True Horror Story: Strangers Grocery

While waiting in line at the store for a self-checkout terminal, a man casually sidled up to me and asked if I’d mind lending him a few dollars, as he was short on cash. I glanced at his handbasket, saw that he only had a few items (some fruit, bottled water, packs of tuna, a loaf of bread), and offered to just pay for his groceries; seeing as how the cost wouldn’t be more than ten or fifteen dollars. I hadn’t put much in my cart, so our combined totals wouldn’t break the bank. He looked at me as if I’d offered him my kidney, his eyes watering and lip quivering. Before he could say anything, I told him that it’d be alright, that I wouldn’t mind at all, and nudged my cart over so he could deposit his items. He gave a heartful smile, nodded his head, and added his items to the cart.

The line cleared, I paid for what we’d gathered and gave him his items. As gratefully as he could, he thanked me and shook my hand, and we parted ways. 

I went home with that little warm feeling in my chest that arises after you’ve done a nice thing for someone and hoped that he’d pass on the gesture to someone else. 

Well, he did. Just not in a way I would’ve ever expected. 

The following day, I went back to the same store to grab a drink and snack, about the same time I’d gone yesterday. And, mildly surprising, the same man was also there. Again, his handheld basket carried the same few items. He saw me, our eye met, and for a moment I thought, “Oh boy, I hope he isn’t some kind of grifter, getting strangers to buy him things every day.” But then he smiled and pointed at the drink and chips in my hand; gesturing for me to put them in his basket. I complied, thanking him and sharing a laugh at the coincidental nature of it all. He gave me my things and we parted ways again, having developed a little grocery store friendship. 

I saw him again, three days later, at the same store—at the same time. 

Again, he carried a basket with only a few items: those single-serve packs of tuna, some fruit, a loaf of bread, and a couple bottles of water. Something about the regularity of our meeting and his seemingly unchanging diet unnerved me. Despite the man’s completely harmless appearance and outward nature, I nonetheless felt that there was something off about him. But I didn’t want to sour the little acquaintanceship we’d developed, so I waved and politely asked about his spartan diet. He laughed and replied that they were the items he went through most often, assuring me that his palate wasn’t so limited. I remarked that I’d have no room to criticize, considering my own relatively simple tastes. 

Thinking the interaction over, I said, “See ya later.” and went over to the next available self-checkout terminal. As I finished scanning my last item and prepared to pay, he came up beside me, resting his basket on the counter. He locked eyes with me and said, “Have you forgotten? It’s your turn to cover things.” I was taken aback, since I’d never once thought that it’d be a regular thing; us paying for each other’s items every time we happened to meet. But not wanting to make a scene, and having enough money to cover everything, I complied; even sheepishly apologizing for having “forgotten.” His ever-present smile broadened, and he nodded in thanks. 

He took his portion of the bags and departed, leaving me more than a little disturbed. Still, nothing actually hostile had happened, so I didn’t make a fuss about it to the staff; who I’m sure hadn’t even noticed our odd exchange. At that moment I did decide to never again visit the store at the same time, just so I wouldn’t have to deal with him again. I couldn’t cover his purchases forever. 

A few days later, I was back at the store, only I’d gone before work, at 7am when the store first opened. I was the first one in, and felt a huge relief at seeing the self-checkout completely clear when I had gathered what I needed. But just as I was about to hit “Pay now” on the touchscreen, a hand stopped mine. Turning, I saw him, standing there with a smile on his face, and his same peculiar assortment of items in his cart. Utterly shocked, I just stood there. Using his needlessly solid grip on my hand, he lightly pushed me aside. He proceeded to quietly scan his own items, then selected pay now and inserted his money.

Despite the charitable gesture, there was an almost palpable aura of malice about him, as if the “kind” act was – somehow – subtly unkind. It honestly freaked me out, and I would’ve just left—abandoning the roughly $45 dollars in groceries—if he hadn’t been holding onto my hand. But then the machine spat out the receipt, he deposited it into one of my bags, and released his grip. I didn’t even bother thanking him, I just grabbed my stuff and headed toward the front. But before I could exit, he called out, “Remember, next one’s on you!” 

I didn’t respond, and practically ran to my car. 

For the next round of groceries a week later, I went to a completely different store on the other side of town. 

Still, there was a feeling of trepidation as I gathered my items; pushing my cart carefully, peeking around corners, hoping not to spot him. I even avoided the aisles that held the items he’d consistently purchased, dreading to see him browsing the shelves. Finally ready to pay and leave, I walked toward self-checkout as a death-row inmate might walk to the chair, each step carrying a grim weight.

My fears and anxiety were confirmed: Even though I hadn’t seen him anywhere in the store, he was there; waiting behind an old woman, who was doubtlessly oblivious to the man’s almost logic-defying presence. 

I hadn’t made a sound in my approach, but he still turned around, as if sensing me. He smiled and raised his basket, and there were the same usual items inside. A register opened, and he nodded toward it, motioning for me to go ahead. And, as if being led to some terrible fate by unyielding hands, I went to the register. But even though I’d followed his order, I swore to myself then and there that I wouldn’t pay for his items. 

