Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - The Fast Food Worker Wouldn't Stop Smiling. Then He Followed Me Home.

Episode Date: October 21, 2026

Listen to over 100 exclusive bonus stories with a 7-day FREE TRIAL of ⁠Dr. NoSleep Premium⁠⁠⁠ – Cancel anytime. No commitment. Walt just wants a quick lunch before heading back to work. Instead, he gets into an argument with an unnervingly cheerful fast-food cashier named Joey, who won’t stop pushing an order of fries he never asked for. Walt leaves irritated and assumes that’s the end of it. But hours later, Joey walks into the clothing store where Walt works—still smiling, still acting strangely, and carrying a grease-stained bag. Somehow, Joey knows exactly where to find him. And this time, he isn’t taking no for an answer. Huge thanks to our sponsor: EarnIn: Download EarnIn on the App Store or Google Play. And when you sign up, type in “ScaryHorrorStories” under PODCAST. It really helps support the show. Author:  Jake Bible Check out all of Jake’s horror story collections at: https://jakebible.com/short-storiesnovellascollections/ * * * 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 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #scarystories #horrorstories #drnosleep #doctornosleep #creepypasta #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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Mmm, lovely. Feel the fun. Play Ojo. 19 plus Ontario only. Please play responsibly. Concern about your gambling or that is someone close to you. Call 1866-531-2600 to visit connectsonterio.ca. Would you like fries with that today, sir?

The pimply-faced kid grins wide, stretching half the pimples so much that I'm afraid they'll explode and spray me with nasty pus from across the counter. I try not to look revolted. No, just the burger and shake. If you upgrade the size of the shake, you can create a power meal and the fries come with it. It's only a dollar 25 more. Listen kid, stop trying to upsell me. I check my phone. I'm running. late and I haven't gotten my order put in. Damn it. Can you just get me the burger and shake? Now please. The cashier, Joey, from what his name tag says, smiles wider. Of course, sir.

I just wanted to make sure you have the best experience possible here at Arctic Burger. Can we move this along? Some of us have real jobs. I look over my shoulder at the guy standing behind me in line. I can tell by the yellow plastic. vest and the matching hard hat on his head that he sees my suit and thinks I'm some rich jerk. He doesn't know crap about me. I'm trying, pal. Back off, okay? How about you get out of the way of those of us that actually work for a living, buddy?

They'll eat your sushi or whatever it is, you yuppie douchebags eat. Someone else in the line snickers. Damn it. All I want is a burger and a shake that I can scarf down fast before my lunch break is over. I only get 30 minutes, which is ridiculous. It's also ridiculous that the fast and fast food is turning out to be a serious misnomer. I give Mr. Hardhat a smirk, then look back at the cashier.

How much? That'll be 1456, please. That includes tax. Yeah, I know how commerce works. Then I pause and glance up at the menu. Hold on. It should be around 12, not 14. I upgraded you to the power.

meal, you'll thank me. No, I won't thank you, because I don't have time to eat the damn fries. My voice is way too loud for the situation, but who the hell does this kid think he is? You don't upgrade someone without consent, especially when they already said no. We ask that you don't shout here at Arctic Burger, sir. It ruins the experience for the other customers. You're ruining the experience for me, you stupid fuck. Is there a problem here? Finally, an adult. A man who is obviously management steps up next to Joey. This cashier gave me the power meal when I explicitly said I didn't want fries.

I just want my burger and shake, that's all. I look at my phone again. And in the next five minutes or I'm late. We all have somewhere to be, banker, boy. I'm not a banker. I sell suits at the gentleman's closet for Christ's sake. Needless to say, everyone is staring at me. I am sorry that this experience hasn't been pleasant for you, sir.

He clears his throat, claps Joey on the shoulder, and forcefully pulls him away from the cash register. I'll get this sorted out, Joey. You go help unload the truck, please. Joey looks like he wants to argue, but closes his mouth, still grinning. Then he turns that grin on me, and I don't know why, but my stomach lurches like I'm going to be sick. Yes, sir. Always willing to help. For the first time, I noticed that there is no life behind Joey's eyes. I wasn't paying attention earlier, but I am now.

