4 Scary True Pizza Delivery Horror Stories

[Music] I was 21, working as a pizza delivery driver to scrape together rent money and pay for my barely running car. Nights like this one were why I almost hated the job. It was late, close to midnight, and I was exhausted after hours of lugging pizzas to houses and apartment complexes around town.

My last order of the night popped up on my phone: a single large pepperoni to a house on the outskirts of town. The address didn't look familiar, but I wasn't surprised; small towns like ours always had these odd pockets of forgotten houses scattered around. I didn't think much of it, even when I saw it was past the cemetery on a dead-end road tucked away in the woods.

I punched the address into my GPS, grabbed the pizza, and climbed into my car. The drive out there felt unusually long, and as I passed the cemetery, my headlights seemed to dim slightly, struggling against the darkness that thickened with every turn. Eventually, the road narrowed, flanked by tall, gnarled trees that arched overhead, creating an almost suffocating line of shadows.

Finally, I spotted the house. It sat back from the road, a weathered two-story structure with peeling paint and shutters barely hanging on. The driveway was empty, and there were no lights on inside; the place looked abandoned.

I parked my car and hesitated, gripping the pizza box tightly. My phone had no service, so I couldn't call to confirm the order. I glanced at the ticket again; this was the address.

Taking a deep breath, I walked up the creaking porch steps, the wood groaning under my weight. The air was cold—colder than it should have been for a summer night—and an eerie silence hung over the property. I knocked on the door, the sound echoing unnaturally in the stillness.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, faintly, I heard it: the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps from inside the house. They were heavy, dragging slightly, as if whoever was moving didn't have the energy to lift their feet.

“Hello? ” I called out, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Pizza delivery!

” The footsteps grew louder, closer, and then stopped just on the other side of the door. I held my breath, waiting. The door creaked open just a crack, and a pale, bony hand slipped out.

The skin was almost translucent, stretched tightly over long, knobby fingers. The hand held out the exact change for the pizza, trembling slightly. I stared at it, frozen; something about the hand didn't feel right.

It didn’t look alive. Before I could react, I heard a voice—soft and desperate—coming from somewhere deeper inside the house. “Please don't leave me here.

” My blood ran cold. I took a step back, glancing around to see if anyone else was nearby. Nothing but darkness surrounded me.

“Uh, are you okay? ” I stammered, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. The hand didn't move; it just hung there, waiting.

The voice came again, louder this time, filled with fear. “Please help me! Don’t leave!

” My instinct screamed at me to run, to get in my car and leave, but something kept me rooted to the spot. Against my better judgment, I leaned closer to the crack in the door, trying to see inside. The darkness beyond was impenetrable, like a void.

“Hello? ” I called out, my voice shaking. “Do you need help?

Should I call someone? ” The footsteps started again, but this time they sounded like they were retreating, moving further into the house. The hand slowly withdrew into the darkness, and the door began to close.

“Wait! ” I shouted, stepping forward, but the door slammed shut with a force that sent a shiver down my spine. The porch creaked beneath me as I turned to leave, but before I could step off, I heard the voice again—it was fainter now, almost drowned out by the oppressive silence.

“Don’t go, please! They won’t let me leave! ” That was it.

I dropped the pizza box on the porch and bolted to my car, fumbling with the keys as adrenaline surged through me. I half expected to see someone or something chasing after me as I sped down the narrow road, but the rearview mirror showed only darkness. When I got back to the restaurant, my manager was still there, counting the till.

I blurted out the story, my words tumbling over each other in a rush of panic. He raised an eyebrow and pulled up the address on the computer. “That's weird,” he said after a moment.

“We don't have anyone listed there. Are you sure you got the right place? ” I showed him the ticket, but the system said the order hadn't been placed.

The address didn't even exist in the delivery zone. I quit the job a week later, too spooked to keep driving at night, but the memory of that house stayed with me, especially the voice. Sometimes, when I'm lying in bed late at night, I swear I can still hear it in the back of my mind, whispering, “Don't leave me here.

” I've been delivering pizzas for two years now; the work is predictable: drive, drop off the food, collect payment. Most nights are uneventful, but one night, I had a delivery that made me quit for good. It was close to midnight when the order came in.

The address was on the outskirts of town, near the industrial district. That area always felt a little isolated, but I figured it was just another late-night order. The drive there was quiet; the streets were empty, and most of the streetlights didn't work.

When I arrived at the address, the house looked ordinary enough—small and a little worn, but nothing unusual. Then I noticed someone standing at the end of the driveway. He was tall, wearing a gray jacket and jeans.

He wasn't moving. Just standing there, staring at my car, his face was lit by my headlights, and he was smiling. The smile wasn't friendly or welcoming; it was wide, stretched like he was forcing it.