I began scanning my things, all the while sensing his gaze, knowing he was waiting for me to finish before coming over to add his own. When the last item was scanned, I carefully retrieved my card from my wallet, not wanting to show this man how utterly terrified I was. And, as expected, he came over and began unloading his basket onto the counter.

With enough force to stop them but not enough to draw attention, I put my hand down and whispered “No.” It took a mad fight against my nerves, but I managed to look up and meet his gaze, and for the first time I noticed how off his eyes were. Not necessarily in their alignment on his face, but the way they stared, the smoldering intensity behind an otherwise normal, pedestrian appearance. 

It was the expression of someone who had been born unhinged and had only adapted to normal, sane society; rather than someone sane who had slowly cracked under some great stress or pressure. 

Somehow, my resolve held, and I didn’t back down from that face of carefully contained lunacy. He smiled, and to my complete surprise, began returning his items to his basket. Not wasting the opportunity to escape, I inserted my card, paid, and gathered my bags. Risking a look back, I saw him talking to another man, whom—after inclining his head to listen—shrugged his shoulders and nodded. My unhinged acquaintance then put his items in the man’s cart, and together they headed to the register I had just left. 

A sense of duty to my fellow man compelled me to warn the guy, even at some unknown risk to my own person. I started to head over, but someone grabbed my arm at the last moment. It was a woman, someone I’d never seen before. She looked utterly depressed, her hair disheveled, her eyes sunken, her cheeks hollow as if she’d had some buccal fat removal operation. Quietly, she pulled me aside. 

“Don’t. You have a day, maybe two. What you have in your cart there, can you live off that for a week?” 

I looked down, automatically assessing the contents even as I shuddered at the urgency in her voice. I’d spent about seventy-five dollars, which I knew wouldn’t last me very long these days.

I met her gaze, and she must’ve seen the doubt on my face, because she pulled me closer and said:

“It doesn’t matter. Just eat as conservatively as you can. That man over there, the one you’ve presumably been bumping into here, or at other stores; he’s psychotic, and that’s if he’s even human. He’s gotten the same stuff every time, right? Tuna, fruit, some water, bread. Never deviating from that. How do I know? Because that’s what I sent my husband out to get, six months ago. He had told me how he bumped into this stranger, who’d asked him if he could pay for something—a dictionary and a book of maps. My husband complied, figuring the man to be homeless or something like that.

“My husband had had those items in his cart—the tuna, water, fruit, and bread—at the time. He said that they parted ways on friendly terms, but that the man had seemed…off, strange in an undefinable way. Well, he saw him again the next day, grabbing some other things we needed. This time, the stranger had a cart, and the same items my husband had bought the day before were in there. The stranger paid for my husband’s items, being just as friendly as he’d been before. But then they again, and I’m sure you can guess what items were in the man’s basket.” 

There was a certain mania in her eyes, though one that was obviously born of long-held anxiety, if not full-blown terror. She wasn’t crazy, not like him. She had experienced something awful, and hadn’t been able to truly express herself to someone until meeting me. 

Hearing the ding of items being scanned at a leisurely pace behind me, I told her to continue. 

“Finally, my husband said no—that he wouldn’t pay for the man’s items anymore; that he had grown uncomfortable with the whole affair. He said that the man didn’t seem to be offended, and allowed my husband to finishing checking out unbothered. My husband came home, told me about what had happened, and we had a little laugh at the absurdity of it all. 

“And then the next day I came home from work to find several groceries bags on the kitchen table. We hadn’t needed groceries—he’d stocked up the last time, presumably so he wouldn’t have to deal with the man for a while—so I was understandably upset by how much he’d spent. But before I could even call out to him, I saw the puddle beneath the table. 

“It was bright red, and still expanding via a steady stream of crimson from the table’s surface. The inner animal part of me understood at once, but still I continued forward; my conscious mind unbelieving, unable to accept that anything so monstrous could happen in our civilized society. 

“I opened the bag nearest the edge of the table, and saw my husband’s face staring up at me; pale and lifeless. He’d been savagely dismembered and bagged. 

“I immediately knew who the culprit was, called the police when I managed to…to recover. But they didn’t do much, couldn’t; the man’s face was mysteriously blurred in the store’s security footage. There’d never been a clear shot of him.

“Eventually, I mustered the courage to wait around the store, and eventually saw him. Tracked him. I’ve tried pointing him out, but his face is never clear; and the police refuse to take any action, not wanting to risk causing trouble for some random person. Afraid to be sued, I guess. I know they think I’m crazy, but you don’t, right? You’ve been through it, you know what’s he like. It’s why I’m telling you to leave here, to go as far away as you can.

“My husband may have been the first, but you aren’t the second; I’ve watched him do this to others. I’ve tried to warm them; I hope that they’ve listened. I’d approach the ‘man’ myself, confront him in front of everyone…. but I’m scared. You can’t blame me, can you? After what he did to my husband… I can’t fight him—I won’t try to—but I can warn others; even if it means driving every store in town out of business or making a fool of myself to strangers.”

With a final tearful smile, she ushered me ahead of her. I glanced back, saw the allegedly murderous stranger shaking hands with his latest “friend”, and hurried out the door.

I hope the woman manages to convincingly warn him before it’s too late. 

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