Have you ever wondered if that mechanical female voice from the self-checkout machines you use every day might be announcing more than just the items you're buying?
The first time I heard it name something I didn't purchase, I thought it was a system glitch.
The second time, I blamed a prank.
The third time, I didn't go to that supermarket at all.
But the voice found me anyway.
I
My name is Chen Yu. I work as a product operations specialist at an internet company.
There's a chain supermarket downstairs from my office called Neighbor's Choice. It's been open for about two years—not very big, but well-stocked, with everything from oden to batteries. Every morning I stop by for an Americano and a rice ball. At noon I sometimes grab a salad, and if I work overtime at night, I pick up a bottle of oolong tea.
I go so often that the cashiers know me by sight. A girl named Xiao Zhou would always greet me with, "The usual today?"
But over the past few months, self-checkout machines had taken over.
The supermarket cut six regular checkout lanes down to two manned counters and eight self-service stations. Xiao Zhou was reassigned to help elderly customers scan their items. Every time I passed her, she repeated the same lines: "Yes, hold the barcode up to the red light… Good, now tap 'Finish and Pay'…"
I preferred self-checkout. It was fast, no small talk required.
I remember the date clearly: April 12th, a regular Tuesday. The weather was mild. I wore a dark gray hoodie, with my phone and work ID in my pocket. Coffee and rice ball, total fourteen and a half yuan.
The self-checkout screen glowed white. I held up the rice ball's barcode.
*Beep.*
The list appeared: Tuna Rice Ball, 3.5 yuan.
I scanned the coffee.
*Beep.*
Freshly Brewed Americano (Large), 11 yuan.
Total: 14.5 yuan. I pulled up my payment code, ready to scan.
Just then, the mechanical female voice came from the machine:
"Please place items into shopping bag."
I ignored it. The machine often nagged about bags; I just tapped "Skip." I reached for the screen.
"Unscanned item: cinerary casket."
My finger froze mid-air.
Cinerary casket.
I stared at the screen. Clear black text on a white background. Beneath my cart, a new line in bright red stood out, as if specially marked: Cinerary Casket, 1 unit, price unknown.
I froze.
My first thought was a system error. The supermarket's self-checkout software was buggy to begin with; last month, scanning one bottle of water had once charged me for a full case. Besides, why would a supermarket sell cinerary caskets? This wasn't a funeral home.
I glanced around.
To my left, a woman scanned yogurt and potato chips. To my right, a middle-aged man in a suit bought a lighter and gum. No one noticed the abnormality on my machine.
Xiao Zhou was several meters away, helping an elderly lady with her membership card. She wasn't looking.
I tapped the red "Delete" button. Normally, you could remove mistakenly scanned items. But the red text didn't move.
I tapped again.
Still nothing.
I tried backing out of the cart and re-entering. The line remained at the bottom, like a badly pasted sticker.
I gave up deleting and scanned my payment code.
*Beep.*
Payment successful. 14.5 yuan.
The cart disappeared, and the red line vanished with it. The receipt printed out. I tore it off—only rice ball and coffee, no casket.
Definitely a glitch.
I stuffed my items into my bag and walked out. As I passed Xiao Zhou, she looked up and glanced at me.
Her expression was wrong, like she'd seen something she shouldn't have.
"Leaving?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said.
Once outside, I glanced back at the machine. It stood quietly, screen glowing white, the next customer scanning a cola.
Nothing strange.
I forgot about it.
At least, I tried to.
II
The next day, April 13th, Wednesday.
I went back anyway.
Not because I'd forgotten, but because I truly believed it was just a system bug. It's like your phone crashing once—you don't throw it away. Besides, this was the only supermarket nearby; any other would be a fifteen-minute detour.
I grabbed the same things: tuna rice ball, large Americano.
At the self-checkout area, I hesitated. I picked the leftmost machine—not the same one as yesterday.
Scanned.
*Beep.* Rice ball.
*Beep.* Coffee.
Total: 14.5 yuan.
I waited for the voice.
"Please place items into shopping bag."
Then—
"Unscanned item: funeral shroud."
Funeral shroud.
My hand holding my phone froze.
Not a casket this time. A shroud.
I stared at the screen for five seconds, then tapped "Pay Anyway," figuring it would disappear after payment, just like yesterday.
Payment successful.
The receipt printed. Only rice ball and coffee.
