Go to shortscarystories
r/shortscarystories
5 mo. ago
CBenson1273
My Customer Kept Telling Me His Angel Number
When I was in college, I worked part time at the local coffee shop. It wasn’t my dream job, but the pay was good so I couldn’t complain.
There was one regular who always visited during my shift. He always came in at 1:15pm, sat at the same table, ordered the same meal, and ate quietly while drawing in his notebook. He was always polite and tipped well, so I didn’t mind.
One day I asked another server about him.
“Oh, that’s Danny! I think he’s a little slow. He never talks - he only ever communicates in pictures. But he’s a real sweetheart.”
He was a sweetheart, just shy. I brought his food every day and smiled at him. One day he drew a picture on the bottom of his receipt - a small bird. I liked it and told him so. From then on, every day he’d draw me a picture in his sketchbook. Birds, cats, flowers. They always made me smile.
One day he drew a picture of bird wings with the number 119 written beneath them. I asked what it meant, but he just pointed at the wings and the number. So I did some research. Apparently 119 is an “angel number” - it represents new beginnings, positive energy, and prosperity. I thought it was sweet that he’d draw that for me, so I hung it up behind the counter. I guess he liked that, because afterward all his pictures were the same as that one.
One day a young man entered the shop. As I walked toward him to ask what he wanted, I saw an expression on Danny’s face I’d never seen before - complete, utter terror. As I passed by Danny, the new customer pulled a gun from his jacket and aimed it at me.
Everything next happened in slow motion. He pulled the trigger. Danny jumped from his seat and dove in front of me. There was a loud bang. Danny fell to the floor. I screamed. The shooter raised the gun to his own head and fired.
The police eventually came, but too late. Danny died holding my hand and smiling at me.
Weeks later, his mother visited me at the shop.
“I just wanted to thank you. Danny didn’t have many friends, but he really liked you. Thanks for being kind to him.”
“It was my pleasure,” I replied. “He was a really sweet person. And a good artist - his pictures always brightened my day.”
“Really?” she replied. “Can I see one?”
I showed her the ones behind the counter. “Apparently he was very big on his angel number - he drew it for me all the time.”
At that moment, I realized that the wings in the picture looked just like those on the jacket of the man who’d shot Danny.
Then I looked over - his mother was gaping at the picture in shock.
“What?” I asked, concerned.
She turned and looked at me.
“Danny was dyslexic.”