The supermarket still smelled new. Not just clean, but new - like plastic wrap and polished wood, like everything had been scrubbed twice before the doors even opened that morning. The light overhead was warm but bright enough to make the produce gleam: apples like polished jewels, cucumbers stacked like green torpedoes, bread steaming faintly behind its paper wrapping.
Clara adjusted her nametag on the blue vest and gave the old man at her register a smile. He beamed back, setting his few items carefully onto the belt - milk, a loaf of whole wheat bread, a jar of strawberry jam.
“You know,” he said, voice gravelly but kind, “this place is something else. I’ve been shopping down the road for the past thirty years, and I swear, I’ve never seen a store this nice. "I love this Place!" Everything’s where you expect it to be. And the floors? Why, you could eat off them.”
Clara laughed softly. “Please don’t, though. My supervisor would kill me if I had to clean that up.”
The man chuckled, tapping his card. “I’m serious, though. this place is amazing if you ask me.”
Then the register beeped, and he gathered his bag with a wave. “Have a great day, sweetheart.” "You too!" Said Clara.
By her fifth week on the job, Clara already had her routines down. She liked this place. Her coworkers were young, mostly, and they cracked jokes during slow periods. The managers were strict about breaks but they were cool too.
When she glanced around, she saw nothing but warmth: parents guiding kids toward cereal, teenagers scanning the candy aisle, couples debating over what wine to buy. The intercom hummed with soft pop music, upbeat enough to keep the place lively.
During her shift, her friend Jen from produce strolled past her register and leaned on the counter. “You surviving?”
“Barely,” Clara teased. “Think I’ve scanned a thousand yogurts so far today.”
Jen laughed. “At least you’re not stocking bananas. You wouldn’t believe what people do to bananas.”
The two shared a grin, the kind only coworkers can share - born of shared monotony. Clara felt good. She was settling into this job, into this place.
The store was alive. It pulsed with chatter and light. And as Clara bagged another set of groceries, she thought to herself: Maybe I could stay here and work my way up into management.
“Clara,” her supervisor called across the checkout lanes, “go ahead and clock out for lunch break Derek will cover your register.”
“Got it.” She slid out of the way, and handed the spot over to Derek with a smile. Thirty minutes of freedom.
The breakroom buzzed with low conversation. Two cashiers were laughing over TikTok videos. Someone was heating leftover pasta in the microwave, filling the air with garlic and tomato. Clara plopped down with her salad and soda, trading easy chatter with a stock boy about the new horror film that came out today.
“You going to see it?” he asked.
“Tonight, actually,” she said between bites. “Been waiting forever for this one.”
“You’re braver than me. I’d probably scream loud enough to get kicked out.”
They laughed, and for a while the world felt ordinary.
When her lunch was done, Clara tossed her container, waved at her coworkers, and ducked into the restroom. The tiles were spotless, mirrors polished to a shine. She chose the middle stall, sat down, and fished her phone from her pocket.
“Hey,” she said when her friend answered, “we still good for tonight?”
“Hell yes,” Molly replied. “I’ve been waiting for this movie for four months. Don’t you dare bail on me.”
Clara grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Bring a hoodie,” Molly added. “You know how cold that damn theater is.”
They talked a bit more - joking about sneaking in snacks, about which previews would probably roll. Clara laughed, leaning back against the stall.
Then, suddenly, a harsh crackle cut through the line.
“…Clara-”
“What? Molly you’re breaking up.”
Molly's voice distorted, stretched thin under the layers of static. Clara pulled the phone back, frowning at the screen. The sound grew worse - a grinding interference, but underneath it, something else. A faint, jagged sound like a scream buried in the static.
Then the call dropped.
“Ugh,” she muttered, trying to redial. Nothing. Just a fast busy signal that kept repeating, mechanical and sharp.
She shoved the phone in her pocket and flushed the toilet. After washing her hands, she pushed the restroom door open.
The store was silent.
No carts clattering. No beeps from registers. No chatter from customers or employees. The intercom music had died.
A can of soup rolled slowly off a belt and hit the tiled floor with a metallic clunk. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
“Hello?” Clara called, voice shaking.
The only reply was the faint buzz of the lights overhead.
She moved cautiously down an aisle. The bright produce looked… different now. Apples bulged with strange swellings, their skins splitting, releasing sour smelling juice that dripped down onto the floor. A tomato sagged inward, collapsing on itself like wet paper.
Clara backed away.
Clara’s footsteps echoed as she moved down the aisles. Every checkout was completely empty. Bags were half filled, scanners glowing, but no people.
Her pulse quickened. “Guys? This isn’t funny.”
She grabbed her cell phone, and dialed Molly again. The busy signal shrieked in her ear, then cut into silence. When she pulled the phone away, the screen was black - as if the battery had died, though it had been nearly full 20 minutes ago.
The store was a graveyard.
In the cereal aisle, she stopped dead. A shopping cart sat sideways in the middle of the isle. But the figure beside it… was still there.
A customer stood facing the shelves, rigid, her head bent at an unnatural angle. Clara thought it was just a mannequin until the figure twitched and turned to face her - its jaw snapping open with a dry crack.
The woman's eyes were pits of shadow, her smile wide and trembling. When her mouth opened wider than it should have, the sound that came out wasn’t a scream but the same static that had eaten Clara’s phone.
Clara fled, running back towards the restroom. She slammed the door shut, gripping the sink, trying to steady herself. “No,” Clara whispered, clutching the sink. “No-this isn’t real-” As she looked up she caught her reflection in the mirror - except the reflection didn’t match.
She saw herself sprawled on the bathroom floor behind her, blood streaking from her temple, eyes closed, lips pale. A faint smear of red led away from her head, like she’d slipped and hit hard.
Clara staggered back, clutching the sink. “No, no, no—”
Her knees buckled. The room swam. She tried to scream, but the air in her lungs refused to move. Darkness rushed in.
She woke to harsh fluorescent light.
Three faces hovered above her - paramedics, their hands quick, their voices urgent.
“I’ve got a pulse,” one said. “Let’s get her on a gurney and into the ambulance.”
A coworker stood near the door, pale and shaken. “I - I think she slipped. The floor was just mopped. She hit her head. She wasn’t moving or breathing for - God, almost seven minutes.”
Clara tried to speak, her lips and mouth felt dry. She wanted to tell them. To tell them how the store was empty, how she had walked through the silence, how she had seen herself dead on the floor.
All that escaped was a whisper: “I was alone… everyone was gone.”
The EMTs lifted her carefully, strapping her down to the gurney board.
As they wheeled her out, Clara caught one last glimpse of the supermarket lights above her. Perfect, bright and spotless.
And in that brightness, she thought she heard - just for a second - the faint crackle of static.
Copyright © 2024 BitChamp.co - All Rights Reserved.
We use cookies to analyze website traffic and optimize your website experience. By accepting our use of cookies, your data will be aggregated with all other user data.