I grabbed the pizza and got out of the car. "Hey! Got your order here," I called out.

He didn't say anything; he just stood there smiling, his eyes fixed on me. I walked toward him, keeping my steps steady. "It's $22.

50," I said, holding the pizza out. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins. "Exact change," he said, his voice low and calm.

He began counting the coins one by one, holding each one up before placing it in his other hand. It took longer than it should have, but I stayed quiet, watching him. The air felt colder than it had a moment ago; my fingers started to stiffen as I held the pizza box.

I shifted my weight, glancing back at my car. The headlights lit the driveway, but everything beyond that felt darker than it should have been. Finally, he handed me the money.

His hand brushed mine, and his skin was freezing. I placed the pizza in his hands, hoping to end the interaction quickly, but instead of leaving, he looked at me; his smile grew a little wider, and he tilted his head slightly. "You drive fast," he said.

"Too fast. " My chest tightened. There was no way he could know anything about me; I hadn't seen him before, and I didn't recognize his face.

"Oh, thanks," I muttered, stepping back. I turned and walked quickly to my car, my heart pounding with every step. I got in, started the engine, and drove away.

As I pulled onto the road, I glanced in the rearview mirror. He was still standing there, holding the pizza, staring at me. I drove faster, eager to leave the area behind.

The industrial district gave way to the main road, and the feeling of unease started to fade. Then I saw him again in the rearview mirror. Far behind me, he was walking.

His head was slightly tilted, and he looked the same as before: gray jacket, jeans, and that same smile. I pressed the gas pedal harder, speeding up. There was no way he could be following me—not on foot.

I kept driving, only checking the mirror once I reached the edge of town. When I looked again, he was gone. I let out a shaky breath as I pulled into the pizza shop parking lot.

The lights inside were off; everyone else had gone home. I parked near the entrance, letting the car idle as I tried to calm down. Then my phone buzzed.

I picked it up, expecting a notification about the next shift; instead, it was a text from an unknown number: "Drve safe. " My stomach sank. My hands tightened around the phone.

As I looked up, he was there, standing at the edge of the parking lot. The streetlights barely lit him, but I could see the shape of his face. The smile hadn't faded.

I didn't stay to find out what he wanted; I threw the car into reverse and sped out of the lot, not stopping until I was home. I didn't go back to work after that. Delivering pizzas is usually boring; people are usually in a hurry to grab their food, and I'm in a hurry to get back on the road.

But last Friday, I got an order that still doesn't make sense to me, and I don't think I'll ever deliver again. It was late, nearing the end of my shift. My manager handed me the last order of the night: a single large pizza.

The address was for an apartment complex I hadn't delivered to before, which was unusual since I knew most of the regular spots in town. When I punched the address into my GPS, it showed a building on the far edge of town, right near the highway. The drive was uneventful at first—just the usual empty streets and the occasional car passing by.

As I got closer, the area started to feel off. The streetlights became fewer, and the buildings were run down. When I pulled up to the apartment complex, the place looked abandoned.

The windows were dark, the paint was peeling, and there wasn't a single car in the lot. I double-checked the address and the receipt; everything matched, so I grabbed the pizza and walked up to the front door. A handwritten note was taped to the door: "Delivered to the basement door.

" I paused; most places don't let people wander into their basements, and I didn't even know this building had one. I thought about leaving, but the note looked recent, and I didn't want to get in trouble for not completing the delivery. Inside, the lobby was dim; there was a single bare light bulb flickering above me.

The wall smelled damp, and the carpet squished under my shoes. I spotted a door marked "basement" at the end of the hall. The metal handle was worn, and the door creaked loudly when I pulled it open.

The staircase leading down was steep and narrow; the air grew colder with each step, and I could hear a faint hum coming from somewhere below. I called out, "Hello! I'm here with your pizza," but no one answered.

When I reached the bottom, I saw a long hallway with several doors lining the sides. Most of them were shut, but one at the far end was slightly open. A faint light spilled out, but it didn't make the space feel any less dark.

I walked slowly, my footsteps echoing against the bare walls. The hum grew louder, and I realized it wasn't from a machine; it sounded like voices—low, murmuring voices that I couldn't understand. "Hello!

" I called again. The voices stopped. I froze, staring at.

. . The open door ahead of me, I could feel my heartbeat in my ears as I took another step.

The hallway felt endless, but I finally reached the door. I pushed it open with my foot, trying to keep a grip on the pizza box. The room inside was small, lit by a single lamp on a table.

The walls were bare concrete, and the air smelled stale. In the center of the room, a group of people sat in a circle; they were all hunched over, their backs to me. "I've got your pizza," I said, my voice shaking.

