The Crimson Grocery List

Mara was twenty-six, a single mother to a three-year-old named Lily, and she hadn’t slept through the night in months. The terrors had evolved from vague childhood fears into visceral, waking nightmares that left her drenched in sweat, her heart hammering against her ribs. Lately, they’d taken on a new, terrifying consistency: a recurring dream where she was a cashier at a 24-hour supermarket, the fluorescent lights buzzing like trapped wasps, and a customer would always approach her register with a peculiar item.

It started with a jar of pickles. The man was tall, gaunt, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He placed the jar on the conveyor belt, and she felt a cold dread seep into her bones. As she scanned it, the jar began to weep—not brine, but thick, dark blood. The blood pooled on the belt, spreading, and she tried to scream, but no sound came. The man leaned in, his breath like rotting meat, and whispered, ‘You missed a spot.’ Then he reached across the counter and pressed a barcode scanner to her forehead. She felt the cold glass and the sharp sting of laser light, and then the world dissolved into a white-hot pain behind her eyes.

She woke with a gasp, her hand flying to her forehead. There was no wound, but the phantom ache lingered for hours. Lily had stirred in her crib, and Mara had to rock her back to sleep, whispering lullabies to calm her own racing pulse.

The dreams escalated. Each night, the supermarket grew more detailed—aisles stretching into infinity, shelves stocked with items that shouldn’t exist: canned laughter, jars of screams, boxes of expired hope. The customer changed, but the pattern held. He would always bring something mundane, something from her own grocery list, and then the horror would unfold. One night, he brought a can of soup, and when she opened it, a human finger floated to the surface. Another night, he brought a loaf of bread, and as she reached for it, the crust split open to reveal a writhing mass of maggots. Each time, he would mark her—a scanner, a stamp, a price gun—always on the same spot on her forehead, and she would wake with that searing pain.

Exhaustion began to blur her waking hours. She’d find herself staring at the cereal aisle in the real grocery store, hyperventilating, unable to remember how she got there. Lily would tug at her sleeve, saying, ‘Mommy, you’re scaring me.’ Mara would force a smile, but she felt like she was unraveling.

One afternoon, she fell asleep on the couch, Lily napping beside her. The dream was more vivid than ever. This time, she was at the deli counter, and the man was there, holding a ticket. He handed it to her, and printed on it was not a number, but a phrase: ‘YOUR TIME IS UP.’ She looked up at him, and his face shifted, becoming someone she recognized—her own reflection, but older, hollow-eyed. He said, ‘You’ve been scanning the wrong barcode, Mara. It’s time to pay.’ He reached out and pressed his thumb to her forehead, and she felt a cold, hard disc pressing against her skin. She realized it was a price tag, and he was stamping it onto her like a piece of meat.

She woke screaming. Lily was crying. Mara looked at her hands, expecting to see blood or grime, but they were clean. Yet, in the mirror, she saw it: a faint, red mark on her forehead, shaped like a barcode. It wouldn’t wash off. She scrubbed until her skin was raw, but it remained, a cruel brand that seemed to darken each day.

Terrified, she sought help. She went to a therapist, a doctor, even a priest, but none could explain the mark or the dreams. The doctor suggested sleep medication, but the pills only made the dreams more intense. She started to avoid sleep altogether, but she was losing the battle. Her body would betray her, succumbing to exhaustion, and the nightmare would claim her again.

One night, Lily woke with a fever. Mara, desperate, decided to go to the 24-hour pharmacy. As she walked through the automatic doors, a chill ran down her spine. The store was empty, the lights too bright. She hurried to the medicine aisle, grabbing children’s ibuprofen. At the checkout, a new cashier stood—a young woman with hollow eyes and the same barcode on her forehead. She scanned the medicine, and the machine beeped. ‘That’ll be $14.99,’ she said, her voice flat. Mara fumbled with her card, but as she swiped it, the screen flashed red. ‘PAYMENT DECLINED. PAYMENT DECLINED.’ The cashier’s smile widened. ‘You’re out of time, Mara.’ The lights flickered. The shelves began to bleed.

Mara turned to run, but the aisles twisted, forming a maze. She ran through frozen foods, where the frost painted faces on the glass doors. She stumbled into the produce section, where tomatoes rotted into black pits. Finally, she found an exit, but it led to a room she didn’t recognize—white, sterile, with a gurney in the center. On the gurney lay her own body, as if she were having an out-of-body experience. The man stood beside it, holding a barcode scanner. ‘Time to check out,’ he said. He pressed the scanner to her forehead, and she felt a searing pain, like being branded. Then everything went black.

She woke on the floor of her apartment, Lily kneeling over her, crying, shaking her. ‘Mommy, wake up!’ The barcode on her forehead was gone. She sat up, gasping, and clutched Lily to her chest. She felt a profound relief, thinking it was over. But then, in the kitchen, she heard a sound—the beep of a scanner, and a deep voice saying, ‘Next customer.’