Midnight Groceries

You wake up thirsty.

It’s late.

Quiet.

The kind of quiet that feels like it’s up to something.

You sit up.

The door to your bedroom is open.

You always close it.

Always.

And beyond the doorway, the hallway is dark.

Longer than you remember.

You stare into it for a while.

And then you notice the figure.

At the end of the hall.

Tall. Still.

Watching.

And for a moment, pure terror wraps around your spine.

But then the figure shifts.

Tilts its head.

And from the dark, you hear:

"Hey, quick question. You got any oat milk?"

Silence.

You blink.

"Uh... what?"

The figure takes a hesitant step forward.

"Oat milk. For coffee. I checked your fridge but, you know, figured I'd ask before I took any."

You stare.

He gestures vaguely behind himself, toward the infinite darkness.

"We don’t really have groceries down there."

You nod slowly, like this is normal.

You get up.

Go to the kitchen.

Hand him the oat milk.

"Legend," he says.

And disappears back into the shadows.

You close the bedroom door.

Lock it.

Lie back down.

Stare at the ceiling.

And you know, without checking,

that tomorrow night,

he’s probably coming back.

And this time he’s going to want breakfast.