His stare is like a snake's. The manager rings me up, points at the card reader. I slap my phone against it and voila. I finally have my lunch in my hands. Just a single burger and a single shake. No damn fries. I give Mr. Hard had a glare as I leave. He throws that shade right back at me.

But who cares about this guy? Probably spends most of his day sexually harassing women as they walk by wherever it is he works. I bet he's helping build that stupid parking garage over on the corner of Fourth and Eastern. Like we need another parking garage. As I get into my car, I catch a view of the back of the restaurant. That kid, Joey, is just standing there by the back door. Completely still, as two other workers hurry hand trucks inside. loaded with boxes of supplies. Neither of the workers seems to be upset that Joey isn't helping.

Even though I heard the manager explicitly say that the kid was to go unload supplies. That is one weird kid, I say to myself as I start my car and crank up the AC the second the engine turns over. As I pull out of the parking lot, sipping my milkshake, I see Joey's head swivel on its neck, tracking me the entire way. He raises a hand and waves. That grin, plastered to his pimply face. Freaking weirdo. By the time I get back to work, I have to change my shirt because I got Arctic sauce all over it from being forced

to scarf my burger down while driving. I catch hell for my manager, but he gets over it after I sell two suits with the extra durability treatment and the lifetime dry cleaning package to a customer in the first 20 minutes of being back on shift. I'm good at what I do. I despise it with every fiber of my being, but I'm good. It's a living.

About 15 minutes before closing, the front doorbell dings, and I stop refolding the rows of ties that have been musted up from customers constantly picking them up, placing them on the obviously wrong-colored shirts, then tossing them back on the shelf without a single care for who has to clean up after them. Customers, I could totally do without them if it weren't for the whole needing to be. to sell them to stuff to keep my job thing. I glance at the front doors and freeze for a moment. It's the kid, the cashier from Arctic Burger.

What's his name? Joey. He comes to me as he turns his head and stares right at me. Then he waves and hurries in my direction, holding up a grease-stained paper bag. Hi there, I brought you fries. For several seconds, all I can do is watch him cross the store, navigating around displays folded linen shirts and racks of suit jackets. Then I snap out of it and walk toward him. My salesman grinned back in place. Um, thank you. Joey reaches me and nearly shoves the bag

into my hands. You are welcome. We just stand there. Joey keeps grinning while I try to figure out what's going on. Um, how did you find me? You said you worked at gentleman's closet. He leaves it at that. I nod and open the bag. Yep, fries. A lot of fries. And is that ketchup already on them? I look up at Joey and see he has ketchup all over his work shirt. I know they use those condiment guns to squirt ketchup and mustard and mayo onto burgers. One must have exploded when he was bagging up these fries. And there really are a lot of them. The bag is small, but it's more than half full, and there's no fry carton that I can see. Unless it's buried at the bottom.

Um, well, thanks. I'll have them with dinner. Joey nods and then looks around. His head doing that swivel on his neck thing again. I don't own a suit. Huh, okay. The kid probably makes less than $15 an hour. Not exactly the prime customer I'm looking for,

but a sale is a sale. That's so. Are you in the market? Joey swivels his head and focuses back. on me. I'm in food service. That grin slips a little, almost becoming a frown. Then he perks back up, sets his shoulders straight and says,

Yes, yes, I am in food service. The customer is what matters. I am here to make sure the customer gets the best experience. Great. Freaking weirdo. I size them up, then gesture toward the clearance rack. No way the kid can afford anything full price. We have some great.

I like that one. Joey points at one of the suits hanging in the display nook on the wall. I scratch my chin and look back and forth between Joey and the display. He is laser-focused on the suit, so I shrug and walk toward it. You have good taste, but I will admit, this is one of our pricier ensembles. He follows me to the display nook and nods up and down repeatedly. I like that one. He swivels his head and his eyes lock onto mine.

The customer is what matters. I nod and smile. You're 100% right there. I am glad that you think so. I wasn't sure you understood earlier. I am sure. That is good. I clap my hands together.

