This story was sent in by Melissa T. from Flagstaff, Arizona.
It happened a couple of years ago, back when I was working evenings at a small clothing store just outside downtown Flagstaff. We weren’t a busy place, especially on weeknights, and by late fall the nights got chilly enough that foot traffic dropped off almost entirely after ten. I didn’t mind closing shifts, though. I liked the quiet, and I liked being able to control how the store looked before locking up. It gave me a sense of routine at a time in my life when I didn’t have much of one.
That night, I remember feeling more drained than usual. I think it was around 11:45 p.m. I had been on my feet since the afternoon, and by the time the last customer wandered out, my legs were aching in that dull, familiar way they do after a long retail day. I locked the front doors, did the usual sweep along the floor sets, folded a few sweaters that people had just tossed back onto tables, and did that quick glance around you get used to—lights, displays, dressing rooms, all empty.
The store felt calm. Too calm, maybe. You notice things more sharply when it’s late and you’re alone. The HVAC clunks, the hum of the fluorescent lights, even your own footsteps start to feel louder. But it was just part of closing, and I’d heard it all a hundred times.
I headed to the stockroom to finish the last bit of inventory before I could shut everything down and go home. The stockroom light has this faint buzz to it, like a dying bee trapped in a jar. I flicked it on, grabbed the clipboard from the shelf, and started checking boxes one by one.
That’s when I noticed something off.
Right in the middle of the stockroom floor was a half-unpacked box. Just sitting there. Not on the table. Not near the wall. Dead center, like someone had set it down intentionally. The lid was peeled back and one of the plastic-wrapped shirts inside was halfway pulled out.
I remember standing there for a good couple of seconds, just staring at it. I hadn’t touched that shipment yet. I knew exactly which boxes I’d opened earlier, and this wasn’t one of them. It wasn’t even in the same section.
My brain immediately tried to patch together logical explanations. Maybe I forgot I moved it. Maybe my manager left it earlier during her shift. Maybe one of the customers somehow slipped into the backroom when I wasn’t looking. But that last thought didn’t even make sense—the door chimes would’ve gone off. And I always kept that door propped closed.
Still, I tried not to freak myself out. I bent down to push the box out of the walkway.
That’s when I heard it.
A soft shuffle. Like rubber soles dragging lightly across linoleum.
It came from behind one of the tall rolling racks near the corner of the room. The kind with jackets hanging on both sides. I froze in this awkward crouch with my hand on the cardboard, and for a moment I held my breath, wondering if I’d imagined it.
Then I heard something worse.
Breathing.
Slow. Steady. Not panicked, not winded. Just someone breathing in a controlled way, like they were trying not to be heard but weren’t doing a great job of it.
I didn’t stand up right away. I stayed crouched, staring at that rack, trying to listen past the thudding in my ears. The first thought that hit me was that a customer had hidden in the store before closing, maybe trying to shoplift. But that didn’t line up, either. The place had been empty for at least twenty minutes before I locked up. And if someone was hiding, why come into the stockroom?
I slowly straightened up and took one tiny step backward. My shoes squeaked on the floor, and I heard the breathing pause for half a second. Then the rack shifted just a little. Not enough to tip or make noise—just a slight movement, like someone leaning their weight against it.
That was the moment every hair on my arms lifted.
I kept backing up, keeping my eyes locked on that corner. I didn’t want to turn my back. I didn’t want to speak. I didn’t even want to swallow because I was scared the sound would carry.
My hand fumbled behind me for the stockroom door. When my fingers found the edge, I slipped through it and eased it shut, trying not to let it slam. The second the latch clicked, I bolted. Full sprint through the sales floor toward the front doors.
I didn’t look back. I didn’t grab my purse. I didn’t even hit the lights.
I just unlocked the door with shaking hands, shoved it open, and burst into the parking lot where the overhead lamps made everything feel brighter and safer than it actually was.
I stood there for a long minute, trying to calm down, listening for anything inside the store. The automatic lights near the front windows stayed still. Nothing moved. I called 911 from outside, feeling a little embarrassed but too shaken to care.
When the officers finally arrived, they searched the store top to bottom. Stockroom, bathroom, racks, even the crawlspace above the ceiling tiles. They found nothing. They asked me over and over if I might’ve left the back door unlocked or if maybe a coworker had come in earlier. But the box in the middle of the room stuck with me. It wasn’t something that would shift on its own. Somebody had put it there.
They didn’t find footprints or handprints or anything useful. They said it was possible someone had slipped out while I was running to the front, but they couldn’t be sure.
I didn’t sleep much that night. For weeks, every little noise in the store made my chest tighten. I kept imagining that breathing, that slow, controlled pace, just a few feet away from me with only a rack of jackets between us.
I’m still at the same job, but I don’t close alone anymore. And even when someone’s with me, I always check behind every rack before shutting off the lights. I never leave boxes in the middle of the stockroom, either.
And some nights, when I’m locking up and the place is dead silent, I catch myself listening—wondering if I’ll ever hear that slow breathing again, waiting in the dark.