Caleb Holloway had taken Route 57 so many times that he could trace it with his eyes closed. It was the road between silence and memory, from his lonely apartment in Clay County to his daughter’s new life in the city—divorced, distant, and determined to move on from everything he represented.

Six hours. One tank of gas. Two cans of root beer.

That was the routine.

But on that night—clouds gathering, radio dead, phone flickering between “Searching” and “No Service”—something was different.

It wasn’t just the crooked road or the eerie quiet of the woods. It was the gas station.

It hadn’t been there before. It shouldn’t have been there now.

The sign said: Open 24/7
No brand. No logo. Just glowing white letters flickering on and off like Morse code. The place looked like it had been built in the 1950s and time had forgotten to age it properly.

Two rusted pumps. A red Coke machine outside. A cracked window covered by blinds that didn’t move.

But the lights inside were on.

Caleb hesitated. He still had a quarter tank left. He didn’t need to stop. But something pulled at him. Like a whisper behind his ear.

He parked. Killed the engine. Got out.

The gravel crunched under his boots.

The bell jingled above the door—sharp and old-fashioned. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The air smelled faintly of motor oil and old leather.

No music. No radio.
No cashier.

He looked around. Rows of perfectly arranged snacks. Old newspapers. A small counter with a red button labeled Service. He tapped it once.

Nothing happened.

He waited.

That’s when he noticed the clock on the wall. The hands were spinning—fast, counter-clockwise. Seconds, minutes, hours, days—whirling like someone had pressed rewind on the world.

And then it stopped. On 3:33.

The lights dimmed. And someone coughed behind him.

He turned sharply, but no one was there. The sound had come from the back room.

“Hello?” he called out. “I just need to fill up.”

A voice answered. Soft. Tired. Familiar.

“Caleb.”

He froze.

It wasn’t just that the voice knew his name. It was that it sounded like his mother.

But his mother had died in 2004. In a hospital 300 miles away. She had never stepped foot on Route 57.

“Who’s there?” he demanded.

But the voice didn’t answer.

Instead, the store began to shift.

The shelves blinked.

For a second, they held modern snacks—Lay’s, Doritos, trail mix. The next second, they were lined with canned beans, cigarettes from brands he hadn’t seen since the 80s, glass bottles of cola.

Outside, the sky flickered too. Stars appeared. Then vanished. Then it was daytime. Then sunset.

He ran to the door. Tried to open it.

It didn’t budge.

The handle twisted in his grip, but the latch was sealed tight. No matter how hard he yanked, kicked, cursed—it didn’t move.

He turned back to the room.

And saw a woman standing behind the counter.

She wore a red dress that looked like it belonged in a 1962 Sears catalog. Hair pinned up. Eyes pale blue. Hands folded on the counter.

But what chilled Caleb to the bone was that she didn’t blink.

“You came back,” she said.

“I’ve never been here,” he replied, heart pounding.

She tilted her head. “Not yet.”

The clock behind her began spinning again.

“I just need to leave,” he said.

“You will,” she said. “But not until you see it.”

He didn’t ask what. Because in that moment, the store began to disappear.

One by one, the shelves vanished. The lights turned off. The walls cracked, peeled away, and behind them was mirror after mirror.

Dozens.

Each reflected a version of him.

One with gray hair and no eyes.
One with blood on his shirt.
One crying in the corner, whispering “I’m sorry” over and over.
One screaming.
One… smiling.

He stepped toward a mirror and it stepped back.

Not a reflection. A duplicate.

“You died here,” one version said.

“You killed us,” said another.

“You stayed too long,” whispered a third.

The woman in red stood behind them all.

There was only one door left. The one behind the counter. She nodded toward it.

“You have to finish what you started.”

“I didn’t start anything,” Caleb snapped.

But his feet moved before his mind could argue.

The back room was cold. Dark. Lit only by a red bulb swinging slowly from the ceiling.

In the center was a black-and-white television.

It turned on as he approached.

Footage played.
Old, grainy. Security cam. The gas station, from above. Caleb—himself—pulling in, just as he did. Walking in. Then… disappearing.

Hours passed on the screen.

And then he re-emerged—dragging something.

Something wrapped in a tarp.

He stared at the screen. Watched himself open the back of his car. Throw the body in. Slam the trunk.

Then drive off into the dark.

The tape ended.

He looked down at his hands. They were covered in blood.

“No,” he whispered.

“You did,” the woman said behind him. “Again.”

“I didn’t hurt anyone.”

“Not this time. But you will. You always do.”

“Who was it?”

She tilted her head.

“You know.”

And somewhere deep inside, he did.

The door opened. He was back in the gas station. The mirrors were gone. The clock was spinning faster than ever. The bell above the door rang.

And someone walked in.

It was him.

Not a reflection. Not a ghost.

Another Caleb walked in. Same jacket. Same confused look. Same mistake.

And just like that, Caleb understood.

He hadn’t stumbled into a place.

He had stumbled into a loop.

A cycle.

Each version of himself trapped in the same nightmare—over and over—trying to understand, to escape, to undo something he had already done.

He grabbed the mirror nearest him and smashed it.

The glass sliced his hand. Blood poured. But something else poured out too—memories.

Flashes of an argument.
A woman crying.
A steering wheel.
A body hitting something.

Then silence.

She hadn’t made it.
He had buried it.
He had forgotten it.

And now, the station remembered for him.

He didn’t know what else to do. He grabbed the oil cans. Tore down the shelves. Piled them up.

And lit a match.

The fire caught fast. The mirrors cracked. The woman in red didn’t move. She just watched.

“You’ll be back,” she said as the flames rose.

“Not this time,” Caleb whispered.

He woke up by the roadside. The car was intact. The gas tank full.

The station?

Gone.

Just trees. Dirt. A stretch of empty road.

His phone blinked back to life. 7:02 AM.

He started the car. Drove.

He doesn’t take Route 57 anymore.

He moved to a city with streetlights and noise. He got therapy. He apologized to his daughter. He started to live again.

But sometimes…

Sometimes when the sky is quiet and the road is too dark…

He sees a flicker in the trees.
A red neon glow.
And the words:
Open 24/7.