Then glance at the clock on the wall above the registers. We close soon. But how about we get you measured? Measured? So that the suit fits. He points at the display nook. I want that one. Right.

Of course. but it may not be the right size. I want that one. His eyes fall to my own name tag. Make the customer happy, Walt. The customer is what matters. I laugh and scratch the back of my neck so I can think it over. He's dead set on buying the second most expensive suit in the store.

That's great for my commission, but if he gets home and this doesn't fit, he'll be back, which won't look good to my manager. Are you sure you want that exact one? Yes, I like this one. I shall purchase it today. I shrug and reach for the suit. Then I realized that I still have the bag of fries in my hand. I set it down next to a display of shiny shoes.

I'll toss it later. No way I'm eating soggy ketchup soaked fries from this guy. Why do you even bring me these? It's just weird. I get the suit down, walk it to the register, and wait for Joey to follow. He keeps staring at the empty display nook. Um, is there anything else I can get you?

Joey's head swivels and those dead eyes lock onto me. Are you trying to upsell me, Walt? He laughs, and it sounds like a hundred lunatics giggling all at once. I amend my take on him. He's not a freaking weirdo. He's a freaking creepy weirdo. I need to wrap this up, make my money, and get home. It's been a day, and I have this creepy guy to thank for it all.

Always, Joey. He brightens at the mention of his name. I start to put the suit into a hands. hanging bag, compliments of gentleman's closet. But Joey's hand shoots out, grabbing my wrist, hard. I'll wear it now, please. I hesitate. This is tricky. I know the suit won't fit him. He's going to want to exchange it immediately, which will be a huge hassle. Joey may be freaking creepy, but he's right on one thing. The customer is what matters. Um, sure, but let's ring you up first, all right? We're closing and the registers need to be reconciled so my manager can send

off the day's receipts. You know what I mean, right? I'm sure you have to do the same with your till at work at Arctic Burger. I no longer work there. That's why I need a suit. I think of a million responses. Then just say nothing and only nod. I ring him up and hope he's on the same page. He puts his hand to the card reader and it beeps. I'm confused and try to see where his phone but he just takes his hand back and grins, grins, grins. The transaction goes through, so I have him follow me to the dressing rooms and hang his new suit inside a stall. While he gets changed, I close up the store, turning off window signs and making sure the door sign says that we are closed. Then I stand and wait for Joey, and wait, and wait.

Finally, he emerges from the dressing rooms and walks up to me. His grins so wide that I'm worried Those pimples will pop right off his face and splatter across all of the merchandise. I'm also worried that things are about to get awkward as I see that the suit is at least two sizes too big for him. I love it! My eyes widened in surprise, but I recover quickly and give him a thumbs up as I open the door for him. Great. Well, you know where I am if you need another suit. I do know where you are.

Then he walks past me and out the door. Other than my car and my managers, the parking lot is empty. Joey looks left, he looks right, then chooses left and walks off. So your decaf oat milk extra but not piping hot, four pumps of caramel, no sugar, small latte, and a large cup. That will be 10 minutes. No worries. I'm having fun on Playojo. And I keep it fun with all the latest slot and live casino games. Plus I get instant payouts with no minimum withdrawals.

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Call 1866-531-2600 to visit connectsonterio.ca. If you're into horror with a heavy dose of sci-fi, classified experiments, and things humanity was never meant to understand, check out my other podcast, the SCP experience. Each episode pulls you into the hidden world of the SCP Foundation, where dangerous anomalies are studied, contained, and sometimes. unleashed. These aren't just scary stories. They're classified nightmares. Click here to listen now or search for the SCP experience wherever you get your podcasts. The second he's out of sight, I locked the door and hurry to the dressing room. Yep, he left his ketchupy uniform. I think about chasing after him. But to hell with that. I want to get home and forget all about the

freaking creepy weirdo and this day. A nice bottle of wine should help with that. What the hell is this? I grab up the gross uniform and throw it in the trash can as I hurry out of the dressing rooms to find my manager standing over by the empty display nook. Oh, yeah. Some strange kid insistent on buying the display model. I'll get a new one up there before I leave. No, this! He holds up the greasy bag of fries. He opens it, looks inside, sniffs, then recoils. Is this chicken blood or something? It smells awful. It's ketchup.

