Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 3 Night Shift Horror Stories

Episode Date: July 30, 2025

When the world sleeps, the real nightmares begin. In this episode, we uncover chilling tales from the night shift—where flickering lights, strange footsteps, and unseen eyes turn ordinary jobs into waking terrors. Author: Matt Doggett * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 17. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Story 1. Robbery slash Homicide The gun feels strange in my hand as I pull it up from the small shelf behind the counter. I've held it in my hand hundreds of times and fired it even more, but never in a situation like this. I've never pointed it at a person. But that's just what I aim to do as I slide the safety off with my thumb, bringing it up like my life depends on it, because it does. My heart beats so fast it makes my vision,

pulse and my stomach sick. I duck to the left, behind the acrylic display case stacked with vapes and vape juice. It's not something I think about consciously as I do it. Instinctively, I want something between me and the two robbers with ski masks and pistols on the other side of the counter. But as I angle that way, I don't so much aim the weapon as I point it in their general direction. They're both shouting at me, pointing their guns, but their words don't make sense to my adrenaline-addled brain. I fire the gun crazily, pulling the trigger over and over again, turning my head away and squinting my eyes. I fire until the pistol clicks empty, and then drop to my knees behind the counter, shaking and fumbling to get the magazine out, even though I don't

have a spare on me. It takes me a long moment to come to my senses. When I do, I put my attention on the space between the cash register and the vape case without getting to my feet. I half expect to the two robbers still standing there, smiling through their ski masks, pointing their guns at me. But they're gone. I stay on my knees behind the counter, listening. Did they run out of the store when I started firing? Yes, I bet they did. For some reason, it doesn't occur to me that I might have killed them, not until I finally stand on shaky legs to look over the counter. Both robbers lie on the floor of the gas station convenience store and expanding puddles. of blood. One of them, the one on the right, has a gory hole where his left eye is supposed to be.

The other one has bullet holes in his chest, blood soaking into his plaid shirt. Jesus! I whisper. Jesus, God. Both of the guns are still in their hands, and I realize I'm still holding my pistol. I toss the empty weapon onto the counter and reach for my phone with a shaking hand. I call 911 and turn away from the men. What is the address of your emergency? Yes. Hello, I, uh, I'm at the gas station on County Road 121 near Rain Street. I just shot two robbers.

I think they're dead. I need an ambulance and the police. As I finish blurting out these words, I turned back to look at the dead robbers. They're standing with their chests pressed to the counter. Their arms shoot up and grab me. The electronic ding-dong of the door jerks me for my doze. I let out a gasp and nearly fall off my stool as I stand up. up, expecting to see the two corpses reaching for me. But of course they're not. The lady who just

walked in, triggering the door chime, looks at me disapprovingly as she heads down the aisle toward the beer section. Sighing with relief, I look at the floor. No blood, no bodies. It was all cleaned up weeks ago. But ever since I killed those two men, the nightmares haven't stopped, I tell myself, you did what you had to do. It's what I tell myself a hundred times a day. It has become a sick mantra, driven by a sense of guilt for taking two lives. I don't know what I expected after killing those men, but coming back to work after two days off wasn't it. Maybe I thought someone would give me money in counseling so I could take all the time I needed, but the bills don't stop coming, and the rent has to be paid. I didn't have much choice,

but to return. I've already started looking for another job, but I can't afford to quit until I find one. I ring up the lady's purchase and watch her go out the door, to her car. There's a kid with a crotch rocket at one of the pumps. But soon enough, the lady leaves in her accord, and the kid finishes pumping and rides off into the night,

leaving me alone on the property. I gaze out the window at the sodium lamp glow, turning the gas station pale orange, at the bugs fluttering around the lights, at the dark, lonely road that seems to wait impatiently for traffic. All other gas stations in the area, on the outskirts of town, close early. Alcohol sales keep this one open until 2 a.m. And then there's another hour in my shift for cleaning and closing down. My phone sits on the counter next to the register, where I keep it for easy access.

I tapped the screen, waking it up to see that it's 10 till 1. Almost there. Usually, between now and 1.45, there are few customers. Then the drunks roll in to buy their beer or wine before alcohol sales stop. Looking at the stool, I contemplate sitting back down, but the nightmare prevents me from doing so. The last thing I want is to doze again. Instead, I head to the back room to prepare the cleaning supplies. for after closing. As I'm getting the mop bucket out, the door chime signals the arrival of another

customer. I turn around and head out of the supply room, hearing the whoosh sound of the walk-in beer cooler door opening before I step out onto the floor. The store is empty, but I figure whoever came in is still in the beer cooler. I return to the counter and wait. Five minutes pass. I can't see all the way into the beer cooler from the counter because it's L-shaped. and it runs behind the smaller coolers that house six-packs and single drinks. Glancing outside, I see no vehicles parked on the property. Not many people live within walking distance of this place, but there are a few houses nearby, mostly on farmland.

I wait, growing uneasy, wondering if I'm about to be robbed again. Minutes pass. No one comes out of the beer cooler, so I decide to go in. The police still have my pistol because, technically, the shooting is still under investigation. The store owner refused to provide me with one, which was why I brought my own. Now, all I have is an aluminum baseball bat, which I carry with me, hiding it behind one leg. A wall of cold air greets me as I open the cooler door and take two steps inside so I can see the entire space, which is stacked chest-high with beer in some places. The front-door chime sounds, causing me to jump and spin around,

moving out of the empty cooler and back into the warmth of the store. The empty store. I take the long way back to the counter, looking down every aisle. There's no one in here but me. Back behind the counter, I peer around, still clutching the bat in one hand. The parking lot is as empty as the gas pumps. It was like this when I got robbed, when I killed those two men. The lights to the entire station shut off with a snap, panic tightening my throat.

