Written on the back of the receipt in hurried handwriting was…
“Check your trunk. Don’t go home.”
My stomach dropped.
For a second, I just stood there in my kitchen, the plastic grocery bags still half-unpacked on the counter. The words felt heavy in my hand, like the receipt had suddenly gained weight.
Don’t go home?
But I was already home.
A cold prickle ran up my spine.
I slowly turned toward the front door, making sure it was locked. It was. Deadbolt, too. Everything looked normal—too normal.
My heart started to pound.
I grabbed my phone, debating whether to call someone—anyone—but what would I even say? Hi, someone wrote something creepy on my receipt?
Then I remembered the trunk.
My car was parked right outside.
I swallowed hard and stepped toward the window, carefully pulling the curtain aside just enough to peek out. My car sat there under the dim streetlight, quiet and still.
Nothing unusual.
Still… that message.
I slipped my shoes back on, my hands trembling, and stepped outside. The night air felt colder than it should have. Every small sound—the rustle of leaves, a distant car—made me flinch.
I approached my car slowly, like it might suddenly lunge at me.
The trunk.
I hesitated, my hand hovering over the key fob.
This is ridiculous, I told myself. It’s probably nothing.
But the woman’s face flashed in my mind—her smile… tight, almost forced. And the way she’d rushed.
I pressed the button.
The trunk clicked open.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then it lifted.
Inside… was my spare grocery bag.
And underneath it—
A phone.
Not mine.
I stared at it, confused, my breath shallow. The screen lit up suddenly, making me jump.
An incoming message.
Unknown number.
With shaking fingers, I picked it up and read:
“You weren’t supposed to see that note.”
My blood turned to ice.
Before I could react, another message appeared:
“He’s still nearby.”
I spun around, my eyes scanning the dark street.
And that’s when I saw it.
A figure standing across the road… watching me.
