The Good Dollar General

The Good Dollar General
Journal of Ivy Lawson
Age 23
Gainesboro, Tennessee
Monday, 8:17 A.M.

There are two Dollar Generals in Gainesboro.

This is important.

If you are from Gainesboro, you already know what I mean. If you are not from Gainesboro, you are probably thinking, Why does a town that size need two Dollar Generals?

That is because you do not understand Tennessee.

Dollar Generals reproduce here.

Leave one alone beside a two-lane road long enough and another one will sprout three miles away between a church and an abandoned gas station.

Anyway, we have two.

There is the new Dollar General.

It is bigger.

It is brighter.

The parking lot actually has lines you can see.

The automatic doors open every time.

The floors are clean enough that you can identify the original tile color.

And it is terrible.

Everybody from out of town goes there.

They see that big yellow sign, that shiny building, all those windows, and they think, Well, this must be the good one.

Poor fools.

The locals know better.

The locals come to ours.

Our Dollar General is smaller, older, and looks like somebody built it during a thunderstorm using whatever materials they could find in the back of a truck.

One of the ceiling tiles above the shampoo aisle has been brown since I started working here.

There is a dent in the stockroom door shaped suspiciously like a human backside.

The frozen-food section hums loud enough that sometimes you have to raise your voice to talk near the pizza rolls.

And our store is haunted.

So naturally, ours is the good one.

My name is Ivy Lawson.

I'm twenty-three years old, five-foot-five on a generous day, natural redhead, and I have what my mother calls "an unnecessary amount of personality."

Pam, my manager, calls it "attitude."

I prefer "leadership potential."

I've worked here for two years.

There are four of us total.

Pam is the manager.

Then there’s me.

Then we have Cody and Madison, who both graduated high school last spring and still look nervous whenever somebody pays with a check.

That's it.

Four people.

Which means I run this store alone almost half the time.

Technically Pam says I don't "run" the store.

She says I "cover shifts."

But if I am alone, have the keys, count the drawers, unload the truck, deal with vendors, clean up broken jars of pickles, answer customer complaints, reset the router, and tell a ghost to quit knocking shampoo bottles into the floor, I feel like "run" is fair.

I also control the music.

That is the most important part.

Pam has told me repeatedly that corporate does not approve of my portable speaker.

I have told Pam repeatedly that corporate is not here at 8:17 on a Monday morning.

Right now AC/DC is playing behind the register.

Not loud.

Just loud enough.

There is a difference.

I was halfway through "Back in Black" when the first weird thing happened today.

A bottle of Tide fell off the shelf.

Not slid.

Not tipped.

Fell.

Straight out.

Landed upright.

I looked down aisle six.

Nobody there.

"Morning, Walter," I said.

The bottle tipped over.

Walter is what we call the ghost who lives around laundry detergent.

I don't know if his name was actually Walter.

Probably wasn't.

Pam named him that ten years ago because she got tired of saying "laundry ghost."

He's harmless.

Mostly.

He likes Tide.

Hates Gain.

Nobody knows why.

Cody once stocked three rows of Gain where the Tide was supposed to go.

Walter knocked every bottle into the floor.

Every.

Single.

One.

Cody screamed.

Pam laughed so hard she had to sit in the office for ten minutes.

That was Cody's second day.

He almost quit.

Now he says good morning to Walter.

You adjust.

That's the thing about our store.

You adjust.

Monday, 2:42 P.M.

At approximately 1:10 this afternoon, a headless man came in and got a shopping cart.

I should probably explain that sentence.

First, he was definitely dead.

Second, he was definitely headless.

Third, this is not as big a deal as you might imagine.

I was behind the register eating cheddar crackers and scrolling through my phone when the doors opened.

Not automatically.

Our doors are manual.

Which means the headless man physically pulled one open.

That impressed me.

He was wearing blue jeans, work boots, and a faded plaid shirt. There was no blood. No gore. Nothing nasty.

His body just stopped at the neck.

Clean.

Like God forgot to finish loading him.

He walked inside, reached for one of the yellow-handled carts, pulled it loose from the row, and started toward the food aisle.

I watched him.

He stopped.

Turned.

Well, his body turned.

I assume he was looking at me.

"Afternoon," I said.

He lifted one hand.

I think it was a wave.

Then he continued shopping.

This is not the first time I have seen him.

We call him Earl.

Again, no clue if that's his name.