I reach for my phone on the counter beside the register, but I don't feel it. The nearest streetlight is too distant to be much good, so I grope around in the dark, feeling for my phone. The realization that it's gone comes much too slowly, because I'm still searching when I hear the beer cooler door open. Instinctively, I whip my head that way, but I can't see it. see anything. The store is dark, and my eyes haven't adjusted yet. Baseball bats still in my hand, I move from behind the counter, which means I have to go closer to the cooler door before I can proceed toward the front doors. The darkness seems to move like a living thing in front of me

as I round the counter. I can't tell if someone is there, or if it's my mind making demons out of the dark. I imagine the two dead men standing right in front of me, a foot away, waiting for me to bump into them. Instead, I bump into a candy display, knocking it to the floor. The sound of it scares me, and I run for the front doors, using the little light from the distant street lamp as a guide. I crash into the right-hand door, smacking my head into the glass when it only opens a couple of inches.

Darkness looms at my back, and I know dead hands are reaching out, only moments away from clutching me, tearing me apart. With a frightened grunt, I shove the door again with my free hand, Same result. So, I switched to the left-hand door and push. It doesn't open. There's something stopping them from opening. And as I peer through the glass, my vision finally adjusting slightly. I see that a couple of thick zip ties had been fastened around the two handles, preventing the doors from opening. There's a back exit, but it's all the way across the pitch-dark store. And there's something behind me. I can feel it. I can hear it breathing. It's one of them. As I spin around, putting my back to the door, I raise the bat. But before I can get it all the way up, a dark form reaches out and rips it out of my hands. I hear its metallic clatter as it's thrown across the store.

Two human-shaped forms coalesce out of the surrounding darkness. Two men wearing black masks and black clothes. But it can't be them, can it? One of the men I shot was wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. The other wore a baggy hoodie and sweatpants. The guns weren't even loaded, one of the dark shapes says, voice heavy with anger. voice heavy with anger. The one who spoke steps closer, grabbing me by one shoulder and punching me in the stomach. It takes me a moment to realize it wasn't really a punch. The tremendous tearing

pain that radiates from the wound is my biggest clue. The man digs the knife deeper as he leans toward me. Breath, stinking of beer and cigarettes. My brother had a kid, he whispers. Now that kid will grow up without a dad, and the guns weren't even fucking loaded. Despite the pain, A sudden rush of knowledge comes to me, a rush of memory from the robbery. In all the nightmares I've had since, I've only felt fear. The kind of bladder loosening, screech-inducing fear most people never experience in their lifetime. But now I remember that I felt something else, just before I pulled my gun out of its little cubby under the register and shot those two guys. All the fear I've experienced in my nightmares since then seems to have dulled the memory,

making me forget just how I felt in those moments. But now I remember, with perfect clarity, I recall how much rage I felt. I recall how it all swirled together with the fear, which only seemed to make me even angrier. I remember because that rage comes back now. The immense, breathtaking pain of the stab wound feeds it. The two sensations eclipsing my terror now

that I know these aren't apparitions come to haunt me, to drag me to hell. Just as the rage builds to an eruption, car headlights sweep across the door glass as a vehicle pulls into the gas station. I feel the man's hesitation as his grip on my shoulder loosens, and the knife eases out of me just a little bit. I see the sudden alarm on the other man's face through the eye holes of his mask, fear of getting caught. But he has something to fear more right now. Me. My terror disappears completely at the perfect moment, like water down a drain.

I knocked the man's arm off my shoulder and whip my head forward, the curve of my forehead crashing into the bridge of the man's nose. With a grim sense of pride, I feel his nose shatter under the hard arc of my skull. Grunting in pain, he stumbles back, pulling the knife out of my stomach. More pain, more anger, the cycle continues. I lunge at the second man, hands coming down, fingers, stabbing at eyes. He bats my left hand away with the painful swing of the small crowbar he holds. but my right hand reaches its target, and I feel my middle finger sink into his left eyeball,

pushing it out of the way as it travels into the wet warmth of his socket. As he pulls back, I turn to the first man just in time to see him swipe at me with a knife. I get my arm up, and the blade opens a gash across the underside of my forearm, but I hardly feel it. Before he can attack again, I grab his wrist with one hand and his throat with the other, forcing him backward with all the fury blazing in me. As we pick up speed down the aisle, the second man screams behind me, and I know he won't attack just yet. I shove the first man backward, slamming him against the glass door of a cooler filled with bottled water and sports drinks.

The glass shatters as he goes through, and I force him to sit on the jagged shards sticking up out of the frame. Now it's his turn to scream as the glass tears into the backs of his upper thighs. A shard from the top of the frame falls and slices a gash in my wrist, only increasing my wrist. only increasing my rage. I ripped the man's knife away and slam it as hard as I can into his ear. It sinks to the hilt, and the man stops screaming. Whipping around, I hear the second man stumble toward the back exit.

I chase after him, vaguely aware that there is still a glow from headlights outside illuminating the store. A voice outside talks hurriedly to someone, but I can't be bothered to parse what they're saying. The second man trips over the mop bucket I was in the middle of preparing earlier. He goes down, and I'm upon him immediately, yanking the crowbar out of his hand and hammering it into the back of his head. I'd pommel him until the black mask he wears more closely resembles a bag of shattered pottery than a mask with a head inside. Bits of skull crunch and pulverized brain squelch as I hit him one last time.

As my anger fades, so does my energy. Both of them replaced by pain and a lightheaded weariness that can only come from blood loss. I struggle to my feet, dropping the bloodied crowbar as I stumbled toward the front doors, not thinking clearly. You okay? A man's slightly muffled voice says, he sounds frightened. I look up and see the silhouette of a man standing outside the front doors. The headlights of what must be his car shine into the store, preventing me from making

out his features. He has one hand up to the side of his head, like he's holding his ear. Did he get attacked too? There's one guy in there still moving around. I recognize him. He's the night shift guy. With the man's words, I suddenly realize that he's talking on the phone. Help is on the way.

The man says, now clearly talking to me. Cops and an ambulance are coming. He tugs on the doors, but the zip ties are still in place. I might have something to cut these with. Just hang in there, man. I'll be right back. I've made it to the register where customers stand to get checked out, but I'm fading fast.

I don't even have the energy to tell the guy about the back door before he's hustling back to his car. My legs feel like they're filled with molten metal. My arms, like they're filled with ice. I sit down heavily, clutching the fiery wound in my abdomen, wondering if he hit anything important with the blade. Sitting against the counter, I tilt my head back and close my eyes, trying to keep it together now that the violence is done and my adrenaline is fading. A sliding, slithering sound prompts me to open my eyes again. A gasp and try to press myself back through the counter when I see the four men arrayed before me.

