This story was sent in by Lena from Aurora, Colorado.
I’ve always been the kind of person who remembers what I forgot right after I’ve already gotten home. That night was no different. I had just changed into pajamas when I realized I was completely out of dog food, and my mutt was already staring at me like I’d personally betrayed him. It was around 12:30 in the morning, one of those cold, overly quiet weeknights when most of Aurora feels asleep. The only place still open was a 24-hour grocery store about ten minutes from my apartment, so I threw on a hoodie and drove over.
The parking lot was almost empty when I pulled in—maybe four or five cars clustered near the front. I parked a little farther out than usual without thinking about it. I wasn’t scared or anything; I was just tired. The sodium lights buzzed overhead, giving the pavement that washed-out orange tint. As I grabbed a cart, I noticed something odd off to my right.
There was an older sedan parked crookedly across two spaces, like whoever drove it didn’t even attempt to straighten out. The interior light was on, and I could see a woman in the driver’s seat. She was sitting perfectly still, just staring straight ahead at nothing. She didn’t look asleep. She didn’t look at her phone. She didn’t move at all. Her posture was stiff, almost like she was bracing against something. The only reason I even registered it was because she didn’t react when I walked past her—not even a flick of her eyes. It was strange, but I pushed it out of my mind. I just wanted to get the dog food and go home.
Inside, the store was as empty as the parking lot. One employee was stocking shelves in the back, humming to himself. The air smelled faintly of floor cleaner, and the refrigerator compressors made the only real noise. I walked straight to the pet aisle, grabbed a bag, and headed back out. I think I was inside maybe six minutes.
When I stepped outside again, the sedan was gone. The light was off, the space was empty, and there was no sign anyone had been there. I remember feeling relieved, which in hindsight doesn’t make sense—I wasn’t scared of her before. But something about the way she’d been sitting stuck with me. I shook it off and headed toward my car.
I didn’t even get halfway before I saw her.
She was standing directly behind my car.
At first, my brain didn’t connect that it was the same woman. She wasn’t facing me—she was angled slightly toward my trunk, her hands tucked behind her back like she was hiding something. Her coat was half-zipped, crooked, like she’d thrown it on in a hurry. She was rocking gently on her heels, just a few centimeters forward and back, like she was trying to warm herself but couldn’t get the rhythm right.
Then she turned her head, and I knew it was her.
It wasn’t dramatic. She just flicked her eyes toward me, slow and deliberate, like she’d known exactly where I was the whole time. The air felt colder than it had when I walked in. I stopped walking and didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say.
I unlocked my car, but I didn’t get in. Something in me knew not to turn my back on her. The lock beep sounded too loud, echoing across the empty lot.
She took one small step toward me. Just one. And I could actually hear her breathing. The lot was that quiet—just the hum of the lights overhead and her uneven breaths drifting across the space between us.
I backed up a few paces toward the store entrance. She matched me, not with steps but with her body angle. She leaned forward slightly, like she was considering whether to follow.
Then she muttered something.
“You walked right past me earlier.”
Her voice was low and flat. Not angry, not confused—just stating a fact like it bothered her more than it should. I had no idea what she meant. I hadn’t ignored her. I hadn’t spoken to her at all. I didn’t even know she’d seen me walk in.
I glanced toward the store doors, debating whether to yell for help. I didn’t want to escalate anything, but every part of me felt wrong. My heart was thumping hard enough that I could feel it in my neck. She was still standing there with her hands behind her back. That’s what bothered me the most. I couldn’t see what she was holding, or if she was holding anything at all.
At that moment, the glass doors slid open behind me and one of the employees stepped out, rubbing his arms against the cold. He was coming out for a smoke break. The woman jerked slightly, then hurried toward the far edge of the lot. Not running—just quick, stiff steps into the shadows between two streetlights, where she blended into the dark so well it felt like she disappeared.
The employee asked if I was okay, and I told him I just needed a second. When I finally got into my car, my hands were shaking too much to put the key in the ignition right away. I kept checking my mirrors the whole drive home, half expecting headlights to appear behind me, but nothing did.
I didn’t report it. I didn’t have a plate, and she hadn’t technically done anything—just stood too close, said something strange, and watched me like she’d been waiting.
But I don’t park far out in big lots anymore. I don’t walk alone across them without scanning every direction. And sometimes, even now, I catch myself replaying her voice—soft, low, almost disappointed—telling me I’d walked right past her, as if that meant more to her than it ever should’ve.
