First Day on the Floor
“I need a wife, not an employee,” the words still rang in my ears as I stepped over the oil‑slicked concrete.
Daniel handed me a clipboard, his greasy hand sliding a pen across my palm.
“Sign here, Rachel. Welcome to Brooks Auto.”
I scrawled my name, the ink smearing a little on the dusty paper.
“Now, let me show you where the real work happens,” he said, gesturing toward the back of the shop.
The ledger room was a cavern of stacked binders, yellowed receipts, and a flickering desk lamp that seemed to sputter in protest.
“Everything we earn and lose lives in these pages,” Daniel murmured, pulling out a ledger so filled it threatened to burst.
He tapped a red‑ink entry: “The Widow – $3,200 – due 03/12 – late again.”
“She’s a ghost for a reason,” he whispered, eyes narrowing. “Pays when she wants, and she always wants late.”
Mike emerged from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag, his shoulders broad and his expression as rough as the engine blocks around him.
“You’re the new receptionist?” he grunted, eyeing me over the rim of his safety glasses.
“That’s the title,” I replied, trying not to flinch at his gruff tone.
He gave me a half‑smile, then gestured toward a row of filing cabinets.
“If you can keep those numbers from blowing up my shop, I’ll keep the tools quiet.”
We spent the morning shuffling papers, cataloguing invoices, and trying to make sense of the chaotic numbers that seemed to multiply by the minute.
Every so often, Daniel would glance at the ledger, his brow furrowing, then sigh, “The Widow’s coming again. Stay sharp.”
By noon, my stomach growled louder than the diesel engines, and I decided a break was overdue.
Lunchtime Alarm
I slipped out to the diner across the street, the scent of fresh coffee pulling me in like a promise.
“Just a sandwich, thanks,” I told the server, sliding the cash across the counter.
The booth was empty except for the clatter of cutlery and the low hum of a radio playing old rock.
My phone buzzed, flashing Daniel’s name in bright red.
“Rachel, get back here now! Power’s out, the alarm’s blaring—” his voice crackled, urgent, breathless.
I stared at the screen, the fork mid‑air, heart thudding against my ribs.
“I’m on my way,” I whispered, sliding my seat back and sprinting toward the shop.
The street seemed longer than usual, each step echoing the frantic thrum of the alarm I could already hear in my mind.
When I shoved the garage door open, the familiar smell of gasoline hit me like a wall, but the lights were dead, swallowed by an oppressive darkness.
From inside, the alarm screamed—high‑pitched, relentless, a sound that made my teeth ache.
I fumbled for the handle, but the door wouldn’t budge; it was locked from the inside.
My breath caught as a cold wind rushed through the shattered glass of the back door, shards glittering like broken teeth on the concrete.
On the floor, a wrench lay slick with a dark, fresh stain—blood.
My eyes darted to the broken door, the locked front, and the crimson‑spattered metal, each detail carving a jagged line of dread across my mind.
Something was terribly wrong, and the garage seemed to pulse with an unseen threat.
Hidden Storage Room
Mike shoved the rusted back door with a grunt, the metal whining in protest.
Dust erupted as the panel gave way, revealing a cramped room that smelled of mildew and old oil.
Rachel's flashlight beam danced over stacks of yellowed receipts, each one a faded echo of past jobs.
On the far wall, a collage of black‑and‑white photos stared back—former employees with solemn smiles, some whose names she’d never heard.
In the center sat a heavy steel safe, its surface dented, the lock glinting coldly.
“That’s the one,” Daniel had whispered earlier, his voice tight. “Everything we’re keeping afloat is in there.”
Mike cracked his knuckles, “Let’s see if we can’t pry it open before whoever’s coming gets a look.”
Rachel slipped a thin metal rod between the safe’s door and the wall, feeling the tumblers click faintly.
