HAUNTED GROCERY AISLE

You stand in the middle of the grocery store aisle, clutching a shopping list and a half-empty cart. The fluorescent lights flicker, casting twisted shadows across the linoleum floor. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, but you ignore it. You can't let go of the cart—not now, not ever. A child’s laughter echoes from the next aisle, but it's distorted, almost mechanical. You push the cart forward, your footsteps echoing in the empty space. The shelves are lined with products you don't recognize—brands with names that twist your tongue, labels with symbols that seem to writhe when you look too closely. You came for milk, bread, eggs. Essentials. But you find yourself staring at a row of glass jars filled with dark, viscous liquid. You reach out, fingertips brushing the cold glass, and something shifts inside the jar—a shadow, a flicker of movement. Your heart races. A sudden chill wraps around your neck like a noose. You spin around, but the aisle is empty. The laughter, now closer, reverberates in your skull. You push the cart faster, wheels squeaking, echoing like screams in the confined space. You turn a corner and find yourself in the frozen food section. The air is so cold your breath forms clouds, impairing your vision. You see a figure standing by the open freezer door, obscured by mist. Instinct tells you to flee, but your feet are rooted to the spot. The figure steps into the light—it's a mannequin, dressed in a store uniform, its face frozen in a grotesque, hollow smile. You blink, and it's gone. The freezer door slams shut on its own, the sound like a thunderclap. In the distance, the store intercom crackles to life. A voice, monotone and broken, announces a storewide clean-up on aisle seven. You look down at your list—aisle seven is where they keep the milk. You move cautiously, every step heavier than the last. The store seems to stretch and warp, aisles bending like the corridors of a funhouse. You turn the corner to aisle seven and stop dead. The floor is sticky with blood, the scent metallic and choking. The shelves are toppled, products scattered. Something moves in the corner of your vision, and you force yourself to look. It's the child, standing amidst the carnage, eyes hollow, face blank. The laughter now sounds like a broken record, playing on a loop. Your phone buzzes again. You finally pull it out, hands trembling. A text message from an unknown number: Look behind you. You turn, and the cart you abandoned is now filled with decaying, rotting groceries—moldy bread, blackened bananas, curdled milk. The child is gone, but the laughter remains, growing louder, more insistent. You can't stay here. You push past the blood, the carnage, racing toward the exit. The aisles twist and turn, never-ending. The lights flicker faster, the shadows closing in. You can hear footsteps behind you, gaining speed. You see the exit sign glowing in the distance. You push harder, lungs burning, legs aching. The footsteps are almost upon you, when you finally break through the door, tumbling into the parking lot. The cold night air hits your face, bringing you back to reality. The store is dark and silent behind you. Your phone buzzes once more, a final message from the unknown number: Don't look back. You don't. You walk away, each step taking you further from the nightmare. You leave the cart, the groceries, the memories behind. But the laughter, distorted and mechanical, will haunt you forever.

Victor Hal

Venture into the depths of darkness and fear with Victor Hal, your storyteller of haunting secrets and supernatural dread.