The four men whose lives I've taken. They stand in a shallow arc around me. Their gruesome injuries glaringly obvious in the illumination from the car's headlights. One of them has a knife sticking out of his ear. Another has a bullet hole through his throat. Another has a misshapen head that sags around his neck and his mask like a shattered glass bottle in a paper bag. The fourth one has several bullet holes in his chest. Before I can so much as take another breath, they attack me.

Two of them go for my neck and start choking the life out of me. Their hands fighting each other for purchase. The other two go for my eyes. If I had the air to scream, I would. The fighting hands strangle me as I kicked my legs and flail my arms to no avail. I slam my eyes shut, but I feel hard, sharp fingers tearing at them. I will the rage to come back, but I'm so drained. Only a tiny spark of anger flares briefly to life.

It's no match for my attackers. The pain and the panic take hold as I run out of oxygen. A finger tears through my right eyelid and gouges my eye out. The pain is like nothing I could have imagined. A distant voice comes to me from outside the front doors. Sorry, I couldn't find anything to... He stops, clearly in shock at what he's seeing. Four dead men, killing me.

But then he starts shouting. Hey, stop that. Stop! What the hell are you doing, man? Stop it! I hear him yanking on the doors, trying to break in. Apparently, he's still on the phone with 911, because the next words he speaks aren't directed at me,

although his voice is still soaked in fear. I don't know. He's choking himself, and he's gouged his own eyeball out. He's going for the other one, but I can't get in there. The fucking zip ties. He's going to kill himself. Despite the fingers trying to get at my one remaining eye, I can't help but look.

When I do, I only get a brief glimpse of the four men I killed before my remaining eye is torn out of its socket. They're the last sight I see before death rips me away. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart. maybe browse a little more than head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet.

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at Shopify.com slash DNS. Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com slash DNS. Story 2. Night at the morgue. The coffee machine sputters in the adjacent office, alerting me to a fresh pot that's finished brewing. I'm just putting the finishing touches on the latest case, which entails washing the body before it goes into its assigned cabinet in the cooler.

This particular case is of a man who died during surgery upstairs in the hospital, which is why we had to do an autopsy. Some nights, we only have a couple of bodies. But tonight will be a very long shift. We're backed up from a sudden influx. It happens sometimes with no rhyme or reason. Dr. Larson, the forensic pathologist I work with, has gone out to get a late dinner before coming back to finish the shift.

I still have to prepare the next body, but I've worked with Lloyd Larson for years, so I know he'll be gone long enough for me to enjoy a cup of coffee before I open up the next body. As an autopsy technician, I do the grunt work, while most of Dr. Larson's day is spent writing reports or talking to law enforcement. Honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way. I couldn't bear sitting at a desk for half the day. Once I get the cleaned body into its assigned drawer in the cooler,

I remove all my safety gear, wash my hands, and head into the office section of the morgue, where we have a small kitchenette on one side of the room. Just as I'm pouring my own side of the room, Just as I'm pouring my coffee into my cup, a buzz sounds from the intake door. I stop pouring and drop my head, closing my eyes. Not another one. Sighing, I put the pot and cup down, and then head through the autopsy suite to the door that leads to the private garage.

There's a screen fixed to the wall there, which shows the camera feed from outside the garage. An ambulance is backed up to the closed bay door, and two cops stand next to it. I watch as one of them leans on the buzzer. Please let this not be a rush job, I say to the ceiling. I want to see my wife at some point in the next 12 hours. Pushing through the wide double doors and into the garage, I head to the button and open the roll-up garage door. The two cops step inside, looking at me and then glancing around the garage.

They're both in uniform. One of them is older, sporting the obligatory mustache and potbelly. The other one is in his mid-20s and clean-shaven. He must be new, because he still hasn't developed that cop expression of someone suffering from severe constipation. Must be a special one, I say to the two cops. It's not every day I see a body come in with a police escort. You the only one here?

The mustachioed cop asks. His nameplate says Brogan. The younger one says Clopec. The doctor is out for a bite to eat. No one in the waiting room. I shake my head. Nope, not at this hour. Brogan takes one last look around the small garage and then nods.

He turns to the ambulance and shouts, Back it in! I can handle it from here, I tell Brogan and Clopeck. Once the bag-shrouted body has been transferred from the ambulance's gurney to mine. The two paramedics have already left, and now I'm waiting for the cops to leave so I can enjoy my coffee. It's only halfway through the shift, but I'm already dragging. We're staying, Brogan says, looking more constipated than ever.

I look at the black body bag on the gurney, curiosity growing. So what's the deal? Was this a mafia guy or something? A big case? Brogan's mustache bristles like a porcupine's quills as he looks disapprovingly at me. Just put it in storage. Someone will be here to pick it up in a couple of hours. We're staying until then. His reticence only grows my curiosity.

I've never had anything. like this happened before in all my years working with the dead. Clopec hangs back, not saying a word. He peers around like a kid at the zoo. I shrug. You're the boss, boss. As I pushed the gurney through the autopsy suite and into the cooler, Brogan follows me. Silently, I curse.

I was hoping to get a look at the body before I could put it in a cabinet. Not yet, I guess. Brogan helps me get the body onto the slide-out cabinet. shelf. It's not very heavy and not very bulky. In an age where most people are heavy and bulky, it's a bit of an oddity itself. Once we get the cabinet door closed, I leave the gurney and head out. As I get to the door, I notice Brogan isn't following me. I look back at him. He says, You got a chair I can bring in here. You're going to stay in here? It's like 40 degrees. We have a perfectly good waiting room. Or hell, you can sit outside the

the cooler door if you want. Brogan considers this for a moment and then nods. Yeah, okay. We both head out. Five minutes later, the two officers are sitting outside the cooler door, and they each have a cup of steaming coffee in hand. The only thing missing is donuts. I must admit, I'm jealous of their coffee. I should have poured myself a cup, but I wanted to get them settled so Brogan would stop following me around, looking constipated. Okay, all All comfy? I say. Great. I got to get the body for my next case. I'll be right back. As I open the cooler door, Brogan grabs my wrist. I look down at him, knowing what's coming. Leave that body alone, you got me. You don't have to tell me twice, but you can come in with me if you want.