But I wasn't calm anymore.
Once could be a malfunction. Twice?
I stood there, staring at the slip, running through possibilities. Hacked system? A prank? Had someone messed with the store's product database?
The latter seemed most likely. Supermarkets don't stock shrouds or caskets under normal circumstances.
I put the receipt away and left with my coffee.
I passed Xiao Zhou again.
She was watching me.
Not a quick glance—she stared straight at me, as if confirming something. Her lips moved, like she wanted to speak, but she lowered her head instead.
I stopped.
"Xiao Zhou?" I called.
She looked up, flustered: "Oh, what's up?"
"Has your self-checkout system been acting up lately? Scanning weird items?"
She blinked: "Weird items? Like what?"
I thought for a moment. "Items that aren't even there."
She hesitated. It was brief—less than a second—but I caught it.
"Not that I know of," she said. "No other customers complained. You could ask our tech team?"
"Sure."
I didn't push. But I noticed something: as she spoke, she wasn't looking at me. She was staring at the self-checkout machine I'd just used.
I glanced back. The screen showed the next customer's cart: milk, bread, eggs.
Completely normal.
I walked out into bright sunshine, people hurrying past. I took a sip of coffee. Bitter.
A thought suddenly hit me—
How did the machine know what was in my bag?
When it said "unscanned item," it acted like I'd hidden something. But I'd never touched a casket or shroud.
It shouldn't know anything. It wasn't supposed to know anything.
I finished my coffee and went upstairs to work.
III
On the third day, April 14th, Thursday.
I didn't go to the supermarket.
I bought instant coffee and a sandwich from a tiny convenience store downstairs. It tasted terrible, but I didn't care.
The day was normal: meetings, reports, arguing with designers, negotiating with developers. I left work at six-thirty, still daylight, and walked home.
There was another Neighbor's Choice near my apartment, part of the same chain. I hesitated as I passed, but didn't enter. Instead, I bought instant noodles and frozen dumplings from a small family-run shop by the gate.
The owner knew me and gave me an extra sausage.
"Why not the big supermarket today?" he asked.
"Too lazy to walk," I said.
I went home, cooked the dumplings, ate half, stored the rest. Showered, scrolled on my phone. I saw a news clip about card-skimming devices installed in delivery lockers. I swiped past quickly.
At eleven-thirty, I prepared to sleep.
My phone vibrated.
A push notification.
From the Neighbor's Choice app.
I'd downloaded it last year to use points for a box of tissues. I never opened it after that, but I'd left notifications on, too lazy to turn them off.
But this one was different.
"Your shopping cart has been saved. Welcome back next time."
Just that one line.
I frowned. I never used the cart function. Never saved anything.
I thought it was spam and almost swiped it away. But the second my finger touched the screen, I saw the small image attached below.
It was tiny, thumbnail-sized, but I recognized it immediately.
It was a photo.
Of me.
I was standing at the self-checkout, phone in hand, paying. The angle was from the machine's camera, looking down, showing the top of my head and half my face.
Behind me stood a blurry human shape.
Calling it a person felt wrong. It was more like a silhouette, a form, as if someone stood there but the camera failed to focus, leaving only a smudge. The only clear detail was its clothing—old-fashioned, dark-colored, nothing like everyday wear.
It looked… like a funeral shroud.
I stared at the thumbnail for five seconds.
Then I tapped the notification.
The app opened, jumping straight to "My Cart."
One item was inside.
Not a rice ball. Not coffee.
A cinerary casket.
The image showed a dark brown solid wood casket. The title read: Solid Wood Cinerary Casket, Simple Style, Custom Engraving Available.
At the bottom of the cart page, gray text: Last added: 2025-04-12.
April 12th. Tuesday. The first day I heard "cinerary casket."
I backed out to the cart. Above it, a "Recommended For You" bar scrolled horizontally.
First item: funeral shroud.
Second: joss paper.
Third: memorial scrolls.
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over "Delete." But I didn't tap.
Who took that photo?
Do self-checkout cameras even take pictures? I'd never heard of it. Even if they did, how did it end up in my push notification? How did it know *I* was the one at the machine?
I set my phone face-down.
The living room light was on, TV off. Streetlight seeped through the curtains in a pale yellow glow. Everything was unnaturally quiet.
I picked up the phone again, opened the app, and flipped through every setting.