Well, this ketchup has gone off. He throws the bag at me and I catch it. Get rid of that. He pauses and looks back at the empty display nook. You sold to Hemmington? I nod. Without alterations? That was a big suit.

They always send the oversized ones for display. That guy must have been huge. He wasn't. But he wanted that exact suit. It didn't fit. But he refused alterations. alterations, so I sold it to him. I can tell he's annoyed at this.

He's thinking of the return hassle, too. He points a finger at me. No exchanges on display merchandise. I hope you told him that. I didn't, but I smile and give him a thumbs up. He studies me a second, then nods. I toss the fries into the trash, then get to work, closing out the register,

and straightening all the rest of the display merchandise. When I finally get to leave, I walk to my car and think about what I'm going to have for dinner. Not burgers or fries, that's for sure. My manager was right. That ketchup did smell off. I'd probably have gotten sick if I'd eaten any of those fries. Driving out of the parking lot, I think I see someone by the side of the building.

But when my headlights turn that way, no one is there. Whatever. My manager will set the alarm before he leaves, so nothing to worry about. I'm home in 35 minutes because of light traffic. That bottle of wine is waiting for me, and I indulge. But not too much. Got to work in the morning. Or so I think.

When I pull into the lot at work at 8.30, there are cop cars and all sorts of law enforcement vehicles filling the lot. I find a space in park. A cop is walking towards me as I'm getting out of my car. Do you work here? I say I do, and he takes out a notepad. Name? I tell him my name, and he checks the note pad. Then he nods and motions for me to follow him into the store.

We have to duck under crime scene tape to get inside. A short man in a rumpled suit looks over and then crosses to me. He shows me a badge, then steps aside, letting me take in the scene before he even says a word. Lying across the counter is my manager, and he looks like he's been bent in two. The detective asks me if I know the man. I say that I do, and give the detective. my manager's name, then I frown. What's wrong with his face?

The detective snorts. You mean other than the blunt trauma? Fries. I'm sorry. What? French fries. Whoever beat him also choked him with a bag of french fries. My guess is that's how he died,

not from the beating, but the coroner will have to figure that out. I have no idea what to say to that. An image of seeing someone by the corner of the building pops into my head. I quickly mention it. Then, the detective runs me through a long list of questions. I answer them all to the best of my ability. I definitely tell him about the freaking creepy weirdo, Joey, and explain the evening's sale. The detective wonders if Joey came back, but he says it like he's talking to himself, so I don't respond. Some forensics tech comes out of the back office,

looking pissed. He mentions to the detective that the security footage is gone for the last 24 hours. The detective focuses back on me. How easy is it to delete security footage? I don't like the way he phrases the question. There's an accusation in there. Not easy. I'm not even sure if my manager could do it. I think corporate has control over that, just like they control the temperature in the store. Like Walmart. What? Like Walmart. They control the climate of all their stores from their headquarters. I didn't know that. The detective stares at me for a long while,

long enough that I start feeling sweat, trickling down my spine. Then he nods, takes down all of my contact information, says he'll be in touch, and that I'm free to leave. But that maybe I should stick around town and not take any unscheduled trips across state lines. I gulp. Say I will do just that and leave. But not before he hands.

hands me as card. After getting in my car and driving away, I realize I have no idea what to do. I should get breakfast. My manager usually brings in pastries and coffee each morning, so I'm used to eating that. Pancakes sound good. Sort of. If I can get the image of my dead manager out of my head. I drive a few blocks heading toward the 24-hour pancake house. Then I pass Arctic Burger and almost swerve off the road. Horns honk at me and have to pull over into the tire place's parking lot next door. Arctic Burger is definitely closed right now, even though they should have cars lined up at the drive-thru. The crime scene tape across all of the doors tells me why they aren't serving their less-than-ideal breakfast.

