Closing Time at Dollarama

A late-night trip to Dollarama in Kingcross Market

I only needed a few things for the washroom, but every time I step into Dollarama at Kingcross Market, I can’t help myself. I start wandering. It’s a bad habit—going through aisle after aisle, just in case I see something cheap I don’t need but somehow convince myself I do.

That night was no different. I grabbed a trolley, slid my headphones in, and let my playlist drown out the dull fluorescent hum. The store wasn’t too busy—just a handful of late shoppers and the faint beeping from the checkout counters up front.

I turned into the first aisle and nearly jumped out of my skin. Someone was standing right there. Tall. Too close. I muttered a quick, awkward “Sorry” and rolled past. My heart settled after a moment, but I felt stupid for not paying attention.

The second aisle was the same. I turned, and there he was again. I almost bumped right into him. My face burned. To stop humiliating myself, I pulled out one headphone and paid closer attention. The aisle ahead looked empty.

By the time I hit the third row, I saw nothing. No one. I sighed, slid my other headphone back in, and let myself relax.

That’s when it happened again.

Thud.

I crashed into him. My whole body jolted. I knew that aisle had been empty when I entered it. My apology came out in a stammer, but my eyes caught something new this time: an oversized jacket, filthy, torn at the cuffs, like it had been dug up from the ground. The smell of wet earth clung to it.

I didn’t look at his face. Couldn’t. Something deep in me screamed not to.

I hurried on, pushing the trolley faster, its wheels squeaking against the floor. My music suddenly felt too loud, like it was drowning out something I should hear. I lowered the volume, straining for other footsteps.

There weren’t any.

By the next aisle, the store was eerily silent. No chatter, no beeping registers, no squeaky carts. Just me. And him.

Every row I entered, he was there. Always ahead, always waiting, shoulders hunched.

That’s when I realized… there was nobody else left in the store. No parents with kids, no cashiers, no stock boys. The whole place was empty.

Except for me.
And him.

I abandoned my trolley and rushed toward the checkout. My sneakers squeaked against the linoleum, echoing far too loud in the hollow air. My chest heaved.

The registers were empty. No cashiers. No glowing red “CASH” signs. Just silent counters under flickering fluorescent bulbs.

Panic gnawed at my ribs as I bolted to the glass doors. They didn’t slide open. I yanked them, slammed my shoulder against them, clawed at the edges. Nothing.

My phone rang. The vibration rattled in my pocket like a scream.

I looked down at the screen. Just a regular call. I didn’t even see who from—because when I looked up, my breath froze.

The doors were gone.

There was no exit anymore. Just another aisle stretching into shadow, shelves looming like crooked teeth.

And then I heard it. The scrape of dragging footsteps. Slow. Wet. Coming closer.

I ran. Tearing through aisles, knocking products to the floor, pushing past racks that seemed to stretch longer than they should. Every time I thought I’d shaken him, I’d glimpse the oversized jacket swaying just a step behind me, no matter how fast I moved.

I turned a corner and—finally—there it was. The faint glow of an EXIT sign above a heavy fire door. I shoved it with all my strength. For a moment, it wouldn’t budge. Then with a groan of rusted hinges, it burst open and icy night air hit my face.

I stumbled out into the parking lot, my legs trembling, lungs burning. I didn’t stop until I reached my car, slamming the door shut, fumbling the locks with shaking hands.

My phone said 9:30 p.m.

But Dollarama closes at nine.

I turned, staring through the windshield at the store. It was dark. Locked up. Empty.

At least, it should have been.

Through the glass doors, pressed against the inside, was the figure in the oversized jacket. His face smeared against the glass, lips stretched into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

And he was still watching me.