Whisper House Press

Employee of the Year

by Jamie Janazian

I stared, mouth dry, heart pounding, at the message from my boss—that awful combination of words my coworkers and I always prayed we’d never see:

“You’re in the running for Employee of the Year.”

To send something so callous via email was just rubbing salt in the wound.

My eyes glazed over the wall of text that followed. I didn’t need to read the details—I’d cleaned enough of the prior winners off the walls and ceiling of the soundproofed break room to know exactly what winning the award entailed.

After that initial, deep pang of fear faded, denial flooded in to take its place.

I wasn’t just hitting my sales quota, I was blowing it out of the damn water—selling big ticket items daily. I never forgot to place the stickers with my barcode on the products, either, so when my customers checked out and it was scanned at the register, the sales should’ve automatically been linked to my employee ID.

We don’t receive commission—there are other ‘incentives’ to keep our sales up. I hadn’t been watching the numbers because I knew I was making sales left and right—I would’ve never dreamt I was at risk.

It was just a glitch with our computer system, I decided with a nervous laugh. It had to be—something IT could probably sort out in no time. 

When I finally regained control of my legs, I wobbled to my manager’s office. 

There was no miscalculation, he assured me. It was my employee ID ranked at the bottom.

“The barcodes never lie, Graham.” He didn’t bother making eye contact.

I was circling the drain figuratively, and if I didn’t get my shit together—literally—soon enough.

I begged him to review the camera footage—I knew he’d be able to see me making all those sales. “Don’t worry,” he added, with a smile vacant of anything remotely resembling happiness, “One way or another, we all contribute to the success of our company.”

I suppose by then he was long desensitized to the pleas of the desperate.

As I left his office, I assured myself this wasn’t a death sentence.

Not yet.

I had another month until they recalculated our final standings, before shit would get real. Before I’d be given a limp handshake and an empty “Thank you for your devotion to the company” as I was led down the hallway. Before I’d meet what lives behind the usually padlocked door in the shadowy corner of the break room.

Before I’d learn what it truly meant to sacrifice myself for the good of the company.

Word spread fast around the office.

Kevin gave me his smug, shit eating grin—maybe he thought with me out of the picture he’d finally have a shot with Elise.

Elise… I just desperately hoped hers wouldn’t be the name drawn afterwards—the one selected to hose what’s left of me off the break room floor and down the stained, rusty drain.

As required, I began parking in my new designated space at the far end of the employee lot—the faded sign indicating “Reserved for Employee of the Year” nearly swallowed up by the encroaching tree line. It added an extra ten minutes to my walk to our store, and I dreaded that added time in the oppressive Texas heat. The rational part of me knew it was soon to be a moot point.

One way or another, in another month, I wouldn’t have that parking spot. If I were lucky, I’d live to see another summer—long enough to see some other poor bastard’s car parked there.

If they hadn’t already heard the news, when the rest of my coworkers saw my car in that space, they knew what it meant: Don’t get too attached.

They started avoiding me. I didn’t blame them.

We all knew what would be coming next if my sales didn’t improve—it’s the same thing that happens every time: We’d gather for the mandatory meeting on the closing night of the fiscal year, all eyes on the sorry son of a bitch who’d ‘won’—the room so quiet you could hear their muffled sobs. They’d receive what barely constituted a handshake from a manager who muttered—dead-eyed—his appreciation for their devotion to the company.

Next, they’d be ushered off to the break room to meet Corporate. No one tried to run—not after what happened in `19. Instead, the winner would always turn back, shooting us a desperate, final look—eyes pleading for someone, anyone, to intervene. And, of course, no one ever did.

Once the door closed behind them and that sound-proofed room swallowed up the last of their sobbing, begging—it was over. The rest of us would be sent home and I’d try to shower away that disgusting feeling—a sick sense of relief someone else was sent to their death, not me. 

Cal—the nicest guy—was the bottom performer two years ago.

He’d fallen so ill he’d nearly wasted away and eventually couldn’t work. He must’ve thought that freed him from his contract.If he left and never came back into work, maybe he’d be okay.

He must not have read the fine print in our hiring paperwork.

Although, to be fair, if any of us had read it, we’d never have signed it.

Cal was a warning to the rest of us there’s no quitting in our line of work. If they have to track you down and find you (and I promise you they will find you)—well, wouldn’t you prefer to go with your dignity, with the company compensating your loved ones— rather than be pulled from your home, kicking and screaming into the night?

Gina was employee of the year in 2023. Gina, with the kind smile, whom Kevin had set his sights on before Elise—and, just like Elise, she wanted nothing to do with him.

I still remember that day, the day they released the final numbers. The way Gina’s mouth hung open in confusion, shock.

When she finally managed to form words again, she too insisted there must be some mistake. We all vouched for her to management—I’d personally seen her make so many sales.

Our manager simply reminded us the barcodes never lie.