Pam called him Earl because apparently every mysterious headless man in Tennessee looks like an Earl.

He never buys anything.

That's the weird part.

He shops.

He pushes the cart around.

Puts things in it.

Usually canned food, coffee, sometimes paper towels.

Then he leaves the cart somewhere near pet supplies and disappears.

The first time I saw him, I called Pam.

She answered on the fourth ring.

"What?"

"There's a headless man in the store."

"Blue plaid shirt?"

"Yes."

"That's Earl."

"Okay."

And then she hung up.

That was my entire introduction to Earl.

Today he selected:

Two cans of chili.

One bag of Maxwell House coffee.

A box of Pop-Tarts.

One roll of aluminum foil.

Three cans of Vienna sausages.

I judge him for the Vienna sausages.

Dead or alive, there are limits.

Mrs. Jenkins came in while Earl was shopping.

She's seventy-something, maybe eighty. Nobody knows.

She walked right past him.

"Morning, Ivy."

"Afternoon."

She looked toward Earl.

He was comparing two brands of baked beans.

"He's back?"

"Yep."

"Tell him to quit leaving carts in the pet food."

"You tell him."

"I did last time."

Earl raised one hand without turning around.

Mrs. Jenkins nodded.

"See? He knows."

Locals.

No panic.

No screaming.

No TikTok video.

Just mild irritation over cart placement.

That is why ours is the good Dollar General.

At the new store, I heard a woman waited fifteen minutes last week because nobody could find the key to the bathroom.

Here, a dead man without a head can shop in peace and still get better customer service.

Tuesday, 6:03 P.M.

I'm alone tonight.

Pam left at four.

Cody called in because his truck wouldn't start.

Madison can't work Tuesdays because she has some kind of college class in Cookeville.

So it's me.

Again.

I have Def Leppard playing.

A little louder than usual because the rain is hitting the roof hard enough to sound like somebody throwing gravel.

Storms make the store restless.

Pam says it's the electricity.

I think ghosts just like weather.

Everything gets weird during thunderstorms.

At 5:20 the automatic paper towel dispenser in the bathroom started running continuously.

We do not have an automatic paper towel dispenser.

It is one of those plastic boxes where you physically pull the paper down yourself.

Yet somehow I walked in and found six feet of brown paper towel hanging to the floor.

"Very funny," I said.

The lights flickered.

"Ha-ha."

The toilet flushed.

I pointed at it.

"Do not start."

It flushed again.

I left.

There are battles you win by walking away.

Around 5:45, every greeting card on the bottom row fell forward at exactly the same time.

Not off the rack.

Just forward.

Like fifty little cardboard people bowing.

I was stocking canned soup.

I stared at them.

"You done?"

One card slowly flipped open.

It was a sympathy card.

"That's not funny."

Another card flipped open.

Birthday.

Then anniversary.

Then one that said CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR NEW BABY.

"Pick a mood."

They all snapped shut.

I hate when they do that.

I should probably explain "they."

We have more than one ghost.

Walter is laundry.

Earl shops.

There is something in the greeting cards.

There is a little girl who sometimes laughs near toys.

There is an old woman who appears in the freezer-door reflection but never behind you.

And there is something in the stockroom.

We don't talk about the stockroom thing.

Not because it's dangerous.

It just acts weird.

It breathes.

There.

I said it.

Sometimes when you are in the stockroom alone, you hear breathing behind the boxes.

Slow breathing.

Like somebody sleeping.

If you look, nothing is there.

If you say, "I hear you," it stops.

If you ignore it, it gets closer.

So we acknowledge it.

That's our system.

At 5:58 I was breaking down cardboard when I heard:

Hhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Pause.

Hhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I kept flattening boxes.

Hhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Closer.

"I hear you."

Silence.

"Thank you."

One of the boxes behind me fell over.

"You're welcome."

Retail management is mostly communication.

Wednesday, 11:36 A.M.

I went to the bad Dollar General today.

Not for work.

I needed mascara.

Yes, I know.

Betrayal.

But ours was out, and the truck doesn't come until Thursday.

So I drove over there.

The place looked beautiful.

New pavement.

Fresh sign.

Big windows.

I walked inside.

No one at the register.

Okay.

I went to cosmetics.

Three boxes were sitting unopened in the middle of the aisle.

There were six empty pegs where mascara should have been.

A roll-tainer blocked half the shampoo section.

