Milk Run

“While you're at the market, please pick up some milk, but be careful: Medusa just moved to this town."

The text came from Mom, like it was nothing.

No exclamation marks, no emojis. Just a casual warning wedged between “milk” and “this town.”

At first, I thought it was code. Maybe she meant the HOA president again. But then I saw the sign taped to the grocery store’s glass doors:

                  CAUTION: REFLECTION HAZARD. DO NOT MAKE DIRECT EYE CONTACT. Town ordinance #247. Thank you for your cooperation.

Inside, the lights were dimmed. Mirrors had been covered with sheets of black cloth. In the freezer aisle, a man’s stone hand poked from between the waffles and the ice cream. Someone had carved the word “help” into his palm.

The milk was near the back, of course. Always near the back. I gripped the cart and pushed it past the quiet statues that used to be people, all of them frozen mid-gesture: a woman sneezing, a kid holding an orange, a cashier half-smiling.

At the dairy section, I caught movement in the chrome reflection of the refrigerator handle. A flash of a woman’s silhouette, hair writhing faintly, like seaweed underwater.

I grabbed the first carton I saw and turned to leave, but her voice slithered softly through the aisle.

“Whole milk?” she asked. “Or 2%?”

Her tone was polite. Almost neighborly.

I didn’t look. “Whichever’s on sale,” I said, my pulse drumming in my ears.

When I got home, I set the carton on the counter. It was still cold, but the expiration date read April 14, 541 B.C.

Mom smiled. “Perfect,” she said, pouring herself a glass. The milk was thick, grey, and gritty, like freshly poured concrete.

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