WE ALWAYS COLLECT

The scent hooked Mara before she even saw the booth. Rich with cinnamon and cloves, warm and earthy, yet edged with a sharp, coppery note. The farmers' market buzzed around her. Laughter, bright tents, kids weaving between ankles. Bees circled lemonade jugs. She rubbed her dark eyes and sipped her second overpriced cold brew, still barely upright. That’s when she saw it. Tucked between two booths stood a crooked wooden table. A hand-painted banner stretched across the front, reading in deep red:

“Free Samples – Taste the Best Sleep of Your Life.”

The vendor stood out immediately strange, in a way that made her skin crawl. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that caught the sun with a sterile glint. He wore a thick wool vest, completely out of place in the sweltering summer air. His smile was broad and unnatural, like it had been carved there. A velvet tray held dark, square cubes that resembled chocolate, but something about them felt wrong. They were arranged like tiny pillows waiting to be slept on. Mara hadn’t had more than a few hours of sleep in days. It felt like her eyelids were weighted with stones. Each blink grew slower than the last. She hovered near the booth.

“Free?” she asked.

The man nodded. “No cost. Just a taste.”

He held the tray out. His teeth gleamed, too bright and sharp, like a predator mimicking a man. The cube melted on her tongue warm, bittersweet, like fudge laced with chamomile. She blinked, and he was already talking to someone else. As she turned to leave, she heard him whisper behind her, low and chilling:

“We always collect what’s owed.”

Mara froze. She turned back to him. “But… you said it was free.”

The vendor’s eyes gleamed. “No charge doesn’t mean no cost. You took the sample. That’s all we need.”

He turned away, smiling at another tired soul. Uneasy, she walked faster, trying to shake the words.

***

That night, she slept like the dead. She didn’t dream, toss and turn and not one midnight anxiety attack. Just velvet black stillness. The next morning, she didn’t feel relieved. She felt watched. As she stepped out of her apartment, she nearly screamed. He waited by her car. No table this time, no velvet tray only him, silent and still.

“I need to talk with you,” she said, heart racing.

“Good sleep, wasn’t it?” he replied calmly.

“It was,” she said. “What was in that candy?”

He tilted his head. “We don’t deal in ingredients. We deal in exchange.”

“Exchange?” Her stomach flipped.

“You’ve already tasted. Now it’s time to give what’s owed.”

Before she could scream, his hands clamped onto her temples. They smelled of rot and mold. It didn’t hurt at first. Then her skull burned. Warmth oozed from her ears slowly and stickily. It was like her memories were leaking out. Her head throbbed. Her knees buckled. Then came the emptiness. She couldn’t remember her grandmother’s funeral. Then she forgot her voice. Then her name.

“What are you doing to me?” she cried, stumbling back.

No one noticed. People passed as if nothing was happening. The air dulled, muffled, drained of life.

“Just a piece,” he said. “The first night is free. But it always costs something.”

“Please,” she whispered. “Give them back.”

He smiled. “Sleep is sacred. We don’t do refunds. But I’ll be back. One more night, and the rest is mine.”

“Then what?” she asked, trembling.

His smile widened. “Then you’ll understand. We don’t just collect. We recruit.”

***

Mara didn’t go home. She drove for hours with the windows down and the music blasting. By morning, she watched the sunrise from the parking lot of a gas station, the night blurring behind her. The next day, determined not to return home, she found a spiritual shop near the outskirts of town. A wrinkled woman read her palms until she recoiled in horror.

“You’re hollowing,” she said. “Something’s feeding on you.”

“I just need to stay awake,” Mara insisted. “If I don’t sleep, it can’t take anything else.”

Ultimately, the body always gives in. She taped thumbtacks to her ribs. Set alarms every ten minutes, labeled:

STAY AWAKE. DON’T DREAM.

She cranked her speaker to full volume. Slapped herself every time her eyes fluttered. Despite everything, she still woke up. The tacks were scattered across the floor. The tape had come loose. Her speaker was off, and phone was dead. Mara’s mind felt like someone else’s, and her thoughts didn’t feel like her own. Her memories, her voice, herself all of it was unraveling. Someone was scraping her soul clean, layer by layer. Every night stole more not just moments but meaning. She couldn’t remember high school, the sound of her mother’s laugh, or her father’s favorite song. Her name slipped when she tried to say it. One night, after nearly no sleep, another velvet cube waited on her nightstand.

***

Mara didn’t sleep for three more days. She drank caffeine until her hands trembled. She screamed into mirrors, begging whatever was out there to spare what was left. Eventually, she collapsed. She stared at the cube on the tray, unsure of what it was, yet drawn to it. Part of her wanted to scream, to remember, to claw her way back into whoever Mara used to be. The feeling passed. She no longer needed a name. Just a purpose. Just the tray.

***

The farmers' market reopened that weekend. The crooked table returned, nestled between a popcorn stand and a flower cart. The banner fluttered lazily in the breeze:

“Free Samples – Taste the Best Sleep of Your Life.”

The vendor wore a wool vest despite the heat. Her smile was wide, practiced, and hollow. A tired teenager wandered by, earbuds in, rubbing his eyes. He paused at the cubes. Mara offered the tray.

“Go on,” she said.

“It’s free.”

Michael Lanni writes horror stories that dig under your skin and stay there. When he’s not serving in the U.S. Army or studying Media Communications at Full Sail University, he’s creating creepy, atmospheric tales for his Sleep Well Horrors podcast and YouTube channel. We Always Collect is a chilling entry in his upcoming horror anthology, exploring the price we pay for things we think are free.