We Don’t Deliver

After moving to a small town in southern Michigan I got a job as a cashier in the local store. After work I would walk home to my small house and order a small pizza.

This was my routine for two weeks when things took a strange turn. I called in my usual order to the pizzeria when a new voice, one I hadn’t heard before answer the phone and told me “The usual? No problem. I’ll deliver it in less than five minutes.”

Sure enough within five minutes my order was delivered and it was exactly what I had ordered every night before. When I tried to give the delivery boy a tip he declined, he said he didn’t need it and that he was just working at the pizzeria to get out of the house and to try and meet new people.

This became my new routine for about three months. I’d order the same pizza and the same deliver boy would stop by at the same time. It was sort of a running joke between us how he knew my routine so well and that I always had exactly what he needed.

When I grew tired of eating the same thing every night. On my way home I stopped at the small diner across the street from the pizza place and had a nice dinner. Through the window I saw my usual delivery boy leave the pizzeria with a box in hand, heading toward my block.

I returned home, later than usual, and I found a pizza box sitting on my doorstep. On the box was a note that said, “Missed you. Guess I’ll get what you owe me tomorrow.”

This creeped me out. I called the pizzeria and told the manager what I had found. I told him about the message and that for the past three months the same delivery boy had been stopping by and that I was sure he was the one who left the note.

It was then the manager told me something I never expected. “Ma’am, we don’t deliver.”


  • Daniel Di Benedetto

    Horrifying. That was so abrupt and creepy. It seemed so cute at first, and then became immediately weird a moment later. Good job.