I give him my best, trust me, bro, smile. Brogan's mustache bristles. He looks down at his coffee and then back up at me. No, I think you're smarter than that. You don't want to be arrested tonight, do you? No, sir. He lets go of my wrist. I head into the cooler and straight for the cabinet containing the mystery body. Being as quiet as I can, I open the cabinet and pull the shelf out halfway. Then I unzip the bag enough to see the upper half of the body.

My mouth drops open, and my eyebrows shoot up. What the hell? It's a man's body, and he's naked, at least from the belly button up, which is all I can see. There are strange markings carved and burned into every visible inch of his body, including his face and his bald scalp. Even his ears have strange and elaborate carvings inside and out. Many are clearly old, modeled with scar tissue. Others, like the ones on the top of his head, look extremely fresh, like they would be bleeding if he was still alive.

Unable to help myself, I pull the shelf out all the way and unzip the bag to its limit. His entire body has these markings on it, including his generals. A chill sweeps across me, and not just from the cooler. The fact that someone would do that to themselves gives me the creeps. I suddenly regret looking at the body. As I'm pulling the zipper back up, the lights shut off, plunging me into darkness. I can hear the two officers speaking hurriedly to each other, which must mean the lights out there are off too.

I've paused in zipping the bag up, and the knuckles of my gloved right hand, just above the man's stomach as I blink in the darkness, completely blind. Something pushes up from the dead man's stomach, pressing his skin against my knuckles. Crying out in fear, I yank my hand away and backpedal, bumping into the gurney I brought in earlier. Scrambling around the gurney, I find my way to the cooler door and shove it open, getting a flashlight beam to the face as I step out. I raise a hand to block the beam, able to make out Brogan holding the flashlight. Where's the breaker box?

I don't know, I say. We have maintenance guys to do that kind of stuff. Behind Brogan, the younger cop, Kloepek, shines his flashlight around the autopsy suite. Did you hear that? He asks, pointing the light at the door to the waiting area, which is only accessible by an interior hospital hallway. Brogan turns to shine the light that way. What? Something in there, a noise.

I've already convinced myself that I imagined something pushing up from the dead man's stomach. But a ghost of the sensation lingers on my gloved hand. I must have pressed my fingers down into his flesh without knowing I was doing it. Let's check it out. Brogan says, drawing his gun. He turns to me while keeping his flashlight shining on the door. Don't move. Stay right there. I stare at his pistol.

What's going on? Just stay here and don't move. As Brogan walks away, he uses his flashlight hand to press the transmit button on the radio, clipped to his left shoulder. He requests backup, but as he waits for an answer, there's only static. He tries again. Same thing. Shit, he says, turning to me again. Call 911. As I reach into my pocket, Brogan and Clopec moved to the door.

A cool sensation on my back reminds me I didn't close the door to the cooler. Pulling out my phone and turning around, I press my thumb to the sensor on the screen. But it doesn't unlock, because I still have my gloves on. A shuffling sound from inside the cooler tightens the skin on the back of my neck. With the flashlights on the other side of the autopsy suite, I can't see inside the cavernous cooler. Holding my phone out, I press the side button, awakening the device and casting weak blue light into the cooler and onto the carved up face of the man standing just inside the cooler door. His eyes, white with swirls of red, stare at me.

I jerk, an involuntary spasm from sheer terror. I dropped my phone and used both hands to slam the door on the man. At the exact same time, after some whistle, The two cops rush into the waiting room with guns drawn. Spinning around, I shout gibberish, trying to tell them what I've just seen, but it's too late. I'm just in time to see through the open door as Klopek's flashlight falls on a man with a horribly disfigured and impossibly white face. This man, wearing tight-fitting black clothes and holding a strange weapon in one hand, lurches at the young police officer. The officer shouts and fires on him, but as he does, his flashlight travels farther into the room to reveal

three more identical men, all share the same disfigured white faces, and all with the same strange bladed weapons. Brogan, who went into the room right after Clopec, also fires his weapon. The flashlights whip around chaotically as the two officers fire. One of the figures tackles Clopec to the floor, and the cop's flashlight goes out. Now, there's only the light from Brogan's, which is deeper in the room. The firing stops, and Brogan walks backward out of the room. still pointing his gun and flashlight. I get another glimpse of Clopec, lying on the floor with his back to me,

a pool of blood expanding around him. There's no sign of the figure who attacked him. I move over to Brogan, thinking only of us getting out of here. But as I reach him and come around to his front, I see that he has been slashed to ribbons. Intestines hang from a gash in his stomach. He looks at me, a world of pain on his face, before collapsing to the floor.

The flashlight still in his hand shines toward the waiting room. Movement in the doorway catches my attention, and I turn as two of those figures lurched toward me. Now that they're closer, I can see that their faces aren't faces at all. They're wearing plastic white masks that look to have been melted onto them. I can see nasty burns where the torch, or whatever was used, was left on too long and melted the plastic away to burn the skin. I can also see that the weapons they carry are like,

brass knuckles, but with three five-inch blades sticking out from the front. Reaching down, I grabbed Brogan's gun out of his hand and pointed at them, only realizing after I pulled the trigger that the gun is empty. Dropping the pistol, I back away from the approaching figures, thinking of darting through the office and up into the hospital. Surely the security guards heard the shots. Surely they're coming. But I doubt they'll get here before I'm dead. Then cold, steel-hard fingers gripped the back of my neck, and the The smell of fresh death fills my nostrils. I turn and look into the mangled face of the dead man from the cooler.

One of the figures pushes me toward the carved man lying on the autopsy table. Two others, who came in after the skirmish with the two police officers, hold flashlights on the dead man. The fourth man has just finished dragging Brogan nearby and sprinkling some of his blood on the carved man. I watched the blood disappear into the carvings, soaking it up like a sponge. I also noticed, while the carved man had hold of me and the other four were busy barricading doors, that two of their members were dead in the waiting room.

