Pizza From The Void

The clock on Jason’s dashboard flickered, the LED digits shifting erratically between 11:59 PM and 12:00 AM. It was late, and this last delivery didn’t even make sense. The order had come in through a glitchy phone call, the voice on the other end crackling like static, reciting an address that didn’t appear on any map.

116 Bleakwood Lane.

Jason squinted at the GPS, which now simply displayed a spinning circle. He sighed, cursing his luck. A bonus had been promised for completing this "priority" delivery, and he needed the extra cash.

The road leading to Bleakwood Lane was shrouded in mist, lined with shadowy trees that seemed to close in as he drove. Eventually, Jason’s headlights illuminated a cul-de-sac of identical houses. There was no sound—no wind, no insects, not even the hum of his car engine. The neighborhood felt… wrong.

He parked in front of 116, a house indistinguishable from the others. Its porch light flickered like a dying firefly. Grabbing the pizza, Jason approached the door, each step feeling heavier than the last. He knocked twice.

The door opened immediately, revealing a man with an unsettlingly wide smile. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and his eyes were glassy and unblinking.

“Ah, the pizza,” the man said, his voice dripping with an unnatural cheer. “You’re just in time.”

Jason handed over the box, suppressing a shiver as their hands brushed. The man held the pizza like it was something sacred, then stepped aside.

“Please, come in. We’ve been waiting for you.”

“No thanks,” Jason said quickly, stepping back. “I’ve got more deliveries to make.”

But as he turned, he noticed something strange. His car, parked just a moment ago, was gone. The entire street now stretched endlessly, lined with the same repetitive houses.

“Your car is fine,” the man said, still smiling. “Stay a while. There’s so much more to deliver.”

Jason bolted down the street, clutching his phone. Every house looked the same, each with flickering porch lights and curtains drawn just enough to reveal shadowy figures watching him. His GPS was useless, spinning wildly, and every attempt to call for help resulted in static.

He looped back to the same cul-de-sac, now teeming with residents. They emerged from their houses, all wearing the same eerie smiles, their hands outstretched.

“Did you bring more?” one woman asked, her head tilting unnaturally.

“You must be hungry,” a child said, though his voice was hollow, far too deep for his age.

Jason stumbled backward, his breath quickening. “I don’t have anything else!”

The crowd drew closer, their smiles stretching wider, splitting their skin at the corners.

Jason turned and ran back to 116 Bleakwood Lane, slamming the door behind him. The house was silent save for the faint hum of a refrigerator in the kitchen. The pizza box sat on the table, untouched.

“Eat,” said a voice behind him.

Jason spun around to see the man from earlier, his smile now grotesque, his teeth unnaturally sharp.

“No way,” Jason said, backing away.

The man stepped closer, and the walls of the house began to ripple like water, dark tendrils creeping from the corners.

“This is the only way,” the man whispered. “Eat, and you’ll understand.”

The smell of the pizza hit Jason then—sweet, metallic, and wrong. Against his will, he opened the box. The pizza was unlike anything he’d ever seen, the toppings pulsating and shifting, forming the vague outlines of faces. They were screaming silently, their mouths opening and closing in agony.

Jason recoiled, but the man grabbed his wrist with an iron grip.

Time twisted as Jason was dragged into the void. He found himself outside again, clutching the pizza box. The cul-de-sac was the same, the houses frozen in an eerie perfection.

“Delivery for 116 Bleakwood Lane,” he muttered, his voice hollow, his body moving without his control.

He knocked on the door. It opened.

The same man greeted him, smiling as always.

“Ah, the pizza,” he said. “You’re just in time.”

Jason screamed internally, but his body betrayed him, handing over the box.

As the door shut, Jason turned, his feet moving automatically toward his car, which was now back in its spot. He opened the door and climbed in, the clock on the dashboard flickering erratically between 11:59 PM and 12:00 AM.

Every night, Jason drives to 116 Bleakwood Lane, delivering the same cursed pizza. Each time, he tries to resist, to escape the loop. But the residents always wait, their smiles growing wider, their cravings hungrier.

And the toppings on the pizza? They’re screaming louder.