None of them moved. I stepped closer, holding the box out in front of me. "Hello?

" Slowly, one of them turned their head. Their face was pale, their eyes wide and unblinking. Their lips were cracked, and their mouth was slightly open, but they didn't say anything.

One by one, the others turned to look at me. They all had the same empty expression, like they weren't fully there. My hand started to shake, and I nearly dropped the box.

"Who ordered this? " I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. The first person to turn suddenly stood up.

They moved stiffly, like their limbs didn't work properly. The others followed, all rising at the same time. They didn't take their eyes off me.

I stepped back, nearly tripping over the door frame. None of them spoke, but they started walking toward me, slow and deliberate. My breathing quickened, and I dropped the pizza, bolting down the hallway.

The air felt heavier as I ran; the light at the top of the stairs seemed so far away. Behind me, I could hear footsteps—soft at first, but growing louder. They were following me.

I hit the stairs and scrambled up, not bothering to look back. My legs burned as I climbed, my hands gripping the railing for support. The footsteps didn't stop.

When I burst out into the lobby, I slammed the basement door shut and leaned against it, gasping for air. The building was silent again, but I didn't wait around. I ran to my car, jumped in, and sped off without looking back.

When I got home, I tried to convince myself it was some sort of prank, but it didn't add up. The faces of those people stayed with me—the way they moved, the way they stared. The next day, I told my manager I was done.

I didn't explain why, and I don't plan to. [Music] I'm Emma Rodriguez, and I've been working at Slice of Heaven Pizza for eight months now. I thought I'd seen everything.

Number 742 looked like every other house on Maple Street: tan with brown shutters, a neatly trimmed lawn—the kind of place where nothing bad could happen. I double-checked the order: two large pepperoni pizzas, cash payment total, straightforward. I grabbed the heated bag from the passenger seat of my Honda Civic and walked up the concrete path.

The porch light created a yellow circle around the front door. My work shoes made sharp sounds against the walkway. I remember thinking how quiet the neighborhood was—not even a dog barking.

When I rang the doorbell, everything felt off— not dangerous exactly, just wrong. The door opened, but not all the way; just enough for a hand to appear—a man's hand wearing a black sleeve. Something about the way he held the door made the hair on my neck stand up.

Professional instinct, I guess. After months of deliveries, you develop a sense. “Pizza delivery,” I said, keeping my voice cheerful and professional.

“Come inside for a moment,” he said, no emotion, no inflection. I didn't move. Something in his tone was wrong.

“I'll just leave these here,” I said, holding up the pizza boxes. “Cash or card? ” His hand shot out faster than I expected.

Strong fingers wrapped around my wrist—not a gentle grip, a controlling one, tight enough that I could feel the pressure, feel my bones pressing together. “Come inside,” he repeated. Training kicked in; the pizza shop has strict safety protocols: never go inside if something feels wrong, never let go of the pizzas.

They’re your shield, your connection to safety. I yanked back hard; my wrist twisted, but I managed to keep my grip on the pizza boxes. His hand slipped.

“Let go,” I said, not a question, a command. For a moment, we both froze—him in the doorway, me on the walkway. The porch light flickered, then he lunged.

I stepped back, using the pizza box as a barrier. They weren't just food; they were protection. His hands hit the cardboard, and I used the momentum to push forward.

The hot boxes would burn if he grabbed them directly. My free hand went to my belt, where I keep a small canister of pepper spray—another safety protocol: always be prepared. He realized I wasn't an easy target; the look in his eyes changed from calculated to frustrated.

I took another step back, never breaking eye contact. “I’m leaving now,” I said. “The pizzas are dropping, and I’m calling the police.

” Something in my voice must have convinced him; he pulled back, the door starting to close. I didn't wait. I dropped the pizzas on the walkway and backed up to my car.

My hands were shaking, but my movements were controlled. Get in the car, lock the doors, call the manager. My manager called the police immediately.

Turns out this wasn't the first report of suspicious activity at that address; an investigation was already brewing. I never found out exactly what the man's intentions were, but I know one thing: my training saved me. Always trust your instincts.

Always be aware. Never let one control the situation. The police took my statement, and the pizza shop gave me the rest of the week off with pay.

My parents wanted me to quit, but this job pays for my college. Tuition. I'm not letting one bad encounter stop me.

Two weeks later, I learned the man was arrested, connected to multiple attempted assaults on delivery drivers and service workers. The detective who called said my report was crucial in building their case. Some nights, I still think about number 742, about how close something bad could have been.

But then, I put on my uniform, grab my delivery bag, and keep going, 'cause life doesn't stop, and neither do I.