Tip?

Jason hated the late shifts. They were quiet, boring, and often filled with prank orders or creepy customers. But he needed the money, so he stayed on, counting the hours until he could finally crash in his tiny apartment.

At 11:15 PM, the phone rang. It was unusual—most people didn’t order this late—but Jason picked it up with his usual monotone greeting: “Midtown Pizza, how can I help you?”

The voice on the other end was strange. It had an echo, like someone was speaking from inside a cave. “One large Supreme. Extra olives. Address: 216 Gloom Street.”

Jason paused. “Uh, okay. That’s not on our delivery map.”

“You’ll find it,” the voice said, unnervingly calm. “Deliver it within 30 minutes, and I’ll leave you a very generous tip.”

Before Jason could ask anything else, the line went dead.

He looked at the clock. 11:16 PM.

The order was ready by 11:20 PM, and Jason threw it into his car, muttering to himself about how strange the call had been. The promise of a big tip kept him from backing out. His shift had been terrible so far—this could make it worth it.

His GPS didn’t recognize Gloom Street, but as soon as he typed it in, the screen flickered and recalculated. “Proceed to the route,” the robotic voice intoned.

The drive was bizarre. The streets seemed to twist and stretch unnaturally, and Jason swore he passed the same burnt-out streetlight three times. The GPS gave cryptic directions like, “Turn left where the wind changes,” and “Continue until the shadows grow longer.”

By the time he reached 216 Gloom Street, it was 11:42 PM. The house was an old, decaying mansion, its windows dark and lifeless. Jason hesitated but stepped out, clutching the pizza box. The air was heavy, the silence oppressive.

A note was pinned to the front door: “Leave the pizza on the porch. Ring the bell, then step back.”

Jason complied, setting the box down and pressing the rusted bell. The sound echoed unnaturally, and for a moment, he felt like the air around him rippled.

He stepped back, his heart pounding. No one came to the door, but he heard a whisper: “You’re late.”

Jason checked his watch. 11:46 PM. He was early. “What are you talking about? I’m on time!” he shouted.

The whisper grew louder, more insistent. “Late. Late. Late.”

Jason turned to leave, but his legs felt like they were wading through water. The air grew colder, and his head began to spin. He stumbled, clutching his forehead as a sudden wave of disorientation hit him.

“What’s happening?” he groaned.

“Your payment,” the voice whispered. “You failed the rules. Now we take.”

Jason staggered back to his car, but when he reached it, he froze. He couldn’t remember how he got there. The street, the order, even his own name—all of it was slipping away like sand through his fingers. He clutched the side of the car, panic rising as his identity unraveled.

“No, no, no! Stop!” he screamed into the night.

The voice laughed, cold and distant. “Your memories are ours now. But don’t worry. You’ll still deliver for us.”

Jason’s next conscious moment was back at the pizzeria. He was holding a delivery bag, staring blankly at the counter. Rosa, the night manager, frowned at him.

“Jason, are you okay? You’ve been standing there for ten minutes.”

He blinked at her, confusion clouding his face. “Who… Who’s Jason?”

She stepped back, alarmed. “You’re Jason. You’ve worked here for six months.”

But he didn’t recognize her—or the pizzeria, or the uniform he was wearing. His head throbbed as fragments of memories danced just out of reach.

The phone rang, snapping him out of his daze. Before Rosa could answer it, Jason grabbed the receiver.

“Midtown Pizza,” he said, his voice flat, almost robotic.

A low, echoing voice on the other end replied: “One large Supreme. Extra olives. Address: 216 Gloom Street.”

Jason nodded, his mind numb. “I’ll be there.”

As he hung up, Rosa stared at him, her face pale. “Jason, are you sure? That’s not a real—”

“I have to go,” Jason interrupted, his voice devoid of emotion.

He picked up the delivery bag and walked out into the night, the GPS on his phone already recalculating the route.

Weeks later, a new delivery driver took Jason’s place. No one knew what happened to him. But every now and then, the phone would ring late at night, the same haunting order coming through.

And somewhere on the edge of town, a decaying mansion waits for its next delivery.

Because the tip is always worth the price.