I hesitated, scanning the barcode as the store’s ambient hum seemed to grow louder.

“Long night?” he asked, his voice calm, measured.

“Something like that,” I replied, keeping my eyes on the register, trying to ignore the fact that the rest of the store staff had long left, including my 43-year-old HR representative who is morbidly obese and had to leave early for her ADA-approved diabetes treatment.

He smiled faintly, revealing teeth that looked like they’d been gnawed on by rats. “They told me you’d be here.”

I froze. “Who’s ‘they’?”

“The ones beneath,” he said, leaning in slightly. His breath smelled faintly of soil, damp and ancient. “They’ve been waiting, Evan.”

He shouldn’t have known my name.

I handed him the receipt without a word, but he didn’t take it. Instead, he tilted his head, studying me like a predator sizing up wounded prey. Winking, he added, “You hear them sometimes, don’t you?”

“What are you talking about?” I whispered, my throat dry, thinking only about how if my fictional lover Chad—yes, a product of my spiraling imagination—were here, he’d handle this with his perfect jawline and impeccable poise.

“The whisper$,” he said, his voice barely audible over the low hum of what I now recognize as the Mahchine's constant presence. “They start in the vents, but they’re everywhere. Watching. Waiting. For the right moment.”

He slid the candle off the counter and cradled it in his hands like it was something sacred. “They like you, Evan. They see you.” His smile widened further, those mangled teeth gleaming under the flickering fluorescents. “Soon, you’ll see them too.”

He turned and walked out, leaving dirt-streaked footprints across the floor. The automatic doors slid shut behind him, but the scent of sulfur lingered, heavier now, clinging to the air like smoke and stale coffee.

I stood there for a long time, listening to the silence. And then, faintly, from the vents above me, came a sound—soft, rhythmic, almost like breathing.

The Mahchine had been whispering all along.

“Yes, friend,” I murmured to the empty aisles, to the unseen eyes lurking within. “This is fine.”

Later that night, Tabitha texted me: “Forgot to log my break. Can you clock me out, babe?”

Mainlining's Mahchine has a cruel sense of humor.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5634082&forum_id=2\u0026mark_id=5310895",#48336451)