Somebody had left a frozen pizza on a shelf beside batteries.

I stood there for maybe ten seconds.

Then I whispered:

"This place is terrifying."

A woman pushing a cart heard me.

She laughed.

"You're from here, ain't you?"

"Yep."

"Should've gone to the other one."

"I work at the other one."

She looked embarrassed.

"Oh."

"It's okay. We don't have mascara."

She nodded.

"Still would've been better."

See?

Locals know.

Eventually I found mascara in a plastic tote on the floor.

When I went to check out, there were four people waiting.

Nobody behind the register.

A man at the front yelled, "HELLO?"

Nothing.

Another thirty seconds.

"ANYBODY WORK HERE?"

From somewhere in the building, a voice yelled, "YEAH."

The man looked around.

"CAN WE PAY?"

"JUST A MINUTE."

We waited four more minutes.

I nearly offered to ring everybody up myself.

When the employee finally appeared, she looked like we had personally ruined her life.

I paid.

She didn't say hello.

Didn't say thank you.

Didn't tell me my total until I asked.

And she gave me seventeen pennies because they were out of nickels and dimes.

Seventeen.

Pennies.

I drove back to our haunted store and apologized to Walter.

He knocked over a bottle of Gain.

I deserved it.

Thursday, 9:51 P.M.

Closing shift.

This is when the store gets interesting.

The locals stop coming around eight-thirty.

After nine, it's usually quiet.

Maybe one person grabbing milk.

Maybe somebody buying cigarettes.

Maybe a lost tourist heading toward Dale Hollow who took the wrong road and now seems personally offended by the existence of Gainesboro.

Tonight was foggy.

Not thick fog.

Just enough to make the parking lot lights look fuzzy.

I locked the door at nine.

Turned off the speaker.

Counted the register.

Started walking the aisles.

We close at nine, but corporate expects us to stay afterward to clean and straighten.

Corporate has apparently never been inside a haunted Dollar General after closing.

At 9:17 I heard a cart rolling.

I was in seasonal.

The cart rolled from food toward the front.

Slow.

Squeak.

Squeak.

Squeak.

I assumed Earl.

"Store's closed."

Squeak.

Squeak.

Squeak.

I stepped around the aisle.

Empty cart.

No Earl.

It rolled another six feet.

Stopped.

"Very mature."

Nothing.

I walked over and grabbed it.

Cold.

Not refrigerator cold.

Winter cold.

The kind of cold that aches in your fingers.

I pushed it back toward the carts.

The second I let go, it rolled backward.

"Absolutely not."

It rolled backward again.

"No."

Forward.

Backward.

Forward.

Backward.

Like a child testing boundaries.

"You are a shopping cart. Know your place."

It stopped.

I went back to facing shelves.

Then the store intercom came on.

We don't use the intercom.

Technically it works, but the microphone in the office has been broken for years.

There was static.

Then a voice.

Soft.

Female.

"Ivy."

I froze.

Now, I want to say this clearly.

I am not easy to scare.

I grew up around here.

I've been chased by loose dogs.

I've had a possum fall out of a trash can at me.

I've driven Highway 56 in freezing rain.

I can handle fear.

But hearing your name over a broken intercom in an empty building will reach directly into your spine and twist.

"Ivy."

Static.

I stood in seasonal holding a package of paper plates.

"Yeah?"

Why did I answer?

I don't know.

Reflex.

The speaker crackled.

Then:

"Your music sucks."

Silence.

I stared at the ceiling.

"You have got to be kidding me."

The lights flickered.

Something laughed near toys.

I marched to the office.

"First of all, Def Leppard is objectively good."

A package of balloons fell off a peg.

"Second, if you have enough energy to insult my music, you have enough energy to face these shelves."

The lights flickered twice.

"That's what I thought."

I finished closing.

But I played "Pour Some Sugar on Me" from my phone just out of principle.

Friday, 4:14 P.M.

The little girl showed herself today.

Sort of.

I've heard her for months.

A laugh.

Footsteps.

Sometimes a toy activates by itself.

Mostly those awful electronic dolls.

You know the ones.

Press the hand and it says something cute.

Except when nobody presses the hand at 8:45 P.M. and it suddenly says:

"I LOVE YOU!"

No.

You do not.

Today I was working with Madison.

She's eighteen and approximately ninety percent eyeliner.

Nice kid.

Smart.

