I was twenty-three when I worked as a delivery driver for a small local app called MealRunner.
The money wasn’t great, but I was buried under credit card debt and desperate to pay it down. I usually drove during daylight, but on weekends I’d push late into the night for the extra tips.
One Friday, I accepted an order from a Thai restaurant in a busy strip mall.
The customer’s notes were odd: “Come to the side gate. Don’t ring the doorbell. Text when you arrive.” At first, I brushed it off. People had quirky requests all the time.
I picked up the food and started driving. The house was fifteen miles outside of Columbus, Ohio, in a semi-rural area I’d never been to.
The main roads were lit, but once I exited onto county roads, the glow of streetlights disappeared.
My GPS guided me past rows of empty fields until it told me to turn onto a gravel lane lined with trees.
The house sat at the very end of the lane. Unlike the usual suburban homes I delivered to, this place looked worn down—peeling paint, missing shutters, no lights inside or out.
The driveway lamp leaned sideways, bulb shattered. I parked near the gate because the customer’s instructions repeated “use side gate.”
I texted him that I’d arrived. He read it instantly. His reply: “Walk through the gate. I’ll meet you out back.”
The wind picked up, rustling the tall weeds. The gate creaked when I opened it. I didn’t like stepping off the gravel—grass brushed against my legs, damp and cold.
I kept glancing back at my car, telling myself I was overthinking.
As I rounded the side of the house, I noticed a detached garage with its door half open. The beam of my phone flashlight caught something metallic inside, like the edge of a tool.
The hairs on my neck stood up.
I texted again: “Can you come get the food at the gate?” No reply. A minute passed. Then another. Finally: “Almost there. Keep walking.”
That was enough. I set the bag of food on a lawn chair and turned to leave. Just then, a man’s voice came from the garage: “Right here.”
I froze. I couldn’t see anyone, only dark shapes piled inside. My heart was hammering. I said, “I left it on the chair,” and backed toward the gate.
The sound that followed is burned into me—the hiss of air escaping. I spun around and saw my back tire sagging. Someone had slashed it. I ran the rest of the way to my car. The front tire was flat too.
I jumped inside and locked the doors. Every instinct screamed to start the engine, but with two flats, I wasn’t going anywhere fast. I dialed 911, hands shaking.
While it rang, a figure emerged from the tree line, then another. Within seconds, three people surrounded my car, faces hidden by hoodies and masks.
One of them pounded on the window. “Out. Now.”
I yelled that the police were on the way. The one at the driver’s side leaned close and said, calm as stone, “Then you’d better hope they get here real soon.”
I stayed put, clutching the steering wheel like it could protect me. My phone screen showed the call had connected, and I shouted into the speaker, giving the dispatcher the address.
That seemed to spook them. Two of the figures backed off into the dark. The third lingered at my window before finally disappearing toward the garage.
Minutes crawled by until I saw headlights sweeping down the lane. A sheriff’s cruiser pulled up behind me. Relief nearly made me sob.
Deputies searched the property, but whoever had been there was gone. Inside the garage, they found footprints in the dust and a few empty beer bottles, nothing else.
The officer told me the house had been vacant for months. The order had been placed with a stolen credit card. Whoever set the trap likely never intended to let me leave unscathed.
My car was towed, and I rode home with a friend after giving a statement. I never drove for MealRunner again. To this day, I don’t take late-night jobs in empty neighborhoods.
That night taught me something I can’t forget: not every customer wants food.
Sometimes, they’re hungry for something else entirely.
