Last Delivery

Evan leaned on the cracked counter at Benny’s Oven, thumb scratching at the worn edge where the laminate had peeled. The smell of old oil and scorched cheese clung to everything — the walls, the air, his hoodie. He could feel it in his hair, in his skin, like it had soaked all the way through.

His phone buzzed on the counter. He picked it up, thumb swiping at the cracked screen.

“Take your vitamins, mijo. You’re looking pale.”

A smile tugged at his mouth, tired but real.

“Okay, Mama,” he typed back, though they both knew he wouldn’t.

“You still here?” Benny’s voice called from the back. A moment later, Benny himself appeared, wiping his hands on a rag, his flour-dusted apron hanging loose on his narrow frame. His grin was soft around the edges, like it had worn down over the years.

“You’re part of the furniture, kid.”

Evan gave a small, dry laugh. “Feels like it.”

Benny set the last pizza box on the counter.

“Old County Road. Big tip. Last one tonight.”

Evan frowned. “That’s past the river, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Easy cash.” Benny gave his arm a pat. “You’re my best guy. Always come through.”

Best guy. Solid. Reliable. The words landed heavy, sticking somewhere under his ribs. He nodded, grabbed the box.

“Yeah. I got it.”

Outside, the night hung cold and still. Main Street was empty, the shops dark, the neon signs buzzing to no one. Evan slid into his beat-up Honda, pushing aside the pile of receipts, empty water bottles, an old notebook filled with half-scribbled lyrics.

He started the engine, wincing at the sputter and cough before it settled. In the mirror, his own eyes met him — shadowed, worn, with that faint crease in his brow that seemed deeper every year.

He used to think he’d leave. Play music. Go somewhere else, somewhere bigger. But the days folded over themselves, and here he was.

The headlights swept across the cracked pavement as he turned onto Maple. Familiar places flicked by — the boarded-up theater where he and Jonah used to sneak into midnight shows, the playground swings hanging limp, the old church leaning under years of storms. His chest tightened.

Jonah.

A memory, sudden and sharp: the two of them on the train bridge, seventeen, feet dangling over the black water.

“Think we’ll ever get out of here?” Jonah had asked, flicking a cigarette into the dark.

Evan had grinned back, heart swelling with something like certainty.

“Yeah. Someday.”

Someday had come and gone.

The GPS on his dash flickered, then blinked out, leaving only a single blinking arrow. Evan sighed, slapped the side of the screen. Nothing.

The old iron bridge loomed ahead. He eased onto it, tires thudding on the boards, the trees on either side arching in tight. He felt the tension in his shoulders, the tight curl of his fingers on the wheel.

A shape darted at the edge of his vision. He jerked, heart skipping, but when he turned, the road was empty.

“Come on, man,” he whispered to himself, half-laughing, half on edge.

The mailbox came into view, rusted and leaning, numbers long worn away. Gravel crunched under his tires as he turned down the narrow lane, headlights bouncing over deep ruts. The woods pressed close, branches brushing against the car, the soft scrape of twigs tapping like fingers.

Another memory, uninvited: twelve years old, him and Jonah, flashlights in hand, daring each other to knock on the door of the old shack by the creek. Evan had turned and run, heart hammering. Jonah had stayed, fearless, laughing in the dark.

Evan’s mouth felt dry.

“Drop the pizza, take the tip, go home,” he muttered under his breath.

The house rose out of the dark — two stories, porch sagging, a single light above the door throwing a sickly glow.

He sat in the car longer than he should’ve, hands gripping the wheel, eyes fixed on the house.

“One more,” he whispered. “Just one more.”

He stepped out, air cold and sharp against his skin. No wind. No insects. Nothing.

The porch creaked under his weight, the wood soft and groaning. His fist lifted to knock —

The door creaked open.

“Evan.”

He froze.

Jonah.

Older, somehow untouched by the years, his skin too pale, his eyes too still. His smile spread a little too wide.

“Jonah? I didn’t know you lived out here.”

Jonah tilted his head slightly. “Come in.”

Evan’s hands tightened on the pizza box.

“This is… for you?”

Jonah’s smile sharpened.

“We’ve been waiting.”

The word “we” ran cold fingers down Evan’s spine.

Inside, the air smelled wrong — rot and something sickly sweet. Candles lined the hallway, flames unmoving despite the faint draft. Shadows gathered in the corners, darker than they should be.

Jonah led him deeper.

In the wide room, familiar faces turned.

Mrs. Callahan. Eric the mechanic. Benny, still in his apron.

“Evan,” Benny said softly, “you’re just in time.”

Evan’s breath caught. His heart slammed against his ribs.

“What… what is this?”

Mrs. Callahan smiled gently.

“You were always so loyal, dear.”

He stumbled back, hitting Jonah’s cold, solid chest.

“You brought the last piece,” Jonah whispered, his breath icy against Evan’s neck. “You.”

The pizza box slipped from Evan’s hands, landing with a soft thud.

“What the hell is going on?”

The room shimmered, the air thickening.

Candles flared.

Faces stretched, twisting, eyes darkening, mouths splitting wider, too wide.

Evan’s breath hitched. His legs wavered.

“You’re one of us now,” they whispered, their voices winding together, soft and smooth.

Evan bolted.

He ran.

His sneakers pounded against a ground he couldn’t see. His chest burned. His legs ached.

Behind him, the voices followed.

“Evan…”

“Stay…”

“You belong here…”

He ran until his knees buckled, collapsing onto something cold, something soft.

Hands wrapped around his arms. His waist. His ankles.

He thrashed, gasped, clawed at the dark.

A voice pressed in, gentle, close, almost loving.

“We always knew you wouldn’t leave.”

Evan’s body jerked once.

Then stillness.

The dark folded over him, silent and complete.

Outside, the old Honda sat by the roadside, headlights flickering under the heavy sky.

No one came looking.

No one noticed.

The last delivery was done.