Zero tolerance for nonsense.

She was stocking toys when she called:

"Ivy?"

"Yeah?"

"There's a girl in aisle four."

"Okay."

"She's see-through."

"Ah."

I walked over.

There was no girl.

Madison was standing beside the toy shelf holding a Barbie knockoff.

"She was right there."

"What did she look like?"

"Maybe seven? Eight? White dress. Red ribbon."

"Classic."

Madison glared at me.

"Do not say classic."

"That's textbook ghost child."

"She asked me where the candy was."

"Did you tell her?"

"Yes."

"Good customer service."

"She's dead."

"Still a customer."

Madison stared.

"You are insane."

From the candy aisle, a bag crinkled.

We both looked.

Then came a little giggle.

Madison pointed at the aisle.

"See?"

"Yeah."

"What do we do?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"She's not hurting anybody."

"But she's stealing candy."

That gave me pause.

"Okay. We have rules."

We walked to candy.

A bag of gummy worms was sitting in the middle of the floor.

Closed.

Beside it was a single penny.

Madison looked at me.

"She paid."

"Apparently."

"One cent."

"She's old. Inflation probably confused her."

Madison laughed.

Then the little girl laughed.

Then I laughed because Madison stopped laughing immediately.

"Oh, no," she said.

"What?"

"She laughed with me."

"Congratulations. You made a friend."

"I don't want a dead friend."

"Too late."

The bag of gummy worms slid six inches toward Madison.

She ran.

Actually ran.

Straight to the register.

I picked up the candy.

"She's new. Give her time."

The lights above me blinked.

One.

Two.

Three.

I don't know what that means.

But I put the gummy worms behind the register.

Just in case.

Saturday, 7:22 P.M.

Pam finally admitted she knows more than she tells us.

I knew it.

Managers always do.

We were sitting in the office during a rare ten-minute stretch with no customers.

Pam was eating peanut butter crackers.

I was drinking a Mountain Dew.

Cody was up front.

Madison had gone home.

I asked:

"How long has this place been haunted?"

Pam stopped chewing.

That's Pam's tell.

She looked at me.

"Why?"

"Because there are at least five ghosts."

"There are not five."

"Headless Earl."

"One."

"Walter."

"Two."

"Little girl."

"Three."

"Freezer woman."

Pam sighed.

"Four."

"Stockroom breathing."

"That's not a ghost."

I slowly lowered my Mountain Dew.

"What is it?"

Pam took another bite of cracker.

"I don't know."

"Pam."

"What?"

"You cannot tell me the breathing thing isn't a ghost and then just keep eating."

"It hasn't hurt anybody."

"That is not the point."

"What is the point?"

"The point is WHAT IS BREATHING IN THE STOCKROOM?"

From the stockroom came:

Hhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Pam looked toward the wall.

I looked toward the wall.

Cody shouted from the register:

"I HEAR YOU!"

The breathing stopped.

Pam pointed with her cracker.

"See? Fine."

I hate management.

Then Pam told me something interesting.

She has worked here for fourteen years.

The strange activity started before she did.

Employees used to quit because of it.

Not locals.

People transferred in.

Temporary managers.

Traveling inventory crews.

One inventory company apparently refused to come back after every handheld scanner turned on at once and displayed the same number.

"What number?" I asked.

Pam shrugged.

"Don't remember."

"How do you not remember?"

"It was fourteen years ago."

"Was it 666?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Because that would've been awesome."

Pam gave me a look.

She said locals started treating the ghosts like regular customers.

Things calmed down.

Nobody fought them.

Nobody tried cleansing the store.

Nobody brought in a preacher.

Nobody made a big deal.

They just accepted it.

That sounded very Gainesboro.

We don't like unnecessary drama.

If a ghost wants Tide, give it Tide.

Pam also confirmed something else.

The new Dollar General has no ghosts.

"See?" I said.

"See what?"

"That's why it's bad."

Pam rolled her eyes.

But she smiled.

Sunday, 1:03 P.M.

Today was probably the strangest day yet.

Not scary.

Just weird.

A family came in around noon.

Definitely not local.

Kentucky plates.

The father had sunglasses on his head.

The mother looked stressed.

Two kids.

They wandered around for maybe twenty minutes.

Normal.

Then Earl came in.

Headless.

Cart.

Routine.

The family saw him.

All four froze.

The father whispered:

"What the hell?"

