This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Wizard_of_the_swole on 2026-08-14 22:15:58+00:00.

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I worked the night shift at a supermarket.

It’s as dull as you imagine it to be. Stacking shelves on the dimly lit shop floor, un-loading the back of trucks, and dragging pallets of heavy, frozen food in and out of the industrial freezer.

It is boring, uncomfortable and further muddied by the tired haze that hangs over you, every movement like trudging through a thick mire, with terrible black coffee being the only thing holding your eyes open.

But, despite it all… I like it. You get in a trance once you’re used to it, with an audio book in your ear and your head down, blinking through the heavy haze of your vision until you can see the first rays of sunlight cresting over the horizon.

You just need to keep putting one foot in front of the other, one at a time. One and two, one and two.

All this to say that, despite the work, despite the lack of social interaction aside from the other half-awake zombies, despite the only slightly higher than minimum wage… I would still be working the night shift, if it wasn’t for the events of my last night there.

I have to take the train to get to work, racing midnight to get to the station. I wait in the isolated dark of the old building, the first strikes of rain sounding against the steel roof. I count them as I wait for my train.

One and two. Pause. One and two.

In the corner of my eye is the flicker of movement. Other people, waiting for other trains, on other platforms. When I first started taking the train in the dead of night, I got that old twinge of fear, like a little kid watching their first horror movie. Figures in the distance, close enough to see their warm breath against the chill air, but far away enough to see no details. Half-shadows, standing in the distance. Waiting.

But now, the ever-present tiredness that follows me is relaxing, in its own way. I see silhouettes in the distance and I don’t even have the energy to consider the sinister assumptions our minds make of strangers.

I blink and my train is here.

The twenty minutes it takes for me to arrive is covered by the low hushed voices of my earphones whispering stories of lives I wish I could live.

The scream of the brakes has my legs standing before my mind tells them too. I’m at the door as it slides open, and my heavy footsteps lead me to the store.

The obnoxious sign, bright and cheerful against the dark of the night, lights my path to the metal door of the staff entrance and the empty yard where the delivery trucks parked.

I hit the buzzer and wait. For large supermarkets like this, when closed, the staff have to wait at the electronically sealed door, hitting a buzzer to send an annoying, loud ringing to the shop floor. Someone inside would make their way to the door to hit the button on their side and let me in. I’m early, so I wait alone.

I wait a minute, then two. On the third I hit the button again, holding it down. It was rude, sure, but I was out in the cold, alone and just as tired as the person I assumed was slowly shuffling to the button.

Another five minutes, and I hear the buzz of the button on the other side. The ringing must have covered the sound of their footsteps.

I hurriedly push it open.

I step into the small, empty, staff-only area. The faded yellow paint of the walls reflects the dim overhead lighting, and echoes the sound of the door slamming and locking behind me.

To my left is the old door leading to the shop floor. The chipped green paint and rusted hinges would usually give a slow groan from the slightest movement, but it stands soundless now.

I hear foot steps from the other side. Slow and sluggish movements, mimicked by every tired worker within the walls of the old building.

One and two. One and two. The slow shuffling echoing down the dark shelves, growing fainter.

This has happened before. The staff starting the night shift being too busy to greet the person they let in, so after a quick look through the peephole in the door, they press the button and unceremoniously march back towards their labour.

I turn to the right, and begin to make my way up to the second floor. Each step echoes in the store’s usual silence. I pass the store’s main office on my way to the lounge. Plastered across the door is a printout showing the forced smiles of the store’s five managers. The head manager, Greg, was front and centre, put in a place of prominence over the other four.

The manager on the bottom left of the printout, with the tired eyes and retreating hairline, is my boss and the manager who was overlooking this shift. To put it simply, he was an asshole. Stuck up, uncompromising and always ranting about cars, even after you told him you have no real interest in cars. Twice.

I mumbled an insult as I passed both it and the staff lockers. I’ve taken to wearing my uniform during my commute, so I make my way straight to the employee café. The bitter black coffee tastes like hot mud; the burn on my tongue does more to keep me awake than the caffeine.

I use my cheap, laminated employee card to clock in and start my shift. Five minutes early, the most minor of inconveniences for my managers.

I’m meant to start alongside at least four other colleagues, but since each of them drives to get here, I assume there must have been some road trouble slowing them down.

I throw another curse as I pass the office door again, and step down the stairs, one foot at a time. One and two, one and two.

The groan of the green door echoes across the shop floor.

During night shifts the shop floor has minimal lighting. The big, heavy lights that would usually light up the store during the day were all but black, with only a handful remaining on at night; just enough to work, but not enough to impact the bill.

In the distance of the central isle, I think I see someone walking away from me. I swear I saw their silhouette merging with the dark as they stepped just out of view, like they walked off-stage through a curtain.

I turn and walk against the edge of the store, following the wall of the rectangular building. I feel the chill of the freezer section as I pass it, with the only sounds being the buzz of the lighting between my steps. One and two, then one and two.

The entrance to the warehouse is held open by a fire extinguisher, which I find a little strange; after all, one of the few things we actually receive training for is fire safety. I figure someone had just propped the door open while they unloaded pallets, but the lights were off.

I feel across the left-hand side of the wall, trying to find the light switch.

The lights should already be on. The staff that locked up the store should have left them on. Where were the staff that should be here before me and for the love of God, where the hell is the light switch!?

I find it on the right side of the warehouse.

I flick it and… nothing.

Bollocks.

Guess that solves where everyone else is, off trying to fix the lights…

No… no that still doesn’t make sense. How many men does it take to fix a light? Not a whole night shift team.

My terrible joke is interrupted as I spot a reflection from the small amount of light present in the shop. The thin white light gleams off a puddle across the warehouse floor.

Shit.

If the lights in the warehouse are off then maybe the power to the cooler and freezer are too. But if it is, then what the hell can I do?

I grumble and step towards the back of the warehouse, as I trudge through the puddle, I see the water creeping through the freezer only; so, the cooler was on at least.

But then that doesn’t line up. Lights off, freezer melting but not the cooler, so power to the whole warehouse isn’t off…

I hear dripping from the over side of the heavy metal door… drip, drip and drip, drip. One and two. Pause. One and two.

My hand rises to the handle.

Clang!

I jump back, my heart stopping for a brief moment as white-hot panic and confusion washes over me like a tidal wave.

My breath hitches as I hear it again, a loud bang of something hitting metal, but not from the door…

The second time I hear it I realise the sound has echoed from beyond the metal roller shutter at the back of the warehouse. Behind it is the yard behind the building, and past that the high sharp metal fence surrounding it.

The third time the sound passes through me, I step towards the door. The keys are on a hook beside the shutter, to the side of a standard door out of the warehouse.

I shoulder the door open and peer out into the yard, the distant street lights illuminating the outside brighter, then… CLANG!

On the other side of the gate is a truck, annoyingly bright green like the sides of the store. It reflects the white light to reveal it’s driver, kicking the gate with his heavy boots.

I’d forgotten about the delivery, but there would be another one before long so I’d need to get this one unloaded and on its way before then.

I let the familiarity of this routine control my steps, as I grab the keys and move to the gate. One step at a time.

One and two. One and two.

The cold night air helps to calm me down; the nervous energy of this strange night being pushed to the side as I prepare to handle the mundane problem of an angry truck driver.

“The fuck took you so long?” His voice is sharp and his red face paints his annoyance just as clearly. The man is shorter than me but not by much, his grey stubble reminds me of my uncle and his shaved head gleams from the street lights...

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