The Broken Circle of Cans

Our family wasn’t big on soda, but my husband, Leo, and I kept a six-pack in the garage for guests. We had a strict rule: no cans outside the garage. The kids knew better than to leave them around. So when I heard a crash and then the distinct rattle of aluminum hitting concrete from the garage, I felt a cold knot in my stomach.

I was alone that evening, listening to the rain drumming on the roof. The garage door was closed, but I could feel a draft seeping under the kitchen door, carrying the faint, sour smell of spilled soda. I called out, “Hello? Anyone there?” The only answer was the rain and the soft, rhythmic ticking of the garage’s old fluorescent light. I decided to check.

I flicked the light switch, and the garage flickered to life. The six-pack on the shelf was untouched, but the recycling bin under the workbench was overturned. Six empty cans lay on the concrete floor, arranged in a perfect circle. I chuckled, thinking it was the cat’s doing, but our cat, Cleo, was old and wouldn’t touch a can. I shivered; the air was cold, colder than the rainy evening warranted.

I shook my head and kicked the cans aside, then swept them into the bin. I went back inside, locked the door, and headed to bed. But that night, I woke to the sound of the garage door creaking. I grabbed my phone and peered through the window – the light was on, and I saw a silhouette, small and hunched, moving among the cans. I grabbed a flashlight and a baseball bat, but when I flung open the door, the garage was empty, and the cans were back in their circle, exactly as I’d found them.

The next morning, I told Leo. He laughed it off as a prank by the neighbor kids, but I knew better. I decided to get rid of the cans, so I tossed them in the trash. That night, I heard the trash can lid rattle, and then a soft, wet noise, like a can being crushed. I pulled back the curtain and saw the neighbor’s son, Timmy, standing over the trash can, staring at the ground. He looked up, and even though it was dark, I swear his eyes were black.

I ran to the door, but he was gone. We moved out a month later, selling the house to our friend, Mia. I warned her about the cans, but she just smiled and said she loved a good ghost story. A week later, she called me, her voice trembling. She said she’d found a can in her kitchen, and then another in the hallway, and now they were lining up on her stairs, leading down to the basement she never used. I told her to throw them all away, but she said, “They’re not my cans. They’re yours. They have your fingerprints on them.”

The phone went dead. I haven’t called back. I’ve moved to a new place, but last night, I found a single, empty soda can in my pantry, on the top shelf, where I always kept the good spices. I know I didn’t put it there. The circle is not yet broken, and I fear it’s trying to close around me.