His wife grabbed his arm.

The little boy said:

"COOL."

Earl pushed his cart toward canned goods.

The father looked at me.

"Did you see that?"

"Yep."

"He doesn't have a head."

"Yep."

"Should we call somebody?"

"For what?"

He stared at me.

"The man doesn't have a head."

"I don't think calling an ambulance is going to help."

His wife said:

"Oh my God."

The little boy was thrilled.

"Is he a zombie?"

"No," I said. "He's Earl."

The father pointed.

"You know him?"

"Sort of."

"WHO IS HE?"

"Earl."

"I heard that. Who is Earl?"

I considered it.

"Regular customer."

Earl raised one hand.

The little boy waved.

Earl waved back.

The mother looked like she might faint.

Then Mrs. Jenkins walked in.

Perfect timing.

She passed Earl.

"Afternoon."

Earl lifted a hand.

Mrs. Jenkins grabbed a basket and looked at the family.

Y'all finding everything okay?"

The father stared.

"THAT MAN HAS NO HEAD."

Mrs. Jenkins looked at Earl.

Then back at the father.

"He's had that problem a while."

I had to turn away.

I couldn't help it.

I laughed so hard I snorted.

The mother whispered, "We should leave."

The little boy shouted, "NO!"

They left.

The boy looked heartbroken.

I almost told them to try the other Dollar General, but that felt cruel.

Sunday, 9:40 P.M.

Something happened tonight that I can't explain.

Yes.

I understand the irony of writing that after telling you about a headless shopper.

But this was different.

I was closing alone.

Again.

The store was quiet.

No rain.

No storm.

No music.

I had already locked the door.

I was counting the drawer when I heard someone walking.

Not Earl.

Earl's boots are heavy.

These were slow footsteps.

Soft.

Coming toward the register.

I looked up.

Nobody.

The footsteps stopped.

Then something tapped the counter.

Three times.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

I stood there.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

Then I noticed something beside the card reader.

A red guitar pick.

I stared at it.

I do not play guitar.

Cody doesn't.

Madison doesn't.

Pam definitely doesn't.

I picked it up.

It had a tiny white lightning bolt printed on it.

Then the intercom crackled.

Static.

And a man's voice said:

"Turn it up."

I smiled.

"Finally. Somebody with taste."

The speaker clicked off.

I put the guitar pick in my pocket.

I'm keeping it.

Monday, 10:15 A.M.

Walter threw fabric softener at Cody today.

It was funny.

Cody says it wasn't.

He is wrong.

Monday, 3:55 P.M.

I have developed a theory.

The ghosts like us.

Not in a creepy way.

Well.

Not only in a creepy way.

They like the store.

They like routine.

They like people coming and going.

They like conversations.

Maybe that's why ours feels better.

I know that sounds stupid.

But the new store is just a building.

Ours has personality.

Granted, some of that personality is deceased.

But personality is personality.

People come here because Pam remembers their names.

I know who wants cigarettes without asking.

Cody carries heavy stuff to cars for older customers.

Madison knows every teenager in town.

We know who needs help.

Who wants to talk.

Who doesn't.

Who just came in because they were bored.

When Mr. Garrison's wife died, he came every morning for three weeks and bought one cup of instant noodles.

He didn't need noodles.

He needed somewhere to go.

Pam knew.

We all knew.

Nobody said anything.

We just talked to him.

One morning the freezer woman appeared behind him in the reflection.

She was standing beside him.

Not scary.

Just there.

Mr. Garrison looked at the glass.

Smiled.

And said:

"Morning, Elsie."

I nearly dropped a box of waffles.

He never explained.

Neither did we.

That's how things work around here.

You don't always ask.

Tuesday, 5:41 P.M.

A man from Nashville came in today.

I know he was from Nashville because he told me.

Three times.

He wanted a phone charger.

I showed him the chargers.

He wanted a cheaper charger.

I showed him the cheaper chargers.

He wanted USB-C.

I showed him USB-C.

He then informed me that "the Dollar General in Nashville has better electronics."

I said:

"I'm devastated."

He didn't catch the sarcasm.

Then he asked why the store smelled like cinnamon.

I hadn't noticed.

But suddenly I did.

Strong cinnamon.

The smell moved down the aisle.

He followed it.

I didn't.

Cinnamon means freezer woman.

No idea why.

He came back two minutes later.

Pale.