At the very bottom of Privacy Settings, an option I'd never noticed: Camera Footage Upload.
The toggle was on.
Beneath it, small print: "To optimize your shopping experience, we may collect visual data in the self-checkout area. Please refer to the user agreement for details."
I turned it off.
Then I uninstalled the app.
I lay in bed, lights off, eyes closed. But I couldn't sleep.
The photo replayed in my head. The blurry figure, the one in the shroud. It had stood right behind me, and I hadn't felt a thing.
Was it just a bad angle? Maybe someone waiting in line, just out of focus?
But the height was wrong.
That shape was much taller than a normal person.
Had anyone that tall stood behind me at the checkout?
I hadn't dared turn around the entire time.
IV
For the next three days, I avoided every Neighbor's Choice.
I took a longer route to work, buying meals from a different convenience store. It was more expensive, but I didn't care.
The app was gone. No more notifications.
I thought it was over.
Monday, April 18th.
I received a text message. Not a push—a real SMS, number labeled Neighbor's Choice Service Center.
"Dear member, abnormal login detected on your account. Please click the link to verify your identity to avoid interruptions to point usage."
I almost tapped it. The message looked authentic: logo, formatting, tone, identical to bank verification texts. But my thumb hesitated over the link.
I exited messages, opened a browser, and searched: Neighbor's Choice abnormal member login.
The first result was a forum post on a local community board, posted two days earlier.
Title: Anyone else get weird pushes from Neighbor's Choice?
I opened it.
The OP wrote that a funeral shroud for an infant had appeared in her cart.
Dozens of replies.
Most called her overreacting, said app bugs were normal, blamed targeted ads.
But two replies caught my eye.
One said: "Me too. Mine was a pair of funeral shoes. I deleted it and ignored it. But now my phone automatically opens the app every time I pass the store. Even though I uninstalled it."
The other: "OP, are you there? I have that photo too. But mine's different. The first time, the shadow was behind me. The second time, it was closer. I checked."
I stared at that reply for a long time.
Then I opened my phone gallery and found the screenshot I'd saved before deleting the app.
In the photo, the figure stood half a meter behind me. Only a vague outline.
I zoomed in.
Still blurry.
I deleted the screenshot. I couldn't look anymore.
That night, I couldn't sleep again.
At two in the morning, I got up for water. The kitchen window faced the courtyard. Streetlights were on. Nothing moved.
I drank and headed back to my room. Passing the entrance, I habitually glanced at the small table where I placed deliveries.
On it lay a white envelope.
No stamp, no address—only my name, written in black pen: Chen Yu.
My first thought was a property notice. But the management never wrote names, only "Resident."
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Of me.
Standing at the self-checkout, phone in hand, paying. Same angle, same overhead camera view.
But this time, the figure wasn't behind me.
It was to my left.
Much closer. About thirty centimeters away.
I could now make out its shape: broad shoulders, large head, but facial features completely fogged over. The clothing—I was now certain—was a funeral shroud. Dark, satin-like, the kind only seen at funerals.
On the back of the photo, handwriting.
Not printed.
"You have three chances left."
I flipped it over and stared again. Within the misty "head" of the shadow, something was moving.
The silhouette's head was shifting, slowly leaning toward the camera.
Then I heard a voice.
Very soft, very close, like someone whispering directly into my ear.
A man's voice, deep and heavy, as if coming from far away.
"Found you."
I spun around. The living room blazed with light. Empty.
V
The next day, I took the day off.
I called customer service. It took several transfers to reach a human.
"Hello, Neighbor's Choice support, agent 4032. How may I help you?"
I said: "How long does your self-checkout camera footage get stored?"
She paused for two seconds.
"Sir, are you referring to… surveillance recordings?"
"Yes."
"Store surveillance is generally kept for 30 days. You can confirm with the location. May I ask what issue you're facing?"
I thought for a moment. "I believe someone obtained my photo using your cameras."
Longer silence.
"Sir, this kind of situation… do you have evidence? Screenshots or photos?"
I did. But I couldn't show her.
"Can your technical department check who accessed my camera data?"
"Sir, I'm unable to process that here. How about this: I'll record your request and have the store manager contact you?"
"Fine."
I hung up and thought of the forum post. I reopened the site, looking for new replies.
The thread was gone.
Page display: This topic does not exist or has been deleted.
I checked the OP's profile. Previously filled with daily posts. Now the avatar was gray.
