The Loop

Tyler slammed the door so hard the frame rattled, his heart hammering like it was auditioning for a drum solo. Outside, the hooded man—apparently not a fan of rejection—let out a low, guttural grunt, like a bear who'd just stubbed its toe. Tyler didn't wait to hear more. He bolted upstairs, two steps at a time, his sneakers squeaking on the worn wood. In his room, he dove for the dresser, yanking open the bottom drawer where he kept his "emergency stash"—not candy, but a Glock he'd swiped from his dad's lockbox months ago. Dumb? Maybe. But right now, it felt like genius.

Gun in hand, he crept back downstairs, adrenaline buzzing like a swarm of bees in his chest. He flung the door open, and there stood the guy, still smirking—until he saw the barrel. Tyler's eyes flicked to something new: a nametag pinned crookedly to the hoodie. "Jim," it read, in chipped black letters. Tyler snorted, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Seriously? You're Jim? What, you clocking in for the creep shift?"

Jim's smirk vanished. His eyes widened, darting from the gun to Tyler's face, and in a flash, he turned tail and sprinted down the street, hoodie flapping like a sad cape. Tyler lowered the Glock, half-laughing, half-shaking. "Yeah, run, Jimbo!" he called, slamming the door again. He slumped against it, the absurdity sinking in. A drug-pushing stalker named Jim. What was next, a timeshare pitch?

The next morning, Tyler trudged to Westbrook Valley High School, the Glock stashed back in its drawer. He'd barely slept, replaying Jim's terrified scamper on loop. At school, the day dragged—algebra, gym, a lunchroom argument about pizza toppings. Normal stuff. But as the final bell rang, that familiar prickle crept up his neck. He took the alley shortcut again, because apparently, he was a glutton for punishment.

There Jim was, lurking in the same spot, hoodie up, shadow swallowing him. Only this time, something was off. The air felt thick, heavy with a sour stench that wasn't just alley funk. Tyler froze as Jim stepped forward, his nametag glinting faintly. "Hey, kid," he rasped, voice deeper, wetter, like he'd gargled swamp water. "Wanna buy some weed?"

Tyler's stomach twisted. "Dude, we did this yesterday. I've got a gun, remember?" He patted his empty pocket, bluffing.

Jim didn't flinch. He tilted his head, and the hood slipped just enough to reveal his face—or what should've been a face. His skin was gray, sagging like melted wax, eyes sunken into black pits. The smirk stretched too wide, splitting his lips into a jagged gash. "Oh, I remember," he hissed, voice echoing inside Tyler's skull. "But you didn't say no to me."

Tyler stumbled back, breath catching. This wasn't Jim—not the same Jim. The figure lurched forward, faster than yesterday, bony fingers clawing the air. Tyler turned and ran, the alley stretching impossibly long behind him, the sour stench chasing him home. Whatever this thing was, it wasn't clocking out anytime soon.