This story was sent in by Nora from Bend, Oregon.
I used to work evenings at a small café on the west side of Bend, the kind of place that pulled in a steady flow of skiers in winter and campers in summer. My shifts usually ran late, and on weeknights I was the one responsible for locking up. I didn’t mind the quiet. I’m one of those people who stays calmer when I’m doing something repetitive, like wiping counters or stacking chairs. Closing up at midnight became a routine I barely thought about.
The café had these huge front windows that looked out onto a small stretch of sidewalk and a couple of street lamps. At night, those windows acted like mirrors. I always saved them for last because once the lights inside were dimmed and the reflections got strong, it felt like I was watching myself more than the street.
It was early spring the night this happened, somewhere around 12:15 a.m. I remember because I’d checked the clock, hoping I could still catch a late-night grocery run on my way home. The café was warm, but the air outside looked cold enough to frost over the patio chairs. The street was completely empty.
I was cleaning one of the front windows, using long strokes of the squeegee. That’s when I noticed something shift in the reflection behind me.
At first it looked like a tall, hooded shape standing near the back of the café. I thought maybe it was just the way my shadow stretched across the glass, but when I leaned a little to the side, the shape didn’t move with me. It stayed perfectly still.
I turned around fast, expecting to see someone standing there, but the café was empty. Just chairs stacked on tables, the espresso machine humming softly, the exit sign glowing red over the main door.
When I looked back at the window, I saw something that made my stomach tighten. My reflection wasn’t matching me. I’d already turned around fully, but in the glass, it was like I was only halfway through the movement—like the reflection was catching up a beat late. As it completed the turn, I didn’t see the hooded shape anymore, but the delay was so wrong it sent a jolt through me.
My first thought was that I was overtired and just misreading it. I told myself it could’ve been the lighting or the glare or whatever else made sense. But a weight settled in my chest anyway, that feeling you get when instinct quietly taps you on the shoulder.
I stepped back from the window and wiped my hands on my apron, pretending I wasn’t rattled. Then I went into the back room to grab my bag and keys. I moved faster than I meant to, and even though the room was small, I kept glancing over my shoulder like I expected someone to slip in behind me.
When I came back out, I heard the front door rattle.
It wasn’t loud—just a short, sharp shake. Like someone testing the handle. I froze, listening. A few seconds passed, and then it happened again, this time slower, like whoever it was wanted to see how much give the door had.
The lights were still on, and the thought of whoever was outside being able to see me made my skin prickle. I crouched behind the counter and stayed still. I didn’t want to call out. I didn’t want to move. I just listened.
Whoever it was didn’t knock. They didn’t call out. They didn’t try the door again. The only sound in the café was the little refrigerator under the counter buzzing on and off, which somehow made the silence even worse.
After a full minute of nothing, I risked peeking over the counter, just enough to see the front door. There was no one there. The sidewalk outside looked empty. The street lamps flickered a bit like they always did, but that was it.
I didn’t go back for anything else. I slipped into the employee hallway and pushed out through the back exit into the parking lot. The cold air hit me hard. I kept my head down and walked straight to my car without looking toward the street-facing windows. I didn’t want to know if anything was standing there watching.
When I got home, I tried to replay the night in a way that made sense. Maybe someone had been wandering around late and saw the lights on. Maybe they were drunk and pulled on the door out of curiosity. Maybe the reflection thing was just my eyes playing tricks after a long shift. I wanted to believe all that.
But even now, I still remember the exact timing of those movements in the window—how wrong that hesitation looked, like someone standing just behind my shoulder had taken an extra moment to follow.
I kept working at the café for another few months, but I never again felt fully comfortable closing at night. I started checking every reflection twice, especially when I was the last one there. If anything looked even slightly off, I’d shut down faster than usual. And I always, always made sure the back exit was clear before I turned off the lights.
It’s been a couple of years since then, but whenever I pass by a big window at night and see myself looking back, I still get that same flicker of unease. Like I’m waiting to catch something in the glass that shouldn’t be there.