The Empty Register

I worked the graveyard shift at the Last Chance Fuel & Grocery, a lonely outpost on the edge of the Nebraska Sandhills. The year was 2001, and the only things that shared my nights were the hum of the coolers and the occasional gust of wind rattling the windows. The nearest town was twenty miles east, and the closest house was a half-mile down the gravel road, which might as well have been a hundred. The store sat at the junction of two state highways, a square of pale light in a sea of darkness. No streetlights, just the sickly green glow of the mercury vapor lamps that lit the gas pumps, and the fluorescent hum from inside.

I’d been working there for eight months when the first thing happened. It was a Tuesday, around 11:40 PM, just before closing. The store was dead, and I was wiping down the counter, the only sound the soft click of the security camera switching tapes. Then from the back, I heard a clatter—metal on metal, like someone tossing aluminum cans into the big recycling bin we kept by the back door. I froze, listening. The sound came again, a sharp, ringing bang. I grabbed the heavy flashlight from under the counter and crept toward the stockroom. The door was ajar, which was unusual—I always kept it closed. I pushed it open, the light cutting through the darkness. The bin was in the corner, and the lid was off, but there was no one there. The room smelled faintly of oil and dust, and the air was cold, cold enough that I could see my breath. I checked the back door, but it was locked from the inside. I shrugged it off, thinking maybe a rat. But the feeling that I wasn’t alone stayed with me the rest of the shift.

Over the next few weeks, it got bolder. Cans would fall from the shelves in the back, landing with a clatter. One night, I walked in to find the entire shelf of motor oil had been swept clean, the bottles lying in a heap on the floor. No glass broke, though—they were plastic, but the sound was like a small explosion. I called my boss, Harold, the next morning, and he said it was probably a raccoon that got in through a vent. I sealed up all the vents I could find, but the noises only grew more frequent. And then I started hearing footsteps. Not the shuffle of a rat, but heavy, deliberate steps, like someone walking on loose gravel. They’d come from the back, pause, then retreat. I’d run back there, heart hammering, but find nothing.

I started changing my habits. I kept the radio on, not for the music, but for the comfort of a human voice. I’d leave all the lights in the back on, even though Harold would’ve yelled at me for wasting electricity. But nothing helped. The feeling of being watched intensified until it was a constant pressure on the back of my neck. And then, one night, the lottery machine started spitting out tickets all on its own—dozens of them, fluttering to the floor like a deranged confetti. I watched in horror as the numbers printed, not random, but a pattern: 3-13-23-33-43. Over and over. I unplugged the machine, but the screen still glowed in the dark, flickering.

I tried to rationalize it. Maybe a short circuit. Maybe a prank from a bored teenager. But the only kid around was the owner of the house down the road, and he was a shut-in, hadn’t left his property in years. I’d seen him once, pale and hollow-eyed, staring at the store from his porch. He’d waved, but something about it was off—his arm moved like a puppet’s, jerky and wrong.

Then came the night the register drawer opened by itself. I was sitting in the back office, trying to calm my nerves with a coffee, when I heard the distinctive ‘ka-ching’ of the old NCR. I walked out to find the drawer fully extended, the bills untouched. I closed it gently, my hands shaking. ‘Hello?’ I said into the empty store, my voice thin. The lights flickered. A cold draft swept through, carrying a smell I couldn’t place—like old sweat and dried blood. And then, from the speaker system, a static crackle, followed by a voice. It wasn’t a human voice. It was a low, awful rasp, like metal scraping against concrete, and it said my name. ‘David…’ The hairs on my arms stood on end. I looked around, but the store was empty. The voice came again, closer, as if it were right behind me. ‘David…’ I spun, but there was nothing.

I didn’t sleep that night. I called Harold, and he told me to close early if I felt unsafe, but I was too scared to leave. I stayed in the office, a chair propped against the door, until dawn. When the sun came up, I walked the store, looking for any explanation. Everything was in order, except for the lottery tickets, which still had the weird numbers. I stuffed them in my pocket. That day, I decided to get some answers. I went to the county library and looked up the history of the area. What I found made my blood run cold. The land where the store sat had once been a farm. In 1977, the farmer, a man named Elmer, had murdered his wife and three children, then hung himself in the barn. The barn was long gone, but the store had been built over the exact footprint. And they say when the soil is disturbed, strange things happen.

I went back to work that night, armed with a crucifix and a bottle of holy water I’d gotten from a priest. But the priest had laughed at me, told me it wasn’t a demon that haunted the land, but something older. ‘The Sandhills are full of hungry things,’ he’d said. ‘Don’t feed them.’ But I didn’t understand.

That night was the worst. At 11:57 PM, the power went out. The emergency lights kicked in, casting the store in a blood-red glow. The gas pumps outside went dark. I stood by the counter, my flashlight beam wavering. Then, from the back, I heard a sound I’ll never forget: a child’s laughter, but it was twisted, gurgling, like it was coming from a throat filled with water. And then the front door opened slowly, creaking, and a figure stepped in. It was tall, impossibly thin, wearing a tattered shirt and overalls that looked like they’d decayed. Its face was a mask of pale skin, stretched tight over a skull, with eyes that were black pits, empty and deep. It didn’t walk; it glided, and as it came closer, I felt a cold numbness spreading through me.

I tried to move, but my legs were lead. The figure reached out a long arm, and its fingers brushed my forehead. A voice, the same rasping one, filled my head. ‘You’ve been feeding me,’ it said. ‘With your fear, your loneliness, your attention. This is my place now.’ I couldn’t speak. It tilted its head, and the smell hit me—like a freshly dug grave. ‘Go,’ it said. ‘Leave, and don’t return. Or stay, and become part of the night.’

I ran. I didn’t stop running until I was in my car, speeding down the highway, not even looking back. I called Harold and quit on the spot. He didn’t ask questions, just said ‘Probably for the best.’ But even as I drove home, I knew I couldn’t escape. The voice had wormed its way into my head. I could hear it whispering, even over the roar of the engine.

I moved across the state, taking a job as a night clerk at a motel in the Black Hills. But the whispering never stopped. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see that empty register drawer, and I hear the sound of cans being thrown, and I know that wherever I go, he’s still there, waiting for me to return. Sometimes, I think I see him in the corner of my eye, a tall thin figure standing in the shadows. And I know, eventually, I’ll go back. Because that place feeds on something in me, and I’m starving for the fear it gives back.