Closing Shift in the Produce Section

Closing Shift in the Produce Section

I was back working the closing shift at the grocery store from college, but it was past midnight and the automatic doors wouldn't unlock. My old manager kept telling me we couldn't leave until the produce section was fully restocked, only the aisles seemed stretched out and endless under flickering fluorescent lights. Instead of apples and lettuce, the crates were filled with cold, black soil and tangled roots that felt like human hair when I reached in. There was this quiet, heavy rustling in the dark corners near the bakery, like something huge was crouched just out of sight, waiting for the power to cut out entirely. Every time I tried to check my phone to call my partner, the screen just showed a pale reflection of someone standing directly behind me. I had to keep bagging these damp roots with shaking hands, feeling this terrible dread that if I stopped pretending everything was normal, whatever was in the bakery would notice me.