Still sitting in the tire place's parking lot, I take out my phone and search the local news. Six killed impossible burglary at Arctic Berger. The police have not made any claims and say the investigation is ongoing. But the article says, according to sources who remain anonymous, that the place was like a slaughterhouse when a customer pulled up last night, wanting to order a power meal. Why what the customer wanted to order matters, I don't know. That's the state of journalism these days.

There's some related article I can click on, but before I do, a knock at my window almost makes me pee myself. One of the guys from the tire shop is asking what he can help me with. I apologize and get going before he can try to sell me some tires. I skip the pancake house and head for home. My phone rings as I turn onto my block. It's the district manager. I answer, and he informs me of everything I already know.

I tell him everything I told the detective. He says that corporate security is trying to recover the video footage. I think I say that that's great, but I'm not sure. I'm a little distracted by the person standing in my driveway. Joey, dressed in his new suit, and he's coated head to toe in what looks like more ketchup. But I don't think that it's ketchup. The district manager is still talking to me as I drive on past my house.

Joey smiles at me and holds up a greasy paper bag. It is also coated, and what I am beginning to believe is blood. Lots of blood. His head swivels as I pass by. but he doesn't move from where he stands. As soon as I am passed, I floor it, hanging up on the district manager so I can call the police. So your decaf oat milk extra but not piping hot,

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Get double points on every qualified stay. Life's a trip. Make the most of it at Best Western. Visit bestwestern.com for complete terms and conditions. They patch me through to the detective from this morning, and I tell him that I think the Arctic Burger killings and my manager's murder are related. I give him Joey's description and explained that he was standing in my driveway the last time I saw him.

He could still be there. I'm only a block away when I have to pull over and park. I shut off the engine. My head is spinning. My heart is racing. I think I might pass out. After several deep breaths, I calmed down. But I'm still not good to drive.

So I pull out my phone and read that Arctic Burger report once more. Then I see the related article link again and click it. It takes me to the news site's text section. There's a whole article on two tech bros who created some robotics startup and are now missing. Neither has been heard from for days. I can't figure out the connection to the killings until I read one of the last paragraphs, which explains that the tech company is working on automated employees. for fast food restaurants.

Automated employees? What the hell does that mean? Of course, there is another related link to this related link. And I'm about to click on it when I hear what sounds like gunfire. I jerk and look around, but realize it's not happening on this block. It's at least a block over. Sirens fill the air, adding to the cacophony, and a police cruiser whips around the corner from the main road.

It must have already been on the way. been on the way. It blows by me at an insane speed for a residential neighborhood, then it's lost from sight as it takes the corner to the next block over. My block, I gulp. I think Joey was still in my driveway, and the cops just found him. The gunfire increases, and I hear even more sirens. I just stay put, gripping my phone so hard I almost cracked the screen. The gunfire stops. I wait and listen. It doesn't start up again. Jesus, the cops just killed Joey, and more than likely in my driveway. This has not been my morning.

I looked down at my phone and realized that I must have clicked the related link by accident. I'm about to close out the article and put my phone on the dash, expecting a call from that detective. But my eyes catch the headline and I stop cold. Tech startup loses military contract and pivots toward the service industry. It's the same tech company the two founders have gone missing from. And when I see a picture of one of their very human-like military robots, I almost throw up.

It's Joey, right here on my phone. He's dressed in military camo and gear, not an Arctic Burger uniform, but it's Joey for sure, except he's missing the pimples. Dear God, did they add acne to the fast food models to make them look more realistic? Christ! There's a knock at my window and I turn. Still, a little stunned by what I just saw, so I don't quite react as fast as I should. Joey, coated in even more blood, is standing by my door, holding up the fry bag, which

is now dripping red. I don't say anything, just stare. Then I notice the holes in his oversized suit, bullet holes. He watches me closely, shrugs, then walks around the hood of my car. his head swiveling so he can face me the entire time until he gets to the passenger's side door opens it and sits down he sets the bloody bag in my lap i had to go to a different chain for fries arctic burger is closed he faces the windshield and nods once they weren't very friendly there and didn't want to serve me but my brother works there so he set things right joey swive

his neck and grins at me with those dead eyes of his The customer is what matters. Something smells like it's burning. Joey sniffs and looks down at his suit. Smoke is drifting out of one of the bullet holes, filling my car with the acrid stench of burning plastic and hot metal. Uh-oh, I need a new suit. Too bad your manager was so rude and said that there are no exchanges for display merchandise.