My name was the one drawn for break room duty that next morning, to pick up what remained of her smile and her simple gold wedding band, to be returned to her family. In one business week, they received a box containing a check, and everything left of her that wouldn’t fit down the drain.

Once the numbers are finalized, your employee barcode slapped on an innocuous-looking pink slip, your fate is sealed.

Kevin, in all his years at the company, never parked on the far side of the lot. He never came close to becoming Employee of the Year, though he couldn’t have sold a bottle of water to a man dying of dehydration. He is sleaze incarnate and doesn’t have the charisma to mask it.

I never understood how he did so well, but I had myself to worry about and couldn’t afford to think about him.

I worried over the glitch in the system. Any time I found myself in the break room, that ancient wooden door was an unwelcome reminder of my impending one-way trip.

I took special care to keep an eye on my sales, working my ass off, pulling double shifts. I ran the numbers as the end of month drew near, and couldn’t believe it. 

I was still dead last. 

There had somehow been days when less than half of my sales were recorded to my employee number.

I didn’t understand.

I waited for the opportunity to sneak into the manager’s office, and pull the footage myself.

I’d show the boss something had gone wrong with the calculations and the system was broken.

I finally got my chance. At first, I triumphantly watched myself make sale after sale—far more than had been credited to my account. For the first time in a month, I felt a sense of relief. I had evidence, and that had to count for something.

I switched feeds, to the camera nearer to the registers so I could confirm the codes were being scanned. I’d seen several scanned successfully, and reached to turn off the recording. That’s when I saw it. 

Saw him.

Kevin. 

It was subtle. I didn’t realize what he was doing at first, until I recognized the pattern. Even then, I had to rewind and watch again for it to click.

It happened for nearly half of my sales that day. I saw him Intercepting the customers before they could check out—before I could get credit for my sales. And while he chatted them up, he discretely slapped his employee barcode over my own.

I confronted him that night—I was furious. He just smiled, smugly gave me the line about how barcodes never lie.

He didn’t give a shit he was sentencing someone else to death.

Hell, maybe he enjoyed it.

Kevin had stolen credit for Gina’s sales—and god knows who else’s.

Fucking. Kevin.

The day our numbers were to be finalized, he had the audacity to place his barcode over mine on a huge sale I’d made—he made no attempt at hiding it—right in front of me. He flashed me a grin as he did.

I caught up with the customers before they checked out and they kindly allowed me to peel the sticker off. I stuck it in my pocket to show my manager.

I pulled the video, too, and I stormed into his office, refused to leave until he watched it. I studied him as his eyes moved across the screen and if he was upset or shocked, he certainly didn’t show it.

Finally, he met my eyes, and at the sight of the pain in his—well, for the first time, I felt a sense of relief.

Until I realized why he looked so miserable. Until he whispered, “I’m sorry, Graham. Someone has to receive that award tomorrow. It’s out of my hands.”

I wordlessly handed him that damn barcode sticker of Kevin’s I’d peeled off. He studied it for a long moment before he handed it back to me with a mere, “Why don’t you hold onto this.”

I told Elise what had happened over lunch, and as much as I appreciated her outrage on my behalf, I was already resigned to it. I’d mainly wanted to warn her because I had a sick feeling she’d be the one Kevin went after next.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t devastated when, that night, my boss called me into his office and informed me of the final standings. Yeah, I knew it was coming, but I guess it’s just human nature to hold onto denial—hope—until the bitter end.

For what felt like an eternity, we stared at each other in silence. The presence of the pink slip of paper lying on the desk between us, said more than enough.

Finally, my eyes drifted down to the form.

He’d already signed, but the space where my barcode—the series of vertical lines spelling out my death sentence—should’ve been placed, was empty.

I never knew how this part went, since it always took place behind closed doors. No one who ever filled out that form lived to tell the rest of us about it.

“I need you to place a barcode here before I send the form to corporate.” he said, eventually.

I opened my mouth for one final, impassioned plea for my life, but he interrupted me. He spoke each word slowly, softly.

“I’m leaving the room now. I need you to place a barcode here, before I send the form to corporate.”

He stared at me for a long moment, waiting for my barely perceptible nod of acknowledgement before leaving me alone in the office.

They processed the paperwork, and announced the Employee of the Year the next day.

Yes, I did feel a pang of guilt as I watched the smug grin fade, the blood drain from Kevin’s face as he stared in shock at the outstretched hand of our manager—as he was thanked for his devotion to our company.

I felt it again as I watched him plead all the way to the break room, as our manager spoke to him the same mantra we’d all heard before.

The barcodes never lie.

But I thought of Gina, of the countless others, and by the time I heard the door slam behind him—my guilt was already gone, replaced with the relief of knowing the rest of us were safe.

Until next year.

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Jamie Janazian-Polizzi is a writer of short horror fiction. Her first anthology, The Woman in the Walls and Other Stories, was published in late 2024. When she is not reading or writing, Jamie enjoys spending her time hiking, hoarding tea, and crocheting.