I needed the money. That’s the only reason I took the job at the Texaco station on Route 9. The pay was surprisingly high for a cashier job, and the manager, a guy named Stan, seemed desperate to hire anyone.
"Listen, kid," Stan told me on my first night, handing me the keys. "It’s an easy job. Keep the floor clean, stock the shelves, and handle the customers. But there is one rule. Just one."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"If a black sedan pulls up to pump number 4 at exactly 3:00 AM... do not look at the driver. Do not go outside. Turn off the store lights and hide behind the counter until they leave."
I laughed. I thought he was hazing the new guy. "Okay, Stan. Vampires or FBI?"
Stan didn’t smile. "Just do it."
For the first two weeks, nothing happened. The nights were boring. I drank coffee, scrolled through my phone, and rang up the occasional trucker buying energy drinks. I started to forget about Stan’s weird rule.
Then came last night.
I was wiping down the counter when I checked the clock. 2:59 AM. Headlights swept across the parking lot. A car pulled in. It was a sleek, black sedan. It rolled silently to pump number 4.
My heart hammered against my ribs. It’s just a coincidence, I told myself. Stan was messing with me.
The car sat there. The engine was off. No one got out. The windows were tinted so dark I couldn't see inside. Curiosity is a dangerous thing. I knew I should hide, but I felt foolish hiding from a customer. I walked toward the glass door to get a better look. I squinted, trying to see the driver.
The window of the sedan slowly rolled down. And that’s when I froze.
There was no driver. The seat was empty. But as I stared, the radio inside the car turned on. Static noise blasted through the speakers, loud enough to rattle the station's windows. Then, a voice cut through the static—my voice.
"Do not look at the driver," the radio screamed.
I hit the floor. I crawled behind the counter, shaking, my hands covering my ears. I lay there for ten minutes, listening to the car idling, waiting for... something. Finally, the sound of tires on gravel faded away.
I quit this morning. Stan didn’t ask why. He just took the keys and nodded. I’m writing this as a warning. If you’re driving down Route 9 and see a 'Help Wanted' sign at the Texaco station... keep driving.
