The Laughing Vending Machine

I’d been working the night shift at the Cedar Creek Quik-Stop for about three months, a lonely outpost off the interstate where the forest pressed close on three sides and the parking lot lights hummed a constant, nervous frequency. The job was simple: stock shelves, mop floors, wipe down the ancient coffee machine, and endure the occasional trucker who wanted to chat about the weather or the state of the roads. It was late October when the first incident happened, and I was alone, as usual, my manager having left at ten with a wave and a tired smile.

I was in the back storage room, sorting a shipment of chip boxes, when I heard it: a child’s laugh, high and bright, coming from the small break room adjacent to the kitchen. It was the kind of laugh a little girl might make when playing hide-and-seek, full of delight and mischief. My manager, Diane, sometimes brought her granddaughter, Lily, in on weekend afternoons, but it was Wednesday, and Lily was definitely not there. Still, I called out, ‘Hello?’ The laugh stopped. I walked into the break room, my footsteps echoing on the linoleum. The room was empty, the vending machine in the corner humming its eternal tune. I told myself it was the pipes, or maybe a radio from a passing car, and I went back to work. But I kept glancing at the break room door.

Weeks passed, and the laugh became a recurring ghost. I’d hear it at odd moments–while scrubbing the grill, while counting the till, while taking out the trash–always from the direction of that break room, always that same childish, uncontrolled giggle. I mentioned it to my manager, but she just shrugged it off, saying, ‘Old buildings make noises. Don’t let it get to you.’ But I couldn’t shake it. It was too clear, too close.

Then one night, my coworker, an older fellow named Frank, who’d been working there for years, asked me out of the blue if I’d ever heard anything strange in the back. I hesitated, then admitted about the laugh. Frank’s face went pale. He told me a story he’d never told anyone, a story that made the hair on my arms stand up.

‘It was about a year ago,’ he began. ‘I was closing up with a guy named Mike, and we were standing by the drink cooler, just talking. Mike was a big guy, not the type to get spooked. Suddenly, we both heard it–a little girl laughing, right behind us, coming from the vending machine. We froze. I looked at Mike, and he looked at me, and I could see he was as scared as I was. We turned around, and there was nothing there. But then the laughter got louder, and the machine started flickering, its lights going on and off like it was trying to communicate. We got out of that place so fast, we didn’t even lock the door properly.’

Frank looked at me with a seriousness I hadn’t seen before. ‘Since that night, I’ve never gone into that break room alone. And I’ve always suspected there was something in that machine. Something that likes to laugh.’

I tried to laugh it off, but the unease stuck with me. I started to avoid the break room entirely, using the restroom near the front counter instead. But the laugh found me anyway.

A few nights later, I was alone again. The store was quiet, the only sound the low hum of the freezers. I was wiping down the coffee station when I heard it, not from the break room, but from the vending machine in the front of the store. It was the same laugh, but now it was coming from everywhere, echoing through the aisles. I dropped the cloth and stared at the machine. The glass front was dark, not showing any products, and I saw my reflection, distorted in the curvature. And then, behind my reflection, there was a girl. She was small, maybe six years old, with long dark hair that fell over her face. She was standing in the aisle behind me, but when I whirled around, no one was there.

My heart pounded. I grabbed my phone and called Frank, even though it was two in the morning. He didn’t answer. I called the manager, but it went straight to voicemail. I was alone.

The laugh came again, this time from the vending machine itself, and I saw the lights flicker. I decided I couldn’t stay. I grabbed my jacket, keys, and ran out to my car, not even bothering to lock the store. I drove home, shaking, and didn’t sleep.

The next day, I handed in my notice. Diane, the manager, asked why, and I told her I just needed a change. She didn’t press, but as I was leaving, she said, ‘It’s been happening more lately. That laugh. I hear it sometimes myself, when I’m in the back. My Lily used to laugh like that, before she passed. She loved the vending machine.’

I froze. ‘She passed?’

Diane nodded, her eyes distant. ‘Car accident. Two years ago. She used to come with me, and she’d always ask for a quarter to get a candy bar from the machine. She said it was her favorite thing. After she died, I used to hear her laugh in my head. But then… it started coming from the store.’

I left, and never looked back. But sometimes, in the dead of night, when I’m somewhere quiet, I still hear that laugh. And I know, with a certainty that chills me to the bone, that it was never my imagination. It was real. And it’s still there, waiting in that break room, for the next person to listen.