The Counter Watcher

In the autumn of 2012, I took a night shift at a dusty gas station off Route 9, a lonely stretch of highway that cut through miles of bare farmland. My shift ran from 5 PM to midnight, and the place was small, the size of a single-wide trailer, with a counter along one wall, a few aisles of chips and canned goods, and a flickering fluorescent light that hummed like a dying fly. The nearest town was ten minutes away, and after dark, the only visitors were the occasional trucker or a farmer buying milk. It was the kind of job you take when you need money, and the kind of place that feels like it exists outside of time.

It started about a week in. I was stocking the cooler with sodas, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone—a young man, early twenties, wearing a dark grey hoodie and jeans, standing near the end of the aisle. He had his hands in his pockets, his face half-hidden by the hood, and he seemed to be staring at me. When I turned to look, no one was there. I shrugged it off, figured my mind was playing tricks, because the nights were long and the radio was broken, and it was easy to get spooked.

The sightings grew more frequent. Every night, I’d catch that same figure hovering in my peripheral vision—sometimes by the stack of paper towels, sometimes near the slushie machine, sometimes just outside the window, his face pressed against the glass, though the wind was howling and the door was locked. I started to ignore it, telling myself it was a trick of the light, or maybe my eyes were tired. But the figure never moved, never approached, only watched.

Then one night, a storm rolled in with winds so strong they rattled the windows and bent the few trees outside. The store was dead—no customers for nearly an hour. I was kneeling under the counter, reorganizing the cigarette cartons, when I felt a presence. I looked up, and there he was, now directly across from me, leaning over the counter, his face close to mine. His eyes were dark, like empty sockets, and his mouth was slightly open, as if he was about to speak. I shot to my feet, but he was gone. My heart hammered. I checked the security camera feed—nothing. I swept the aisles—nothing. But I could still feel his gaze, like a cold prickling on the back of my neck.

I tried to calm myself, told myself it was just a prank, maybe a local kid messing with the new guy. I walked to the front of the store and peered out the glass door. The parking lot was empty, the wind howling across the asphalt. I turned back to the counter, and there he was again, standing in the middle of the aisle, this time closer, his head tilted, his mouth moving as if whispering, but no sound came. My skin broke out in goosebumps, and my eyes watered from the sheer terror. I grabbed the phone to call my manager, but the line was dead.

Then the lights flickered and went out, plunging the store into darkness except for the faint glow of the emergency sign. I fumbled for my phone flashlight, and as it clicked on, I saw him—right in front of me, inches away. His face was pale, almost translucent, and his eyes were pools of black. He opened his mouth, and a cold breath washed over me, carrying the faint smell of rot. And then, in a voice that was barely a whisper, he said, ‘You can see me. Good. I’ve been waiting.’

I backed away, my legs barely holding me up, and tripped over a stack of boxes. He didn’t move, just stood there, his head tilting further, cracking at an unnatural angle. ‘They all ignore me,’ he said, ‘But you… you look. You look.’ I scrambled to my feet and ran for the back door, but it was locked. I fumbled with the keys, my hands shaking, and when I finally got it open, I bolted into the storm, not looking back.

I didn’t stop running until I reached the highway, and I hitched a ride from a trucker heading east. I never went back to that store, never told anyone the whole story—too ashamed, too afraid they’d think I was crazy. But even now, years later, I sometimes catch that figure in the corner of my eye, standing at the edge of my vision. And when I turn to look, he whispers, ‘You still see me. Good.’ And I know he’s not done with me yet.