This story was sent in by Alex from Flagstaff, Arizona.
I was running on fumes the night this happened. I’d just finished a double shift at the restaurant where I work, and by the time I clocked out, it was a little after 12:40 in the morning. I still had that wired-but-exhausted feeling you get after being on your feet too long. My fridge at home was basically empty, and I knew if I didn’t grab something quick, I’d just end up skipping breakfast and feeling even worse the next day. So I drove to one of the 24-hour grocery stores on the edge of Flagstaff.
It was around 1 a.m. when I pulled into the lot. Late enough that the usual hum of people was gone, but not quite late enough where it felt abandoned. Most of the lights in the parking lot were either flickering or completely dead, so I picked one of the few spots under a working light. I always do that when it’s late. The air was warm for once — one of those rare summer nights where the heat from the day still clung to the pavement.
As I walked toward the entrance, I noticed a guy standing by the cart return. He was wearing this heavy coat that didn’t make sense for the weather. Not a hoodie — a full-on winter coat. His head was angled down like he was staring at the asphalt, hands shoved deep into his pockets. At first I thought maybe he was waiting for a ride, or maybe he worked there and was on break. But he wasn’t leaning on anything or pacing or checking his phone. He wasn’t doing anything. Just standing completely still.
I slowed down a little when I got closer, not enough to make it obvious, but enough to get a better look. He didn’t lift his head. He didn’t shift. Nothing. I tried to tell myself he was just tired like I was. People zone out late at night all the time. Still, that image of him just staring at nothing stuck in my mind as I went into the store.
Inside, everything felt normal enough. Bright lights, a half-asleep cashier, quiet aisles. I grabbed a few things for the week and took my time, partly because I wanted to decompress and partly because that guy had unsettled me more than I wanted to admit. I kept thinking about the coat. The weather didn’t justify it, and the way he stood there… it was off.
By the time I checked out, maybe twenty minutes had passed. When I stepped outside again, the cart return was empty. I almost laughed at myself. I figured he’d gotten picked up, or maybe he’d just gone inside while I wasn’t paying attention. It wasn’t like seeing someone standing alone at night was some huge red flag. I tried to shake it off.
But when I got close to my car, I noticed something that made me stop short.
A shadow shifted behind my rear bumper.
At first I thought it was an animal — Flagstaff has enough stray cats and random wildlife that it wouldn’t have surprised me. But when I took another couple steps, a figure rose from behind the car.
It was him. The heavy coat guy.
He stood up slowly, pushing himself upright with this stiff, almost deliberate motion. His head was still angled downward, but not as much as before. I could see his face now, sort of. His eyes never quite met mine, but they were open, unfocused, like he was trying to look at me without actually looking at me. The bottom of his coat brushed against the bumper like he’d been crouching there for a while.
He didn’t say anything. Not even a greeting or an excuse or a question. He just adjusted the front of his coat — two short tugs, like he wanted it to sit a certain way — and took a small step toward me.
That was when the adrenaline hit hard. I didn’t even think. I hit the unlock button on my key fob from a distance, tossed my bag through the passenger-side door, and climbed in after it. I didn’t want to go near him. Not with how strangely he’d been acting. Not with how quiet he was.
As I slid across the seats toward the driver’s side, I heard footsteps. Slow ones. I felt this instinctive, animal-level fear tighten in my chest. I turned the key, and as the engine came to life, I saw him in the corner of my headlights. He hadn’t tried to open any doors or say anything — he was just walking toward the car in this steady, unchanging pace.
I put it in gear and pulled out faster than I probably should have. The tires squeaked a little on the pavement. In the rearview mirror, I saw him keep walking for several steps, like he was still approaching the spot I’d been parked in. Then he just stopped in the middle of the driving lane and stood there, facing the direction I’d gone.
I didn’t see a car pick him up. I didn’t see him turn around. He just stood there, getting smaller in the mirror until I rounded the corner out of the lot.
The whole drive home, I kept replaying it in my head, trying to make sense of it. Maybe he was homeless and looking for spare change. Maybe he was high or confused or just having a rough night. But crouching behind someone’s car in the dark… waiting… then getting up without a word? That wasn’t something you accidentally do.
I didn’t report it because I didn’t know what I’d even say. He hadn’t touched me, hadn’t threatened me. He hadn’t said anything at all. But there was something deeply wrong about the way he moved. Like he’d been planning something but hadn’t gotten the chance to do it.
Since that night, I don’t do late-night grocery runs anymore. Even if I’m starving after work, I wait until morning. And whenever I walk back to my car, I check under it, behind it, and around it before I get too close.
I never used to think about those things. Now I do every single time.