My heart hammered as I scanned the parking lot, clutching the receipt. The cashier was gone—her lane empty, like she’d vanished. The note’s words burned in my mind: Take your child and leave. Now. Don’t look back.
I strapped my daughter into her car seat, hands shaking, and peeled out of the Walmart lot. The rearview mirror stayed empty, but the hairs on my neck stood up. I didn’t know what I was running from, but that note wasn’t a prank.
At home, I locked the doors and checked the windows. My daughter babbled, oblivious, as I dialed the store. The manager picked up, sounding confused. “Ma’am, we don’t have a cashier matching that description. And our receipts can’t print custom messages like that.”
I froze. “Then who helped me?”
Silence. Then, “Get out of your house. Now.”
A creak came from the hallway. My daughter’s cereal box, still in the grocery bag, tipped over on the counter—by itself.
I grabbed her and ran.