Clopeck and Brogan had killed them, but they don't seem to care at all. In fact, they haven't spoken to each other or to me since they've come in here. Again, the man shoves me toward the occupied autopsy table. The first words I hear any of them speak come out in a sickly whisper. Open them up, carefully. The carved man's eyes, which don't have irises or pupils, stare up at me as I reach for a scalpel to begin the incision. The speaker, standing next to me, is holding his three-blade weapon near my neck. As I place the scalpel just under the carved man's ribs and get ready to cut, a bulge comes up from the man's stomach.

The speaker says, I wait. The bulge disappears. What is it? I ask, still staring at the area where the bulge was. salvation. As I make the initial incision, someone bangs on the door to the main office. A distant voice shouts. Hey, Rick, you in there?

I recognize that voice. It's one of the night shift security guards, a guy named Gerard. The sharp tips of the speaker's blades touch the side of my neck. Don't say anything. It's clear that Gerard has someone else with him because he's talking, but the words are too muffled to hear what's being said. Maybe another security guard or maybe a cop. As part of the security team, Gerard has a skeleton key that can open any door.

But that's why these people barricaded every entrance. Gerard and whoever he's with start slamming into the door, trying to get it open. The speaker hisses. These people didn't hesitate to kill two cops, and they didn't blink as two of their own died in the process. I can't imagine what's going on here. Looking down at the carved man who should be dead, I feel my world view cracking. He blinks up at me with those white-red eyes, waiting for me to open him up. My eyes dart to my right, at the metal cabinet for storing and dispensing from aldehyde.

Since the chemical is highly flammable and carcinogenic, the cabinet is locked. I have the keys in my pocket, but there's no way these people will give me the time I need to open it up. My eyes fix on this singular window that allows us to see how much formaldehyde is left in the large plastic storage tank. I said hurry. The speaker rasps, this time pressing the blades into my neck hard enough to break the skin. Okay! The banging grows more insistent. It sounds like Gerard is making progress.

I slice open the flesh of the carved man's abdomen, careful not to cut too deep as I work my way down toward his navel. I'm surprised my hand doesn't shake. Maybe because I've done this a thousand times, just not under these circumstances. I cut around the navel and continue down to the pelvic area and then stop, the speaker says. I do what he tells me, and he shifts as well, still keeping the blades to my neck, but not with as much force. One of the face-melted guys holding a flashlight hands his light off and steps up to the carved man's body. He looks up at the speaker who nods and says,

You have earned it. I still haven't seen anything come out of the incision, and I've been watching, heart going like a bass drum at a metal concert. Lucurum sticks his hand inside the carved man's body. A moment later, the man spasms and cries out in pain, clearly trying to jerk his arm out. It doesn't come.

Blood spews out from the incision, splattering all of us. I turn my head away, quickly realizing this is my best chance. Vision blurred by the blood. I lurch away from the blades and toward the formaldehyde cabinet, relying on years of muscle memory to get there, despite my obscured vision. All hell breaks loose now. Lucurum is screaming. The speaker is shouting.

Gerard's voice grows closer. It seems he made it through the door. I bring my elbow up and smash it into the sole window into the metal cabinet. The glass bows inward, spider webbing, but it doesn't break. As I bring my elbow back for another blow, a sharp pain erupts on the left side of my back. Several gunshots sound, and I turned my head to see the speaker falling to the floor with a bullet hole in his head, dragging his weapon down my back, now weakly. Although Lekorum is preoccupied with whatever the hell is happening to him,

the two other melted-faced man rushed Gerard and the other security guard. For a moment, I think everything is going to be okay. But then I get a better look at Likoram. Someone dropped a flashlight, and now it illuminates the man from behind. But he no longer looks like a man. Blood has stopped spewing out of the incision in the carved man's abdomen. Now, it appears as though millions of flies swarm out, covering Lecorum from head to toe. Only they're not really flies.

They have too many legs, and their heads are too bulbous, and they seem to melt into each other as they collect on Lecoram's body. Then something else, something larger, scurries out of the incision and up Lecoorum's arm. Clouds of insects roil up as the black thing, about the size of a crab, moves, swiftly up the limb. I can't get a good look at it, but the way it moves and its aberrant shape makes me want to scream. As the thing forces its way into Lecoram's mouth, snapping the ligaments of his jaw and ripping his skin in the process, I turned back to the formaldehyde cabinet and smash the window in with my elbow. Reaching my hand through, I yank the large plastic container out, severing the pump hose. Some of the stuff splashes me, but I can't worry about that

right now. Container in hand, I douse Lakurum and the carved man. The insects, if that's what they are, erupt and start attacking me. The biting hurts more than the three gashes down my back. Unable to take it anymore, I tossed the container at Lakoram and turn to run. I see that Gerard and the other security guard, Lawrence, have shot and killed the other two men. Lighter! I scream at them, hoping one of them carries flame on them. Lawrence pulls a zippo out and hands it to me. Run! I tell them as I flip it open. and ignite the flame. My arm immediately catches fire from the formaldehyde, but I expected it to happen.

I throw the lighter, and it lands on the carved man's body. A whoosh sounds as flames erupt and quickly engulf both bodies. The insect's frenzy, flying around the fire as if trying to help. With flames engulfing my arm and licking up toward my face, I turn and run, hoping I've done enough. I see that Gerard and Lawrence have waited for me, and we all run together. As we go, I pull my lab coat off and toss it down, thankful that it was the only thing on fire. We make it out to the hallway, but we don't stop there. We keep going until we're outside the hospital. The fire alarm starts buzzing soon after, and that's when I remember the fire suppression system. The sprinklers that will douse the fire. Lawrence Gerard and I share a look, and then turn our frightened gazes back

to the hospital. A dark figure appears in the hallway we just ran through. A cloud of insects buzzes around it. It's much larger than Lecoram was, maybe ten feet tall now, and only humanoid in the broadest sense. I think we should run, Gerard says. I don't get paid enough for something like this. Me neither, I say. No. Lawrence quips.

Once more, we all share a look. I nod at them in thanks. Then we all run in opposite directions, headed for our cars. As I screech out of the parking lot, I see emergency vehicles approaching, sirens screaming, and lights blaring, following along or six black, unmarked SUVs. The cavalry has arrived. I've done my part. I sigh and leaned back in my seat, wincing as the gashes touched the seat back. I know I need stitches. Looks like I'm going to another hospital. Shit. Then I look on the bright side. At least they'll have coffee.

