hey, uh, listen, I need to ask you something. He groaned, rubbing his face. Oh, if it's about that damn expresso machine, I told you, it's busted. No, no, it's not that. You ever heard about some big monster being back in town? The customers wouldn't shut up about it today. That got his attention. Grandpa sat up straighter, his brow furrowing.

What monster? I don't know, why I said. They didn't give him a name, just said he is damn. dangerous. Supposedly stronger than most doesn't follow any rules and has a bad habit of hurting people. A couple of them mentioned he was banished before. I don't know, that ring any bells. Grandpa's face darkened. The usual twinkle in his eye, replaced by something I couldn't quite read. You were sure. Yeah, I said I'm sure. Practically everyone who came in today was talking about it. One guy even called him the big guy. Sound familiar?

Grandpa didn't answer right away. Instead, he pushed himself out of the recliner with a grunt and shuffled over to an old wooden cabinet in the corner of the room. I watched as he unlocked it with a small key from his pocket, his movements slow and deliberate. When he pulled out a thick, leather-bound book, I raised an eyebrow. This story time now, I asked. He carried the book over to the table. He flipped it open, the brittle pages crackling as he searched for whatever he was looking for. When he finally stopped, he tapped a page with a gloved hand.

He pointed and said one word, Minotaur. I leaned over the table to look. The page showed a detailed illustration of a minute. massive creature, half man, half bull, with horns that curved and muscles that looked carved from stone. The text beside it was written in Italian, but I could make out enough of the words to get the gist, dangerous, violent, cunning. What about him? I asked. When I asked about the Minotaur, the answer wasn't what I expected. He was described as one of the first monsters my grandfather had ever encountered, back when he was just starting out in the family

business. Apparently, this one was different. Most monsters have their corks, but they follow certain rules and generally avoid trouble. The Minotaur. He didn't care? About monsters, about humans, about anything. I tried to downplay it. So what? He was a bully? But it wasn't that simple. The way the story went, he was dangerous. Truly dangerous. Someone who hurt people, killed them, just because he could. Eventually, an alliance was formed between humans and monsters. They banished him, and they locked him away in a maze of all things, somewhere several towns over. A maze. I couldn't help the skepticism. "'What is this Greek mythology?'

The response was sharp. Something about how myths don't come from nowhere, that the stories people tell are based on something real. The maze had been built to keep him contained. And for decades, it had worked. But now, well, for some reason, apparently things had changed. Leaning back in my chair, I crossed my arms. come on he can't be that bad you're talking like he's some unstoppable force that's when i saw the proof

the glove came off revealing a hand that was missing two fingers index and middle to be exact the scars were jagged and old but there was no mistaking what they meant what happened to your hand i asked The explanation was simple. The minotaur. Apparently someone had thought they could reason with him, calm him down, and it hadn't gone well. It tore those fingers off like they were nothing. For once, I didn't know what to say. The story sounded insane, but the look in my grandfather's eyes and the scars on his hand made it hard to argue.

Suddenly, all the chatter I'd heard earlier started to make sense. So what do we do? I asked quietly. The answer wasn't what I expected. Nothing, he said. It wasn't our fight anymore. If the Minotaur was really back, somebody else would have to deal with him. I wanted to protest, but the conversation was shut down before I could. Stay out of it. The Minotaur wasn't something I wanted to mess with, he said.

I nodded, but doubt lingered. If this guy was really as dangerous as the story suggested, how long before he showed up here? And if he did? What then? The rum felt heavier after that. The only sound was the faint murmur of the TV in the background. My eyes dropped to the book in front of me, to the drawing of the minotauruels. the drawing of the minotaur and the ominous words beneath it.

For the first time, I felt a sliver of unease about what might be coming. The book was closed and locked away, along with a conversation. I was told to get some rest, that tomorrow was another day. The bell above the door jingled, and in walked Marco, the werewolf pack leader, with a scruffy beard and swagger of a frat boy who never left college. He was wearing his usual backwards baseball cap and a tank top that read Wolf Bros for Life.

He stomped up to the counter, his face unusually serious, and dropped a six-pack of silver-free energy drinks onto the counter. Dante, man, we got a situation. I barely looked up from the inventory sheet. I was pretending to care about, What, you run out of protein powder? No, dude, it's serious.

