I noticed him because he wasn’t looking at the shelves like everyone else. He was looking at me.
I worked the late shift at a small supermarket in coastal Queensland in 2021. It wasn’t a big place. Four aisles, a freezer wall, a tiny backroom that smelled like cardboard. Nights were usually slow. Sometimes too slow. But I liked the quiet, and I liked walking home under the bright car park lights. It always felt safe.
Until that night.
He came in around nine. Tall, a bit older than me, maybe in his thirties. A grey hoodie pulled low over his eyes. At first he pretended to read labels, but he kept drifting back toward my aisle. He moved without touching anything. It was like he wanted to look busy but didn’t know how.
I tried to stay calm. People did strange things all the time. But when I restocked the drinks section, I felt his eyes on my back. A warm, prickly feeling crawled across my shoulders.
I turned slowly. He was standing at the end of the aisle. Still. Watching me.
“Everything alright, mate?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. He walked away instead, but not far. He lingered near the self-checkout screens, pretending to study the machine like he’d never seen one before.
I told myself to relax. Maybe he was confused. Maybe he was waiting for someone. But the doubt stuck to me like sweat.
When it was finally time to close, the store grew quiet. I locked the doors, counted the till, and grabbed my bag from the office. The lights buzzed loudly overhead. I could hear my own breathing.
I stepped outside.
The car park stretched out in long strips of silver pavement under bright white lamps. My car sat near the middle, the only vehicle left. The night smelled like dust and warm concrete. Calm. Ordinary.
Then I saw movement in the corner of my eye.
He was standing near the edge of the car park. Half in shadow. Facing me.
I felt my heartbeat climb into my throat. He wasn’t pretending anymore. He wasn’t pretending anything. He stood like he had been waiting for the exact moment I stepped outside.
I unlocked my car with shaky hands, but I didn’t get in. If I turned my back on him, I wouldn’t know how close he got. So I walked nearer, slow and steady, pretending I wasn’t scared.
He took a step forward.
Just one. But it was enough.
“Can I help you?” I called out. My voice echoed slightly across the pavement.
He kept walking. Not fast. Not slow. Just steady. Like he knew I wouldn’t run.
I reached the driver door, ready to jump in. But he changed direction. He angled toward the passenger side instead, like he wanted to get close without me noticing. He wasn’t speaking. Not a word. His hood still shaded most of his face.
Something about his walk made my skin crawl. He didn’t swing his arms much. He moved like he was saving all his energy for something else.
I slid into the driver seat and locked the door right away. My hands shook so much I nearly dropped the keys.
He came closer.
He reached the passenger door and stopped. He leaned down a little so I could see his face through the window.
His eyes were wide and bright. Too bright. And he was smiling. A small smile that never touched the rest of his face. Just his mouth stretching very slightly.
He tapped the glass with one finger.
Not hard. Just a soft rap. Like he wanted to test how close he could get.
I fumbled to start the engine, but the keys slipped and fell between the seat and the console. I swore under my breath and bent to grab them. For a moment, I lost sight of him.
When I sat back up, he was gone.
The passenger window showed only the empty pavement. No movement. No sound.
I scanned the mirrors, my pulse racing. The car felt too small, like the air had turned thick. I checked the back seat even though I knew it had been locked.
Nothing.
I forced myself to breathe slowly. Maybe he walked away. Maybe he wasn’t trying to hurt me. Maybe he just wanted to scare me.
I drove off faster than I meant to, headlights bouncing across the empty road. I kept checking the mirrors even though they showed nothing but darkness.
When I got home, I locked the door three times before going inside.
I didn’t sleep much that night.
The next morning, I told my manager everything. He pulled up the security footage. The cameras caught every corner of the car park, every step I took to my car.
But when he scrubbed through the recording, something made my stomach twist.
The man was there when I locked up. He walked toward the far end of the lot.
But in the angle facing my car, the space beside the passenger door was empty. Completely empty. No figure leaning in. No smile pressed against the glass. No tap of a finger.
Just me, sitting inside the car, staring at the window like something stood there.
My manager paused the video. The screen showed nothing but the clean reflection of the lamps on the pavement.
“You sure you saw someone?” he asked.
I nodded. My throat tightened. “He was right there.”
He frowned. “Then the camera should’ve gotten him.”
I said nothing. I didn’t know how to explain what I had seen.
I stopped taking the night shift after that. Every time I walked through that car park, I felt the same prickling on my shoulders, the same pressure behind me, even when no one else was around.
And sometimes, while locking up, I swear I hear a soft tap against the passenger window of my car.
Just one finger.
Testing the glass.
