Night Deliveries in Empty Neighborhoods

I’ve been delivering for Thuisbezorgd in Utrecht for almost two years now. Night shifts pay better, and I prefer the quiet roads after 11 p.m. Most customers are students or people working late. You drop the bag at the door, take a photo, and move on. Simple. Until the orders for De Koperstraat started appearing. The first time was a rainy Thursday in March. The app pinged at 1:47 a.m.: one large pepperoni pizza, extra garlic sauce, address De Koperstraat 47. I knew the street — a row of old terraced houses on the edge of Kanaleneiland. Many of them had been empty since the housing crisis a few years back. Boarded windows, overgrown front gardens, “Te Koop” signs fading in the weather. I almost declined, but the pay was €9.50 plus tip. I took it. Number 47 looked completely dark. No lights, no car in front, garden full of weeds. I parked my scooter, grabbed the insulated bag, and walked up the cracked path. The porch light was broken. I knocked twice, then used the app to call the customer. It rang once and went to voicemail — a generic robotic message. I left the pizza on the dry step under the small overhang, took the “handed to customer” photo (even though no one was there), and left. As I drove away, I glanced in my mirror. The front door was now open. Just a crack. I told myself it was the wind. Two nights later, the same order. Same address. Same pizza. 2:03 a.m. This time I knocked louder. Nothing. The house felt colder than the surrounding air. I left the food and left quickly. By the third time I started paying attention. The customer name on the app was always “M. Visser.” No profile picture. No previous orders visible. I mentioned it casually in the driver group chat. One guy replied: “De Koperstraat? Those houses have been abandoned since 2019. Don’t go there after dark, man.” I laughed it off. Urban legend stuff. The fourth delivery changed everything. It was pouring rain. My scooter headlights cut through the water as I turned into De Koperstraat. The other houses were black silhouettes. Number 47 had one faint light on upstairs — a sickly yellow glow behind a dirty curtain. I felt genuine relief. Finally, someone was home. I knocked. The door opened almost immediately, but only a few centimeters. A pale hand reached out — thin fingers, dirty nails. It took the pizza box without a word. No face. No thank you. Just the hand and the smell of damp rot coming from inside the house. “Extra garlic sauce?” I asked, trying to sound normal. A hoarse whisper answered from the darkness behind the door: “You’re late tonight, Jeroen.” I froze. My name isn’t on the app. Drivers are anonymous unless you message them. I backed away, got on my scooter, and rode off faster than usual. My heart was hammering. How did they know my name? After that, the orders became regular. Always between 1:30 and 2:30 a.m. Always the same pizza. Always De Koperstraat 47. I started checking the houses during daytime. Number 47 had broken windows on the ground floor, mail piled up behind the glass, and a thick layer of dust. No one had lived there for years. Neighbors said the last owner, an old man named Visser, had died in 2018. His son never claimed the property. Still, the orders kept coming. One night I decided to test it. I accepted the order but didn’t buy the pizza. I rode to the address with an empty bag. The app showed “Order picked up.” When I arrived, the door was already open — wide this time. The hallway was pitch black. I placed the empty insulated bag on the step and stepped back. The whisper came again, closer this time: “Where’s my pizza, Jeroen? I’m hungry.” I ran to my scooter. In my mirror I saw a figure standing in the doorway — tall, thin, wearing what looked like my own delivery jacket. It raised one hand slowly, waving like it knew me. I started refusing the order after that. The app wouldn’t let me. Every time “M. Visser” ordered, it was auto-assigned to me with a big bonus. Support told me I couldn’t decline more than a certain percentage or I’d lose my account. I needed the money. Last night was the worst. The order came at 1:22 a.m. Same pizza. This time there was a note in the special instructions: “Please bring it inside. Door is open. Money on the table.” I drove there with the real pizza, hands shaking. The entire street felt wrong — every house on the block had all lights off except number 47. A single upstairs window glowed. I pushed the front door open. The smell hit me first: old rot, garlic, and something sickly sweet. My scooter headlights behind me lit up the hallway enough to see peeling wallpaper and piles of unopened mail. On a small table inside was a stack of cash — way more than the order cost. I stepped inside just far enough to put the pizza down. That’s when I heard it. Breathing. Slow and wet, coming from the top of the stairs. I looked up. A figure stood at the top, silhouetted against the yellow light. It wore my delivery uniform. Same height. Same posture. It started walking down the stairs, one careful step at a time. I ran. As I reached my scooter I heard the front door slam shut behind me. My phone buzzed — a new message from the customer: “Thank you, Jeroen. See you tomorrow.” I blocked the number. I uninstalled the app when I got home. But at 2:11 a.m. my phone still pinged. New order. M. Visser. De Koperstraat 47. €14 bonus. I’m sitting in my room now with all the lights on. My scooter is parked inside the hallway of my own apartment because I’m too scared to leave it outside. The app is deleted, but the notifications keep coming. Outside my window, in the reflection of the glass, I can see the street. A figure is standing under the lamppost. Wearing a Thuisbezorgd jacket. It’s holding a pizza box. It’s looking up at my window. If you deliver at night in any Dutch city, check the addresses carefully. Some houses have been empty for years… but they still get hungry. And they remember your name.