Marco insisted. Mrs. Mabel, man. She got snatched. That got my attention. I straightened up, narrowing my eyes at him. What are you talking about? The Minotaur, bro? He took her, dragged her off to that creepy maze a few times over.

I heard about it from one of the goblins. Why would the Minotaur want Mrs. Mabel? I began. She's harmless. Bakes cookies, knits scarves. Maybe yells at people who don't recycle, but, I mean, that's it. Marco shrugged, opening one of the energy drinks and taking a loud gulp. Banchies can see the future, right?

Maybe he doesn't want her spilling his big evil plans or something. I sighed, rubbing my temples. Mrs. Mabel, of all people. Sure, she could be a bit much, but she was a sweet old lady. She brought me cookies every Christmas and called me her favorite human. Can you believe that? I mean, I think she'd only met like three, but still. She was basically my second grandma.

And now she was in the hands of that monster, who, according to my actual grandpa, Made a habit of hurting people just because he could. Marco was still talking, but I wasn't listening anymore. Instead, I was staring down at my hands, trying to decide whether I should do something very stupid. Dante, yo, you good, Marco asked, snapping his fingers in front of me. I sighed again, louder this time,

and I rolled up the sleeves of my flannel shirt. Yeah, I'm good. I'm also apparently the only idiot in town who is going to do something about this. Marco blinked at me. Wait, you serious, man? You're going to go after her? Well, somebody has to. I muttered, grabbing my keys and heading for the door.

And I guess that someone is me. Marco grinned, clearly enjoying the drama. Dude, Dante, you're legend. You can call me a hero if you want to. I probably am. But if I don't come back, tell Grandpa this is your fault. The drive to the abandoned church wasn't far. Just two towns over.

Grandpa's description of the maze had been vague, near the old church with the broken windows. But it was enough to go on. My truck roared down the empty highway, the speedometer needle creeping well past the limit. I wasn't one for heroics, but Mrs. Mabel really was in danger. I couldn't sit back and do nothing. Stupid banshee, I muttered to myself, gripping the wheel tighter. Why'd she have to go and get kidnapped?

Despite my grumbling, my chest tightened the closer I got. The thought of Mrs. Mabel. Sweet old Miss Mabel. Trapped with a monster like the Minotaur. It didn't sit right. The church came into view, just as the sun was starting to dip behind the trees. It was an old, crumbling thing, with a bell tower leaning precariously to one side. The stained glass windows were shattered, leaving jagged edges that glinted in the fading light.

I parked the car, got out, and stared up at the place, feeling an odd mix of dread and determined With a quick glance around to make sure nobody was watching, I crossed myself. Sorry God for not going to Mass in a long time, I mumbled, before heading inside. The inside of the church was as bad as the outside, pews overturned, dust everywhere, and the faint smell of mildew in the air. I made my way to the basement steps, which creaked under my weight as I descended. The air grew colder, heavier as I reached the bottom. And there it was, the entrance to the maze.

The doorway was framed with rough stone, the kind that looked like it hadn't been touched in centuries. Beyond it, the maze stretched into darkness, its walls made of ancient brick and mortar. I pulled out my flashlight and clicked it on, the beam cutting through the gloom. Right? I muttered. Let's get this over with. I remember the old legend grandpa had mentioned.

The one about the hero who used string to navigate the maze. What was his name again? Thesaurus, Thessius, whatever. I didn't care. I had something better than string. I had my memory. If I could remember the exact shelf where we kept enchanted mobs, I could handle a stupid maze. The maze was quiet, save for the sound of my boots scuffing against the stone floor. Every turn looked the same brick walls, damp corners, and the occasional patch of moss. I kept track of each turn in my head, left, left, right, straight, right, left. The pattern formed like a map in my mind. Each intersection burned into my memory. The air grew colder the deeper I went, and my pulse quickened with every step.

Somewhere in the maze, the minotaur was lurking. I hadn't seen him yet, but I could feel his presence. A heavy weight in the air, like a storm waiting to break. Then I heard it. A faint noise barely more than a whisper. A voice. Help! It was Mrs. Mayble.

I turned another corner and spotted her. She was sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, her cane lying uselessly beside her. Her face lit up when she saw me. Dante, she exclaimed. Took you long enough? Yeah, yeah, I said, kneeling beside her. Don't get used to it. Saving Banshees isn't in my job description.