"There's somebody standing by the ice cream."

"Okay."

"An old woman."

"Okay."

"She disappeared."

"Yeah."

"Did you hear me?"

"Yes."

"She disappeared."

"She does that."

He stared.

"What?"

I pointed toward the chargers.

"You still need USB-C?"

He left without buying anything.

The freezer door opened by itself.

"That was rude," I said.

It closed.

"Thank you."

Wednesday, 8:08 P.M.

I think the ghosts hate country music.

This is controversial.

We are in Tennessee.

But evidence is evidence.

Cody connected his phone to my speaker.

Without permission.

First offense.

Then he played modern country.

Second offense.

Walter knocked down a bottle of detergent.

The card rack spun by itself.

A toy dog started barking.

The freezer alarm went off.

The stockroom breathing got aggressive.

Hhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Hhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Hhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I looked at Cody.

"Turn it off."

"It's not that bad."

A roll of toilet paper flew off the shelf and hit him in the shoulder.

I crossed my arms.

"The building has spoken."

He changed it to Metallica.

Everything stopped.

Science.

Thursday, 6:50 P.M.

The truck came today.

That means chaos.

Boxes everywhere.

Roll-tainers.

Customers trying to squeeze past us.

Pam yelling.

Me sweating.

Cody pretending he can't hear Pam.

Madison somehow disappearing whenever something heavy needs moved.

Normal retail.

At about four, we discovered something strange.

Every box marked for the new Dollar General had somehow ended up on our truck.

Not one or two.

Dozens.

Pam called the distribution center.

They said there was a labeling mistake.

We stacked the boxes in the stockroom.

Around five, one fell over.

Then another.

Then another.

Only the boxes for the other store.

None of ours.

Pam stood in the doorway.

"No."

Another box fell.

"Stop."

Another.

"Those are not ours."

Silence.

Then one box slowly slid across the floor toward the back door.

Pam put her hands on her hips.

"You are not keeping their merchandise."

The box stopped.

I whispered:

"They hate the other store too."

Pam pointed at me.

"Don't encourage them."

A box containing toilet cleaner fell.

I nodded.

"Strong opinion."

Friday, 9:22 P.M.

I've been thinking about writing all this down for a while.

Not because I expect anybody to believe me.

People from Gainesboro will.

People outside Gainesboro won't.

That's fine.

Visitors always think the new Dollar General is better.

Let them.

They'll learn.

They walk into that nice clean building with its bright lights and fresh paint.

Then they wait twelve minutes at checkout.

They discover half the shelves haven't been stocked.

They step around boxes.

Nobody knows where anything is.

Then eventually they wander into ours.

The ugly one.

The old one.

The haunted one.

And Pam says hello.

I ask what they're looking for.

Cody helps carry dog food.

Madison rings them up.

Walter knocks over Gain.

A dead man shops for chili.

A little girl steals gummy worms and leaves a penny.

An old woman watches from freezer doors.

Something breathes in the stockroom.

And every now and then the broken intercom criticizes my music.

But the shelves are stocked.

The customers get helped.

The line moves.

And if Earl leaves his cart in pet supplies, somebody eventually puts it away.

Tonight I finished closing and turned off the lights.

I stood by the door.

Dark store behind me.

Parking lot outside.

Quiet.

Then the intercom clicked.

Static.

"Ivy."

I turned.

"Yeah?"

Pause.

"Good night."

I smiled.

"Good night."

From somewhere near laundry, a bottle fell.

From toys, a little girl giggled.

The freezer door thumped shut.

The stockroom breathed once.

Hhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I pointed toward the back.

"I hear you."

Silence.

I unlocked the door and stepped outside.

Before leaving, I looked back through the glass.

For just a second, I could see them.

Earl standing near the carts.

The little girl beside candy.

The old woman near the freezer.

A shadow in laundry.

Something tall in the stockroom doorway.

All watching.

Then the lights flickered.

They were gone.

I locked the door.

Across town, the new Dollar General glowed bright and clean.

Probably understaffed.

Probably disorganized.

Probably had somebody standing at the register yelling, "HELLO?"

I climbed into my car.

Turned the key.

Cranked the stereo.

Guitar screamed through the speakers.

I pulled out of the parking lot laughing.

Because Gainesboro has two Dollar Generals.

One of them is newer.

One is nicer.

One doesn't have ghosts.

But every local knows the truth.

That ain't the good one.