Her last update was three days ago.
It read: It came out of the photo.
Only seven words.
I sent her a private message: "Hi, I'm going through the same thing. Are you okay? Can we talk?"
Sent. But remained unread.
I searched: Neighbor's Choice camera photo.
A local news piece appeared, from a district media platform, two weeks prior.
Title: Resident reports supermarket surveillance leak; police investigating.
Brief text: A citizen reported unauthorized capture and distribution of personal photos via supermarket self-checkout cameras. Police are looking into the case.
I read the comments.
Only three.
First: This happened to me too!
Second: Don't investigate. You won't find anything.
Third was deleted, only gray text remaining: This comment has been removed for violating community guidelines.
I refreshed the page.
The news vanished.
404 Not Found.
VI
In the afternoon, I went back to the Neighbor's Choice downstairs from my office.
Three chances. I'd already used two.
I wasn't brave. I just knew I had to understand what was happening. The voice said "found you," said I had three chances. I didn't know what it meant, but I knew if I did nothing, the shadow in the photos would keep getting closer… until one day, it was no longer in a picture.
The supermarket was busy as usual. No one noticed me.
I found Xiao Zhou.
She stood at the self-checkout area, helping an elderly lady scan items. When she saw me, her expression shifted.
Not surprise. More like… relief.
"You came."
She should have said "shopping today?" But she only said "you came."
Like she'd been waiting.
"Xiao Zhou," I whispered, "I need to ask you something. Don't lie to me."
She looked around, then pulled me into a corner between shelves.
"Did you get the photo too?" she asked.
I froze.
"How do you know?"
She bit her lip, hesitating. Finally she spoke: "Because I got one too."
"What?"
"The photo. At the checkout. The figure behind me."
She pulled out her phone and showed me a picture.
It was her, standing at a self-checkout machine, wearing her red work vest, holding a scanner. Behind her stood a shadow, about her height, dressed in dark clothing, face blurred.
"When did this happen?" I asked.
"Three weeks ago," she said. "First time I thought it was a coworker's prank. Second time, the shadow was closer. Third time, even closer."
"Did you uninstall the app?"
"Uninstalling doesn't help. Changing your number doesn't help. It finds you anyway."
I remembered the forum reply: Even though I uninstalled it.
"Did you stop going to the supermarket?" I asked.
"I tried," she said. "After I stopped, it started appearing in my own phone photos. In the background of pictures I took. Far at first, then closer."
Her voice trembled.
"The night before last, I was in bed. My phone lit up. The screen was completely black. Then something moved inside it. I stared three seconds before I realized—it was the shadow. It was walking out of the blackness."
I looked at her. Bloodshot eyes, heavy bags. She clearly hadn't slept in days.
"Did you ask anyone at the company?" I said.
She lowered her head, silent for a long while.
Then she said something that sent chills down my spine.
"I asked the store manager."
"What did he say?"
"He said," she looked up at me, "the machines were re-calibrated late last year. The people who did it—he checked—weren't from a legitimate company."
"Also," her voice dropped even quieter, "after calibration, for three days, the store cameras captured nothing. The footage looked normal: people walking, customers shopping. But when replayed, every single person had an extra shadow behind them."
"The manager called the police. That same night, a photo of himself appeared on his phone."
"He never came to work the next day."
"Where is he now?" I asked.
Xiao Zhou stared at me, fear in her eyes, but also a strange, resigned calm.
"His wife came to collect his things. Said he was on a business trip."
"On his desk… there was a cinerary casket."
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Xiao Zhou continued, her voice growing softer, as if talking to herself.
"It was the same one as in your cart. Solid wood, dark brown, customizable engraving."
"On the box… his name was carved into it."
The store loudspeaker suddenly blared: "Dear customers, we are conducting evening cleaning. Please complete your shopping promptly. Thank you for your patronage."
The voice was identical to the self-checkout machine. Cold, flat.
"Please place items into shopping bag."
"Unscanned item—"
I turned and walked out of the supermarket.
Behind me, Xiao Zhou did not follow.
But I heard her final words.
"Chen Yu… don't look back."
I didn't turn around.
But I heard the mechanical voice of the self-checkout, speaking slowly, word by word:
"Unscanned item: deceased."
"Please place into shopping bag."
I didn't look back.
But I knew.
This time, the shadow was no longer in a photograph.