I accidentally left my receipt at the self-checkout machine.
A woman rushed over, handing it to me with a smile.
“You dropped this,” she said, her tone kind but slightly breathless.
I thanked her and left.
When I got home and unpacked the groceries, I noticed something odd.
Written on the back of the receipt in hurried handwriting were the words:
“Check your car.”
At first, I thought it was a prank. Maybe the woman had a strange sense of humor. But something about the way she’d looked at me—those wide, nervous eyes—made my stomach twist.
I walked to the window and looked out at my car parked by the curb. Nothing seemed unusual. The street was quiet, just the occasional passing car and the hum of evening cicadas. Still, curiosity got the better of me.
I grabbed my keys and went outside.
The air felt heavier than before—thick, expectant. I approached my car slowly, glancing around to see if anyone was watching. The streetlights flickered faintly, throwing long, crooked shadows across the pavement.
I checked under the car first. Nothing. Then I looked through the windows. Everything appeared normal. My grocery bags were still on the passenger seat where I’d left them.
Then I noticed something small—something I hadn’t seen before.
There was a folded piece of paper tucked under the windshield wiper.
I pulled it out and unfolded it. The same messy handwriting stared back at me.
“Don’t go back to that store. They followed you.”
My heart began to race. I turned around, scanning the street. It was empty—but I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was nearby, watching.
I rushed back inside and locked the door.
For a long moment, I just stood there, staring at the note in my hand. My mind raced through every possibility—was this some elaborate scam? A misunderstanding? Or was I actually in danger?
Then my phone buzzed.
It was a text from an unknown number.
“Did you find the note?”
I froze.
The air left my lungs. My hands trembled as I typed back, Who is this?
No reply.
A minute passed. Then another message came through:
“You’re not safe there. Check your back door.”
I felt a wave of panic surge through me. My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears. Slowly, I turned toward the back of the house.
The kitchen light flickered once—then went out.
I moved forward carefully, my footsteps quiet on the hardwood floor. Every creak of the house felt deafening.
When I reached the back door, I saw it.
The latch was open.
I knew I’d locked it.
My breath caught in my throat. I reached for the nearest thing I could use as a weapon—a heavy cast-iron skillet from the counter—and stood completely still, listening.
A faint sound came from the darkness beyond the doorway. Something soft. A shuffle.
Then—silence.
I took one step closer, then another. The door swayed slightly in the night air, the cold breeze brushing against my arm. I flipped on the back porch light.
No one was there.
I stepped outside, just far enough to look around. The yard was empty. The gate, though, was wide open.
When I turned back toward the door, I saw something that made my stomach drop.
Another note—this time taped to the inside of the glass.
“He’s already inside.”
I stumbled backward, panic rising in my chest. My hands shook as I reached for my phone, dialing 911. But before I could hit call, the line went dead. My screen flashed, then turned black.
The power had gone out.
The house was completely silent now, except for the faint creaking of the floorboards above me.
Someone was upstairs.
I stood frozen at the base of the staircase, trying to quiet my breathing. Then I heard it again—slow, deliberate footsteps.
My mind screamed at me to run, but my body wouldn’t move.
Finally, I forced myself toward the front door. But when I reached for the knob—it didn’t turn. The door was jammed.
I grabbed the heavy skillet again, gripping it with both hands, and backed into the corner of the hallway.
“Who’s there?” I shouted, my voice shaking.
No answer.
The footsteps stopped.
And then, in a low, raspy voice that seemed to come from right above me, I heard:
“You should’ve checked your trunk.”
Epilogue
The police later told me the woman at the store was an off-duty security guard. She’d seen a man slip something into my shopping cart as I paid — and followed me out, trying to warn me without drawing attention.
When they finally checked my car, they found what she’d meant.
Hidden in my trunk was a black duffel bag containing a set of zip ties, gloves, and a burner phone.
The man had vanished before they could find him.
Now, every time I go shopping, I double-check everything — my car, my doors, even my receipts. Because sometimes, a stranger’s warning is the only thing standing between you and something far worse.