43. Abduction. The image I've been staring at on the screen for the last hour shows two figures, One small and one large. The large one is a man. The small one is a little girl. Her name is April, according to her parents. We don't know the man's name. The cops simply called him the suspect or the perp. Maybe if we could see his face.

The image is a still taken from the security footage. It only shows the man's back. He wears slightly oversized clothes, but otherwise there's nothing unique about them. jeans, a turquoise long-sleeve-collared shirt, well-used black sneakers. His hair is brown and just this side of shaggy, but he covers most of it with a black baseball cap. On the front of the cap is a white Adidas logo, faded with age. He has a beard, also brown. Like his hair, it's approaching unkempt, but it's not quite there. The cops seem to think he scoped the mall first, because every time he approached a camera, he tilted his head down to obscure his

face with the brim of his cap. And of course, he disappeared with April in one of two blind spots in the entire mall. In the image on my computer screen, April and the man are holding hands as they pass a high-end clothing store. While the man is facing forward, away from the camera, the girl is looking over her shoulder. Her expression is of confusion and terror. She doesn't seem to be crying, but I imagine she's looking for her parents, or for anyone who could help her. The look on the nine-year-old's face is like a corkscrew to my guts. I had only just come on shift when the parents came to us, saying their daughter was missing, but I still feel responsible,

like I should have stopped it. It's my job as security to make sure things like this don't happen. April wears a pink and white dress that's too fancy for a mall visit. When her parents, her distraught parents, visited the security office earlier, her mother told us and the police how April had begged to wear the dress and how they didn't see any harm in it. She was crying when she told us, and that was even before we reviewed the security footage and found the man.

That was hours ago now. We immediately issued a code Adam to let all the store employees know about the missing girl. After we did a search, including all of the same. restrooms, employee areas, and every store. We had people at the exits, although by then, the man had plenty of time to take her out of the mall. We called the police, who arrived soon after to take over. By all accounts, I should be happy that it's in their hands now. Don't let it get to you, Valen says, slapping me gently on the shoulder from behind. The police will find her. I pull my eyes from the computer screen and turn in my office chair to look up at the head of

security. The mall has been closed for three hours, and I'm the only night shift security guard. But Valence stayed behind to help me look for anything we might have missed. Now, he's headed home for the night. He sees the look on my face and leans in. Listen, if you want to go over everything again, be my guest. But don't forget to do your rounds, okay? I nod. Yeah, okay. Thanks. If you find anything, call me after you call that detective, okay? We'll do. Valence takes the radio from his belt and puts it into the charging dock at one side of the long desk and the cramped security office. Okay, I'm out. See you in the morning. As soon as he leaves, I turn back to the image on the screen. There are eight other screens arrayed before me, and on one of them, I see Valence step out onto the mall floor next to the dark food court.

He strides along, doing his usual last round before he leaves. I turned back to the image and drill my eyes into the back of the man's head, as if that will bring me any clues about who he is and where he may have taken April. We deal with plenty of everyday issues at this mall, mostly petty theft perpetrated by both customers and employees. I can't count how many times I've escorted retail or food workers out of the building after they've been fired for stealing. Almost all deny it, of course. What else would they do? I don't like it. doing it, but it's part of the job. I would give anything to be dealing with theft right now instead of this. I've always dreaded dealing with a missing child in the mall. Movement draws my attention again,

and I look up to see Valance approaching the blind spot, where we lost April and the man in the recorded video footage. Why the hell don't you have a camera there? The responding officer asked earlier as we showed in the footage. We do, Valence said, but it keeps failing, and it's not the only one. I'm guessing it's an electrical issue. This is an old mall. I've requested an electrician to look at the system, but management has yet to approve it. Jesus Christ, the officer said, disgusted.

Parents might want to sue the goddamn place when it all is said and done. Considering the parents were in the office with us when he said it, I took this as a not-so-subtle suggestion that they should. Not that I cared. Management and security were in a constant battle for resources so we could do our jobs properly. On one screen, Valence slows as he passes the closed clothing store. There's a set of bathrooms in that blind spot,

along with an employee's only door that leads to the corridors behind the stores and that wing of the mall. Our guess is the man took her that way and left through a delivery door. Soon enough, Valence is lost from sight in the blind spot. I turned my attention back to the still image, this time looking at April's face, twisted by fear. I clench my teeth in anger. What I would do to that man if I found him.

Not for the first time. I wish we were allowed to carry guns instead of these tasers. My phone chimes on the desk, and I look at the text. It's from Valance. Heard something. Get down here. Snatching the phone, I rush out of the office. Within minutes, I'm passing the clothing store, heading for the hallway to the bathrooms.

I turned down the long hallway, ending in metal double doors marked employees only. balance, I whisper. There's no answer. I bring my phone up and call my boss. After a moment, it rings, and I can hear it, not only through my phone's speaker, but also from somewhere down the hall, behind the double doors.

I start forward, expecting him to pick up the phone, but he doesn't. I stop on this side of the metal doors as the phone goes to voicemail. Tension and fear creates knots in my intestines as I pocket my phone and pull out my taser. After taking a deep breath, I pushed through the doors and into the utilitarian employee's only area.

Valence's phone lies on the floor, no sign of the man. The hallway runs for 10 yards and then splits at a T intersection to run left and right behind all the stores in this wing. Pipes and encased wires run along the hallway ceiling. The lighting comes from evenly spaced fluorescent bulbs. I'm walking slowly toward the T intersection, with my taser gun held up like a pistol when I hear Valence scream. The sound freezes me, and I remain unmoving as it ends abruptly. A dozen options screamed through my mind, but chief among them is running back to the security office and calling the police, even if that means Valence dies.

The sound of glass shattering jerks me to my senses, and I turn to run away, but then I hear the scream of a little girl. Shame burns my cheeks as I turn and race to the intersection. I turn right as the little girl screams again. It has to be April. Anything else would be too much of a coincidence. The long hallway stretches away from me until darkness swallows it. I can't see April or Valance, and I soon realize why. Glass shatters again as a distant fluorescent bulb is broken,

bringing the darkness that much closer to me. Then the next one in line shatters. Whoever's breaking them is doing it from the darkness somehow. Valence? I shout. Help! April screams from that distant darkness. Her voice is like a line tugging me down the hall.

