I was eighteen, fresh out of high school. While most of my friends were celebrating their newfound freedom, I was stressed out. My dad had made it clear that if I wanted to stay in his house after graduation, even for the summer, I needed to get a job. He wasn’t kidding about it either; he’d throw me out if I didn’t pull my weight. I’d known this was coming for years, but, true to form, I’d procrastinated. With just a week left before the deadline, I was scrambling to find something, anything, to avoid the streets.
Finding a job wasn’t easy. I had green hair, piercings, and a tattoo I’d done myself when I was sixteen. Needless to say, I didn’t exactly scream “hire me” to most employers. But then, as if by some twisted fate, a cop got shot on 84th Avenue, right near a Pass & Go gas station. An opening for the night shift popped up not long after, and with no other options, I applied. Two days later, I started my first shift.
Pass & Go was on 84th Avenue, a road with a bad reputation. It was one of the few roads in town still partially unpaved, running alongside a deep drainage ditch with no guardrails. The lack of streetlights made it even more dangerous, and many accidents happened on a sharp bend up the road. Locals didn’t just think the road was dangerous—they thought it was cursed. A few bodies had been found in the woods nearby, adding to the area’s dark reputation.
Despite its reputation, I took the job because I had no choice. It wasn’t bad at first. The hours suited my nocturnal lifestyle, and most nights were quiet. Sometimes I wouldn’t see a single customer. Other nights, I dealt with weirdos and druggies, but that was almost entertaining.
Things got strange about two weeks into the job. One night, I noticed the neon “open” sign flickering. It usually did this when someone approached the door, but it wasn’t reliable. However, I started to notice it always flickered for certain people. One regular was a sad-looking woman who came in weekly to buy the same scratch-off ticket. Every time she walked in, the sign would flicker.
Then, one night, a young cop came in. I made small talk, asking if he’d seen anything weird. He mentioned he hadn’t, and I joked about the strange customers we sometimes got. I thought nothing of it until I realized later that this cop looked exactly like the one who’d been killed nearby a few weeks before.
As the weeks went on, I noticed more odd occurrences. One night, a biker came in, clearly drunk and aggressive. After buying a pack of cigarettes, he walked out, but suddenly, his appearance changed. His face was bloodied, his head caved in, and he looked like he’d been in a terrible accident. I rushed to check the security footage, but to my horror, he was never there. I’d been talking to thin air.
One night, I saw a young girl come in. She looked about my age, with big brown eyes and black hair. She bought a bag of chips and a Gatorade and seemed nervous. I made small talk, but something felt off. She mentioned being on a road trip with a guy outside who looked much older. After she left, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible was about to happen.
A few days later, I couldn’t stop thinking about the girl. I searched for missing persons reports and eventually found her: Amber Wicker. She’d been missing for months. I knew she was dead, just like the others. I had to find her body.
The next morning, I went searching in the woods off 84th Avenue. After walking for a while, I found broken glass and a muddy bag of chips. I followed a trail into the forest and eventually came upon a shallow grave. I called the police, and they found her body. Amber had been murdered, her life cut short by the man who was supposed to care for her.
I decided to quit my job after that. I couldn’t handle the thought of seeing any more ghosts, reliving their last moments over and over. But on my last night, around 4 a.m., the sign flickered again. Amber walked in, looking just like she had the last time. She bought the same snacks and made the same small talk. But this time, I knew what would happen next.
Terrified, I started to think back on all the times the neon sign flickered. I Googled deaths on 84th Avenue and found that many of the people I’d seen in the store had died there. The cop, the biker, even the scratch-off lady—they were all dead. I realized that these weren’t just random people. They were ghosts, somehow still tethered to this place.
As she walked out the door, I followed her, tears in my eyes. I watched as she got into the truck with the man who would kill her. She looked back at me, her eyes filled with sadness, and whispered, “Thank you.” Then she was gone, disappearing into the night.
I never saw her again. But I’ll never forget the girl with big brown eyes who was lost too soon.
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