Chapter 2: The Gas Station Secret

Elton’s hands trembled as he stepped closer to the EMPLOYEES ONLY door. The bloodshot eye had vanished, but a faint shadow still lingered behind the cracked wood.

His instincts screamed at him to run, to get on his scooter and leave this cursed place behind. But something stronger—something deeply buried inside him—kept him moving forward.

His fingers closed around the handle. He took a deep breath… and pushed.

The door creaked open. "Nothing".

Just a small, dust-covered storage room filled with broken shelves, old cardboard boxes, and the suffocating scent of mildew. Dim light from a single, flickering bulb barely illuminated the space.

Elton’s pulse hammered. He could have sworn someone was in here. Then the door slammed shut behind him.

Total darkness. A low, static-filled hum filled the air, followed by the sharp crackle of a radio tuning in. The sound came from somewhere in the room. Elton’s heart pounded as he reached for his phone, using its dim screen glow to guide him.

The radio sat on a dusty metal shelf, an old relic from decades past. Its speakers buzzed, tuning through dead air before locking onto a single, chilling transmission:

"—murder at Last Stop Gas. Three men, found brutally slain. Investigators suspect foul play, but no suspects have been identified. Victims—Johnny, Brody, and Eddy—were last seen alive at 11:57 PM. If you have any information—"

The broadcast cut out abruptly, replaced by the sound of ragged breathing.

Elton took a step back, his throat dry. The dust in the air thickened, making it harder to breathe. He turned, looking for an exit—and that’s when he saw it.

Half-buried in the floorboards near the back of the room was a rusted metal box.

A box with his name carved into it.

A wave of nausea rolled through him. He didn’t remember ever coming here before, much less leaving a box behind. But the proof was right in front of him.

Hands shaking, he crouched down and pried open the rusted latch. The lid creaked as it lifted, revealing a single, dust-covered polaroid photograph inside.

He picked it up. His breath hitched. It was a picture of himself.

As a child. Standing in front of this very gas station.

With Johnny, Brody, and Eddy.

Elton’s vision blurred. His mind raced, trying to make sense of the impossible. He had no memory of these men—of ever being here before.

Then, from the radio, a voice whispered in a garbled, distorted tone:

"It was never an accident, Elton. You were always meant to come back."

A sudden, violent bang erupted from the other side of the storage room.

Elton spun around—

And saw something moving in the darkness.

Elton’s breath caught in his throat.

Something moved in the darkness. A shifting shadow, barely visible beyond the weak glow of his phone screen.

He scrambled backward, gripping the rusted metal box like a shield. The air in the storage room had turned ice-cold, and his skin prickled with an eerie sensation—like unseen eyes watching him.

The shadow stirred again. A faint, dragging sound echoed through the cramped space, like footsteps… but wrong.

The radio crackled back to life.

"—help me. Please, for the love of God, help me—"

The voice was desperate. Terrified. Elton’s pulse thundered in his ears. The polaroid of his childhood self shook in his grip.

Who was calling for help?

His fingers hovered over the volume dial of the radio, but before he could turn it, the static abruptly cut out.

Silence.

Then, a slow, deliberate knock came from the farthest corner of the storage room.

Knock.

Elton’s stomach twisted.

Knock.

His phone’s glow barely reached that far, but he could make out the outline of a door—one that hadn’t been there when he first entered the room.

Knock.

A voice whispered from behind it.

"Elton… open the door."

His blood ran cold. He knew that voice. But that was impossible.

He took a step closer, feeling his knees threaten to buckle beneath him. The doorknob twitched, like

someone on the other side was waiting.

His mouth went dry. His instincts screamed

"NO".

But his hand moved anyway. He reached out. His fingertips brushed the cold brass of the doorknob—

BANG!

The entire storage room shook violently, as if something had slammed into the hidden door with inhuman force. Elton staggered backward, his phone slipping from his grip and clattering to the floor. The screen flickered, casting erratic shadows.

A deep, guttural growl rumbled from behind the door. Then, the whispering voice changed. It wasn’t calling his name anymore.

It was laughing. Low, distorted, wrong.

Elton scrambled to pick up his phone. His fingers fumbled against the cold concrete.

The radio sparked to life one final time, the voice now cold and knowing.

"You never really left, Elton. You just forgot."

The hidden door suddenly burst wide open. 

And something lunged out of the darkness.