I run, Taser held in front of me, hoping I can get within 25 feet of the man so I can incapacitate him with the weapon. As I run, I reach to my belt and pull out my small flashlight. No more lights have been broken, and I can hear footsteps running away from me between cries for help from April. I have him on the run.

I'm almost to the dark portion of the hallway when I get the flashlight up and turned on, illuminating someone on the floor. Valance. I stopped running, too engulfed in what has happened to my boss. He's lying face up on the floor, eyes open but glazed over in death. There's a large wound in his abdomen, just below where his ribs come together. His dark uniform shirt is soaked in blood. April's next scream reminds me of what I'm doing.

I shine my flashlight down the pitch dark hall, illuminating a man's grinning face about 15 yards away. His hat has been turned backwards, and he's now wearing black clothes. But there's no doubt it's the man from the footage. He has one arm up and back, holding something. While I'm still processing the shock of seeing him there, he thrust his arm forward, throwing something at me. I tried jerking out of the way, but the homemade spear catches me in the right forearm, opening up a gash there as it careens off into the dark.

The jolt makes me drop the taser gun, and I stumbled back, but I keep hold of the flashlight. When I shine it down the hall again, the man is closing in. Fear ignites in my chest when I see he has something in his hand. All at once, I realize what weapon he's wielding. It's one half of a pair of straight blade head shears. The other half is on the tip of the spear, fastened to a broomstick. He launches himself at me, swinging the shear at my right thigh.

It connects with the phone in my pocket, and I realize that's exactly what he was aiming for. I dodge back as he swings again, and the blade misses me by an inch or two. I spot the spear lying on the floor. As he comes for me again, I throw my flashlight at his face, buying myself a few moments. I turn and rush at the spear, stumbling as I reach down to pick it up. I fall to the floor, grabbing the weapon in the process. Sitting on the floor, I twist around, lift the makeshift spear, and throw it at the man. But he's already retreating down the dark hallway.

April screams louder from the darkness ahead, presumably because the man has reached her. Then her screams fade away, as if he's running with her. But there's something strange about how the screams change abruptly. I can't put my finger on it. Afraid I'll lose them, I get to my feet, grab the flashlight from the floor, and pull out my phone. The screen is smashed. It's unusable. Discarding the useless device, I search for the taser, not seeing it anywhere. I'm wasting time.

I run down the hall, only slowing to pick up the spear. Before I've taken four more running steps, April's cries go silent, and not because she's too far away. I fear the worst as I pass doors on my right leading to stores. Then I come to an open door on the left. which leads into a maintenance room containing electrical conduit and a massive breaker box. Shining the light inside the room, I wonder why the door is open. One thing I do during my nightly rounds is make sure the door is locked. It should remain locked unless there's a problem with the power.

I think about how April's screams changed quickly after the man ran away, as if they had turned out of this hallway. But they're clearly not in the maintenance room. It's tiny, and I can see most of it from out here in the hall. He's been in the mall the whole time, I think. Hiding, but where? Stepping into the room to take a closer look, I immediately notice something strange.

Unlike the hallway, which is purely concrete, this room has drywall panels on four of its walls, and one panel in a small stretch of blank wall isn't flush with the others. With the fingers of my flashlight hand, I touch the lip of the drywall that's visible and try to move it. The whole panel swings open on hinges, revealing a small doorway with darkness beyond. Stepping back on instinct, I lift the spear, ready to jab,

and shine the light through the small doorway. There's a stairwell leading down to what must be a basement. Some offhand remarks from long ago come back to me, spoken either by Valance or an old-timer named Brisco, who worked security when I first started. Maybe they both mentioned something about this. Apparently, there used to be a basement under the first floor with all the electrical wire and plumbing. Then they built the second floor, moved everything

into the maintenance hallways, and sealed the basement off. Some even said it's haunted. I had always assumed it was a joke, a way to mess with the new guy, but there's no denying what's right in front of me. Switching the spear to my right hand and the flashlight to my left, I head down the stairs. My breathing and the blood dripping from my arm are the only sounds in the cramped concrete hallway, the bottom of the stairs. The smell down here, the smell down here, here is rancid, and bile climbs up my throat. Old electrical wiring and pipes stretch out overhead, along with caged lights that are dark from no electricity. But what really draws my attention are the images scrawled on the walls in colorful chalk. They're childlike drawings of green hills

and blue skies and shining suns. As I move slowly, spear held over my right shoulder. I pick shapes out of the darkness ahead. The first shape turns out to be a metal dog crate, empty, except for a ratty blanket and a bucket that contains human waste. The stench triggers my gag reflex, and I swallow hard to keep myself from vomiting. The next shape, much smaller, is hanging from a rope attached to an overhead pipe. At first, I don't know what it is. It's only when I'm within a few feet of it that I realize it's a human arm, severed at the elbow. The limb is black with rot, and a discolored patch of concrete directly below indicates that it was hung here long ago

while it was still bleeding. What the fuck? I whisper, sickened. It's impossible to tell what kind of person the limb might have once belonged to, but it's not small enough to be a child's arm. Then again, it's not large enough to belong to a full-grown man. The only options that remain include a woman or a teenager. Next, I come upon a couple of makeshift shelves containing food items and gallons of water.

There's a camp stove nearby, along with a mess kit, designed. for camping. Someone's been living down here. Memories rushed to mind. The one other kid who went missing at the mall. The stories of missing merchandise from stores or food supplies from eateries. Maybe it wasn't the employees stealing. Maybe it was the person living down here. Up ahead, the hallway turns, presumably to follow the line of stores overhead. I slow as I approach the corner. I hold my breath and listen to make sure the man isn't waiting for me around the bend. When I'm sure, I pivot around, shining the flashlight down the hall and onto a figure that lurches toward me, suddenly snarling.