He taps his ear. I hear everything. Then he swivels his head and looks at me. You would have made the exchange, right, Walt? I can't find my voice, so I nod once. Then add two more nods, so he knows that yes, yes, I would definitely have made the exchange. Great! That's what I told my brothers, so you should be safe. He gives me a thumbs up, then he points at the road.

Then let's do that. I have to cough a few times before I can speak. The smoke is up my nose and down my throat, making it hard to breathe. I finally managed to get a few words out. Um, do what, Joey? Exchange my suit. It got messy. Which was your manager's fault?

He reaches over and touches the start button of my car. The engine revs to life, even though my foot isn't on the brake. No time like the present. I put the car in gear and leave my neighborhood, taking my usual route to work. But it's a much different commute than this morning's. Up and down the streets, fast food restaurants burn. People are running and screaming and dying. Guys who look exactly like Joey, but dressed in franchise uniforms from all sorts of corporations,

chase down others in the same uniforms. The others are very much human, or they were. I have to stop looking after I see some poor manager from a taco joint I frequent get his head ripped off. We pass the corner of Fourth and Eastern. That stupid parking garage. Dangling from the top level, swinging by his yellow safety vest, is Mr. Hardhat. Joey follows my eyes. He was rude to you, Walt.

You were the customer. Joey just smiles as we drive. When I pull into the gentleman's closet parking lot, I expect to see a bunch of police cruisers, hoping the detective is still here. I don't know what the cops can do against an obvious killing machine like Joey, but I know they can do more than I can. except what I see are burning husks.

Every cruiser is scorched. Bodies are everywhere, and not a single one is intact. I slow, then stop. The detective is lying on the pavement in front of my car. He's also lying over by the fire hydrant, and by the juniper bushes at the edge of the lot. But that's not the worst. The worst is that dozens of joys,

all in various states of disrepair, are just casually walking into the store, each carefully stepping over the bodies in their way. Joey pads me on my shoulder, and I jump out and cry. Don't you worry, Walt. I have your back, because you get it. He does that head swivel and smiles at me. Say it with me. I swallow, and we both say, The customer is what matters.

I get a thumbs up for that. Joey hops out of the car. All the joys by the store entrance, And the ones I see now walking into the lot, all stop and wave. Joey waves back. Then he leans down and looks in through the car window. Come on, Walt. You have some sales to make.

Isn't that great? I think I nod. I'm not sure. But I know well enough not to stay seated. So I get out and join Joey as he walks toward the store. Hey, maybe after I exchange my suit, we can go get some French fries. How does that sound? Great, Joey.

Just great. We walk inside. Joey stops. Every other Joey looks at us. This is Walt, and he's going to get us all fitted for new suits. Then we can go get French fries. The Joey's cheer. And in unison, they say.

The customer is what matters! Shaking uncontrollably. I pull out my measuring tape and get to work, because the joys are right. Right now, the customer is all that matters. My life depends on it. The first Joey steps onto the fitting platform, grining that dead grin. I smooth his lapels, force a smile, and hear myself say it.

Would you like a tie with that? Want more? Subscribe and turn on all notifications, so you never miss any of our weekly uploads. So your decaf oat milk extra but not piping hot, four pumps of caramel, no sugar, small latte, a large cup. That will be 10 minutes. No worries. I'm having fun on Playojo. And I keep it fun with all the latest slot and live casino games. Plus I get instant payouts with no minimum withdrawals.

Here's your decaf oat milk extra but not piping hot. Ah, thanks. Playtime's over. Mmm, lovely. Feel the fun. Play Ojo. 19 plus Ontario only. Please play responsibly. Concern about your gambling or that is someone close to you. Call 1866-531-2600 to visit connectsonterio.ca.