This story was sent in by Sierra from Reno, Nevada.
I’ve had asthma since I was a kid, so running out of my inhaler isn’t just inconvenient—it’s something I can’t ignore. That’s why I found myself driving across Reno close to midnight on a Tuesday, even though I had work early the next morning. My chest had been tightening all evening, and when I realized the inhaler was completely empty, I didn’t want to risk waiting until morning.
There’s a 24‑hour pharmacy not far from where I live, one of those big chain locations that always feels too large for how few people are usually inside. Reno late at night is quiet in a way that feels different from small towns. The streets are lit, the casinos glow in the distance, but everything in between feels hollow. That’s the best word I have for it.
When I pulled into the lot, only a couple of cars were there. The cold air felt sharper than usual when I stepped out, and the store’s automatic doors hummed open slow, like they were tired too. Inside, I could see only two employees—one stocking shelves near the registers, the other behind the counter scrolling through something on his phone.
The place felt cavernous, like too much space for too few people. My footsteps echoed in a way that made me hyperaware of them. I headed straight for the pharmacy counter, got my refill without any problem, and took a moment to breathe with the inhaler before wandering toward the snacks aisle. I always grab something salty when I’m stressed. It’s a dumb habit, but it calms me.
That’s when I noticed him.
He was standing in the cold medicine aisle—a guy in a black hoodie, hands in his pockets, leaning ever so slightly backward as if bracing himself against nothing. His head was tilted upward, eyes fixed somewhere near the ceiling tiles. He looked like he was listening to something I couldn’t hear.
At first, I thought he might be on the phone with earbuds in, but his hood was up, and I didn’t see any wires. He wasn’t moving at all. Not shifting his weight, not tapping a foot, nothing. I only glanced for a second before moving on because I didn’t want to seem rude.
I went down the snacks aisle, picked up a bag of pretzels, and turned around to go back toward the registers.
He was there.
Standing at the far end of the aisle. Same posture. Same upward tilt of his head. Same complete stillness. And I hadn’t heard a single step.
Just to be clear, these aisles are long. There’s no way to quietly sprint down one without some kind of sound—an arm brushing a shelf, shoes scuffing the tile, anything. But it was like he’d just materialized.
He was facing forward this time, not directly at me, but angled in a way that felt intentional. I tried to excuse it in my head. Maybe he was looking for something specific and kept checking different sections. Maybe he was just spaced out. People act strange in pharmacies late at night.
Still, something about him made my stomach tighten.
I decided to loop around to another aisle rather than walk past him. I went down the next one over—housewares or seasonal stuff, I don’t even remember—and pretended to look at a shelf I didn’t care about.
When I moved to the middle of the aisle, I glanced up.
He was there again. At the end of this aisle now.
Same position. Same upward tilt. Same uncanny stillness.
That was when the hairs on my arms went up. It wasn’t just the weirdness. It was the way he didn’t seem to be choosing items, or looking for someone, or even moving with a purpose. He was just appearing. Quietly. Too quietly.
I didn’t want to panic, so I walked out of the aisle as casually as I could and made a straight line toward the checkout. My heart rate had kicked up enough that I could feel it in my throat.
When I reached the front of the store, I saw the automatic doors—and I stopped.
He was standing right next to them. Not in the way of someone waiting to leave. More like he was positioned there. Blocking most of the exit without actually touching it. His head was no longer tilted; he was staring at nothing in particular, but he was angled so that getting to the doors meant passing within arm’s reach.
I hesitated. Just long enough for the cashier to notice.
He asked, quietly, “Do you need help finding something?”
I shook my head but didn’t step forward yet. The guy by the doors turned his head—slowly, too slowly—and looked straight at the cashier, then at me.
There was nothing in his expression. Not anger, not confusion—just blankness. Like he was studying us without actually caring.
Then he turned back to the doors and pressed his shoulder against one of them. Only then did they slide open. They hadn’t reacted to him before that, as if he hadn’t been close enough for the sensors to notice. He slipped out into the night, never once looking back.
I waited a few seconds before leaving, and even then, I asked the cashier if he could watch me walk to my car. He didn’t ask questions; he just stepped around the counter and stood by the window until I got in and locked my doors.
The guy wasn’t in the parking lot. At least, not anywhere I could see.
I drove home with my adrenaline running high enough that I didn’t even need the inhaler again that night.
Since then, I don’t shop late unless it’s busy. I don’t care how inconvenient it is. That moment—seeing him appear in those aisles like he’d always been there—still creeps into my mind sometimes, especially when I’m alone in a quiet store and the air feels a little too still.