She gave me a weak smile. The cookies are, though. I sighed. All right, come on, old lady. Let's get out of here before he comes back. Sliding my arms under her. I lifted her off the ground. She was surprisingly heavy for someone so small, but I didn't let it show.

Not much, anyway. You know, you're pretty heavy for an old bag. I grunted as I started retracing my steps. Mrs. Mabel swatted my shoulder. You keep that up. and I'll start poisoning those cookies. I smirked, despite myself, and kept moving. My mind running through the mental map I'd made of the maze.

Left, right, straight, left, left. The sounds of heavy breathing echoed somewhere behind us. Faint, but getting closer. I picked up the pace, my flashlight swinging wildly as I took each turn. The walls seemed to close in around us. the air growing heavier with every step. My arms ached from carrying Mrs. Mabel,

but I was not about to stop. Dante, she said softly. If we don't make it out of here, I just... Thank you. Save it, I muttered. Just don't tell Grandpa I was nice to a banshee. He'll never let me hear the end of it. A faint chuckle escaped her,

and it gave me just enough of a boost to keep going. The entrance was close now. I could feel it. But the Minotaur's presence loomed behind us. I could hear his heavy breathing, and he was getting closer. I didn't dare look back. One wrong turn and we'd be done for. Finally, the doorway came into view. The faint light from my truck's headlights spilling into the darkness. I burst through it, gasping for air as I carried Mrs. Mabel up the basement, stairs and out of the church. I set her down gently on the passenger seat of the truck. Her face pale but relieved. Slamming the door shut, I climbed into the driver's seat and turned the key, the engine roaring to life. As we sped away, I glanced in the rearview mirror at the church

shrinking in the distance. The maze might have kept the minotaur contained for decades, but now I knew he wasn't as trapped as everyone thought. flaunt. Mrs. Mabel leaned her head back against the seat, her breathing, steadying. You're a good boy, Dante? All right, that's enough, I replied. She laughed weakly, and for the first time that night, I let myself relax just a little. We weren't out of the woods yet, but for now we were alive, and that was enough. By the time we pulled into the lot behind Graziano's, the adrenaline had worn off, and all I felt was exhaustion.

I helped Mrs. Mabel out of the truck and into the back room, where Grandpa was already waiting. He must have heard us come in because he was standing by the table, arms crossed, his face as unreadable as ever. I set Mrs. Mabel down gently in the recliner. I leaned against it, trying to catch my ber. breath as I explained what had happened. The reaction wasn't what I expected. The usual calm demeanor gave way to something sharper. Tense. The weight of what I had said settled in immediately, and I could feel the disapproval simmering. Yes, I went after her, okay. What was I supposed to do? Leave her there? She's Mrs. Mabel. And that seemed to soften him, just slightly.

A silent nod. Approval, maybe. It caught me off guard. I blinked. So that's it? No long talk about being reckless or almost getting myself killed? Apparently, the talk was being saved for another day. The next time I did something stupid probably.

The next morning, it was clear there'd be no time to rest. By the time I made it downstairs, groggy and half-wake, everything had already been set in motion. There was a list waiting on the counter, outlining everything we needed to protect the store. Reinforced doors, silver-laced locks, and even a stockpile of enchanted weapons for sale. Apparently, we weren't taking any chances. A broom was shoved into my hands with a directive to clean the floor, which apparently looked like a herd of trolls had stomped through.

I sighed and got to work. I grumbled, but did as I was told. Word spread quickly about what had happened, and by lunchtime, we had a steady stream of customers coming in, asking about protective charms and anti-minotaur kits. Grandpa, of course, was more than happy to oblige. Within a few days, life at Graziano's return to its usual chaos. The werewolves still tracked fur through the aisles, The vampires still complained about the temperature, and Mrs. Mabel still brought me cookies every wig.

You're my favorite human, you know? She said one afternoon, placing a fresh batch of snicker-doodles on the counter. Yes, I know, I replied. You better not have poisoned these. That's the thing about Graziano's. No matter what happens, kidnappings, dangerous monsters, or customers who can't find the canned ectoplasm, it always goes back to the same old routine.

Grandpa's in the back, yelling at me for something or other. The customers are complaining, and I am standing at the register, trying to pretend I don't care. But every now and then, I catch myself smiling, whether it's a dumb joke, Grandpa tells, or when Mrs. Mabel drops off her cookies. And in those moments, I remember that as much as I complain, This is home.

It's just another day in Graziano's.