I don't think. I just throw the spear as hard as I can. The straight metal spear catches the figure in the throat, but it's too heavy to remain inside, so it tumbles out of the wound. The figure stumbles back, the injury spewing blood. I get a good look at my attacker, and again, my gag reflex activates, but not because of a smell this time. The person that stumbles away from me and falls to the floor is a young man of 18 or 19. His hair is shaggy, and he has a patchy beard that looks like it has never been trimmed.

He wears only a pair of ragged shorts, and he's missing one arm at the elbow. The nub a nasty collection of scar tissue. As I look on in horror, I do the math. The kid who last went missing at this mall, before my time, was 10-year-old Joshua Baxter. That was almost nine years ago. They never found him. I'm so fixated on the dying teenager, so consumed with regret, that I don't see the bearded man coming at me until it's too late. He appears suddenly in my flashlight's illumination just beyond the gasping, bleeding teenage boy.

My eyes flick up as he throws the garden shear blade at my face. I whip my left hand up to block the incoming blade. The shear crashes into my hand, ripping open the flesh, and breaking at least one finger before it tumbles over and strikes me above my left eye. My vision goes immediately black in that eye. I stumble back, suddenly lost in pain and fear. The bearded man leaps over the teenager and grabs the spear from the floor as he comes for me. Somewhere deep inside, I realize with an incongruent nonchalance that I'm about to be killed, unless I can stop him.

That same realization brings with it the fact that I only have one chance to get this right. My left hand is all but useless, and I can't see out of my left eye. warm liquid streams down my face. If I don't stop him now, he'll stop me. And then what will happen to April? Will she become like Joshua, doomed to live in a cage and have an arm lopped off for God knows what reason? Or will he just kill her now that his hideout has been compromised?

The latter seems preferable to the former. Or how about neither? I say to myself. How about you do your job and stop him once and for all? The man runs toward me, thrusting the spear at my chest, like I'm sure he did to balance upstairs. It takes a massive effort to bypass my instinct for self-preservation as I reach my left hand toward the blade,

grabbing it and trying to shove it aside. It almost works. Instead of stabbing me just under the ribs, I move the sphere enough so that it gouges into my side and careens off my rib cage. With my already mangled left hand, I grip the blade as hard as I can and twist it, pivoting toward the man, leading with my flashlight.

The head of the flashlight catches him on the right, right temple hard enough to break the device, plunging us into darkness. The man still has hold of the spear, and I try to yank it out of his hands as I drop the flashlight. He doesn't let it go, so I grab him by the shirt and pull him toward me, using the only weapon I have left at the moment. My mouth. My teeth clamp onto his nose, and I bite down as hard as I can. He cries out, and finally let's go of the spear. I let it go too, and it drops to the floor. Blood fills my mouth as I bite into his nose, but he gets his hands up on. around my throat and squeezes while simultaneously trying to pull away for me.

Together, like two sickly passionate lovers, we stumbled backward and trip over the now-dead teenage boy. We go down, him hitting the floor and me landing on top of him. The impact breaks several of my teeth, making me lose my grip on his nose, but he still has me by the throat. Gasping rancid breath in my face, he throttles me. I reach my left mingled hand up and shove it into his mouth, pain erupting from the broken fingers and gashes. He bites down hard. I would shout if I had any oxygen. Despite being blind, a dark tunnel closes in on me as he chokes me toward unconsciousness and then death. With my right hand, I grasp around in the dark, hoping to find the spear or the other half of the shears nearby. All I feel is concrete. My energy is flagging. My last ditch effort

is my left hand. I shove it deeper into his mouth, his teeth peeling my skin. He's teeth, peeling my skin back as I do. I feel the back of his throat with my unbroken middle finger. I think of my gag reflex and how hard it was to keep from puking. I redouble my efforts and shove my hand in deeper. My middle finger goes into his throat, prodding the delicate muscles there. I feel them convulse, and then a rush of hot liquid fills his mouth. But there's nowhere for the vomit to go. His hands loosen on my throat as he struggles to breathe, choking on his own vomit. I don't let up, Even as he swallows some of it back down, I push again, making him vomit into his mouth once more. This time I keep my fingers down as far as I can, preventing him from swallowing.

His hands leave my throat and grab my left wrist as he struggles to pull my hand out. Sucking a breath in, I shift my position, getting more leverage, keeping my hand jammed in his mouth, fingers down his throat. He bucks and convulses and struggles, and then he goes still. I stay like that for a long time, making sure. And finally, when I'm positive, I pull my hand out and fall against the wall, huffing. Then I look into the darkness and shout, April? There's no answer.

The paramedics are working on me when April's parents show up. They rush toward the adjacent ambulance, where April is sitting. She hadn't been able to answer down in the basement, because the man had gagged her and shoved her into an ancient, looking footlocker. She told me on the way up out of the basement that she had freed herself from that foot locker once already, making it as far as the employees only hall upstairs before the man caught up to her. She screamed as she ran through those halls, she said. That was what Valence heard. It was what cost him his life.

He said he would kill my mommy and daddy if I screamed, she said as we walked out. She talked the whole time, reliving the thing, which I took as a good sign. She was all working through it. So that's why you didn't cry for help when he took you? I asked, cradling my mangled hand to my chest, studying her with my one good eye. She nodded. It's okay, I said, and it was. She was safe.

Now, as I watched the tearful family reunion, I wonder who the man was and how long he'd been living there. The cops don't know yet. They've only been in the basement for about an hour at this point. What's clear to me is that he was familiar with the mall and the basement and the security cameras. I'm guessing he was once a security guard here. He was probably the reason those two cameras kept failing. It can't be a coincidence that one of them was near the entrance to his hiding spot. I'm sure the kid I killed will turn out to be Joshua, who went missing almost a decade ago.

I like to think I did him a favor. I'm not sure how you come back from something like that. But telling myself that doesn't make me feel any better. I wish it did. I pray that Joshua and April were the only two, but somehow I doubt it. That monster had been living right under my nose. In my mall, for God knows how long I should have known. While I'm busy beating myself up, April comes over with her parents.

She gives me a big hug and thanks me. Then both her mom and dad do the same. They're all crying. Hell, so am I. I'm happy, I'm proud. Right now, I know it was all worth it to save that little girl. I can beat myself up about everything else later. Right now, I'll take the win.