The Vending Machine at 3 AM

May 16, 2026

by Katrina

2 min read

Story Premise 2 min read (368 words)

"In my sophomore year, I lived in an off-campus apartment complex called Oakwood Manor. It was a sprawling, crumbling building with creaky stairs and flickering fluorescent lights. One night, after a late study session at the library, I returned around 2:30 AM hungry and exhausted. The vending machine in the basement lobby was the only […]"

In my sophomore year, I lived in an off-campus apartment complex called Oakwood Manor. It was a sprawling, crumbling building with creaky stairs and flickering fluorescent lights. One night, after a late study session at the library, I returned around 2:30 AM hungry and exhausted. The vending machine in the basement lobby was the only source of snacks at that hour.

I decided to go down and get a bag of chips. The basement was always dimly lit, with a single bulb that hummed and sputtered. As I walked down the concrete stairs, the smell of dampness and old dust filled my nostrils. The vending machine stood at the far end, its glow a faint blue beacon in the dark.

I inserted my coins and pressed the button for BBQ chips. The machine whirred and then… nothing. I pressed again, and the coil turned, but the bag didn’t drop. I shook the machine out of frustration, and that’s when I heard a sound behind me – a wet, dragging noise, like something heavy being pulled across the floor.

I froze. The air grew cold, and I felt a presence, not just behind me, but all around, pressing in. My ears popped from the pressure change. I couldn’t turn. My limbs felt like lead. I was paralyzed, my breath caught in my throat. The vending machine flickered, its light casting dancing shadows.

I knew with absolute certainty that if I looked back, I would see something that would break my mind. So I stared at my reflection in the machine’s glass. Behind me, a blurred figure stood – tall, hunched, with limbs too long. It didn’t move; it just watched.

The seconds stretched into hours. I was drowning in fear. My lungs burned from not breathing. Just as I thought I would collapse, the pressure lifted. The presence vanished. I gasped, my knees buckling.

I never ate chips from that vending machine again. And for weeks, I heard that dragging sound in my dreams, always at 3 AM. But the worst part was when I went to toss my empty wrapper in the bin, I saw a note taped inside the machine: ‘You forgot your change.’ I never got my change back.

Related Horror Movies to Watch

Midnight in a Perfect World

2020

Zivi i mrtvi

2007

Woodcote: Evidence of a Haunting

2011

The Quatermass Xperiment

1960

Leave a Comment Cancel reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.

The Corvid’s Gift

The first Tuesday of June 2000 found me driving through the outskirts of Inverness, my thoughts as grey as the overcast sky. Two weeks had passed since I’d lowered my father into the ground, and the world still felt muffled, as if I were hearing it through layers of wool. My job at the distillery […]

The Pane in the Rain

My best friend, Maya, and I had been inseparable since we were kids. We shared everything: secrets, snacks, and even a homemade Ouija board that we never dared to use. When her family moved to the other side of the country, I was devastated, but I had my sister, my brother, and my parents to […]

The Wall Between

It was a small, tidy house on the edge of town, its red brick facade worn smooth by years of rain. We moved in when our daughter, Lila, was two, and now she was six. The house had a peculiar layout: the only bathroom was at the end of the hall, directly across from Lila’s […]

The Statue in the Corner

My brother Fintan and I grew up in a cramped flat above a defunct fishmonger’s in the port town of Ballymore. The building smelled of brine and rust, and the walls were thin enough to hear the sea when the wind was up. We shared a room that faced the harbor, and our window looked […]

The Cellar of Unfinished Steps

In the autumn of 1983, I was fifteen, living with my aunt Doris and uncle Hal in their sprawling split-level house in rural Minnesota. The house was a maze of half-levels and unexpected rooms, with a musty basement that stretched beneath the entire structure. My aunt had a habit of collecting old furniture and forgotten […]

The Sunroom’s Shadow

I was twenty-two, four months pregnant with our first child, and living in a converted Victorian on the edge of Meridian Creek, a town so small the postmistress knew everyone’s middle names. My husband, Caleb, and I had rented the ground floor of an old house that had been split into two apartments. The upper […]

The Linoleum Map

The house on Hemlock Lane had a linoleum floor in the kitchen that was peeling up in the corner, revealing a pattern of faded brown and ochre diamonds that looked like some ancient, forgotten map. I was eleven that summer, and my mother had moved us there to be closer to her new job at […]

The Last Pencil

The first time I noticed the pencil was during Mr. Harlow’s third-period algebra class. It lay on the floor by the radiator, a plain yellow Number 2 with the eraser worn down to the metal. I remember thinking it was odd, because no one sat near there; the desk had been empty since Jerry Voss […]

The Empty Kitchen

In the autumn of my fourteenth year, I lived with my family in a creaky old farmhouse on the edge of a dying town. My parents, pragmatic souls, had bought the place for a song, ignoring the tales the locals whispered about the previous owner, a bitter old man who had hanged himself in the […]

The Last Train to Rathlin

It was the summer of 2003 when I first saw the obituary in the local paper. Old Mr. Callahan, the man who’d played the irascible postman in the long-running series ‘Harbour Lights’, had passed away. I’d watched that show every Sunday night with my gran, and his gruff voice and knowing wink were as familiar […]

The Blue Crayon

My name is Evelyn, and this begins in the winter of my junior year. I was obsessed with old parlor games, anything that promised a glimpse beyond the veil. My grandmother had left me a dusty, leather-bound book of spiritualist practices, and tucked inside its pages was a faded, hand-drawn ouija board on a scrap […]

The Creosote Hall

The moment my head hit the pillow, the world tilted. It wasn’t the slow drift into sleep I knew, but a sudden, violent yank, as if the bed had been pulled from under me. I gasped, and then I was there, standing on a cracked asphalt playground under a sky the color of old brass. […]