GasLighted

There was only one rule: Don’t open the door. Staring out at the empty night, Jim drummed fingers on the counter. He had taken this job at the gas station to pay his rent while attending the local community college. Third shift worked well: the station was quiet after midnight, providing ample study time.

Jim’s thoughts refused to stay focused on the history text. He couldn’t help but keep glancing at the closed door to the left of the counter. A niggling feeling of inevitability itched at his brain. Why in the heck would Phil give him free rein of the store overnight with just that sole caveat?

Phil, the station owner, was a middle aged guy with a receding forehead and myopic eyes behind coke bottle glasses. The perpetual bachelor. Perhaps Phil’s unctuous manner was the reason prior clerks in this out of the way station had all walked off the job. The sheriff had just shrugged when asked about the five previous night clerks. “Who knows? Bored with tiny town and moved on I suppose,” he had said.

Sighing, Jim closed the book and began cleaning the counter. Straightening the cigarette rack; restocking the candy; filling the slots where a few lighters had been purchased. Still, that niggling sense of curiosity continued to worm around in the back of his head. What could be back there? A porn stash … gay maybe?? A video surveillance system where Phil creeped on women’s bedrooms? Child porn? Why the heck is that door closed?

Glancing around, Jim approached the door. The lock was simple. Jim bypassed it with a scratch off ticket pushed into the jamb. Opening the door he was greeted by a horrific stench. Flipping the light he gasped.

“Curiosity kills clerks as well as cats,” was the last thing heard.