Scary E-Commerce Stories | Stord Halloween

Do not read this if you value your sleep.

Within these pages are not some fanciful story to scare children around the camp fire. No, the stories depicted are bone-chilling tales of real e-commerce nightmares - and what is scariest of all, they could happen to you!

We compiled these stories not as a warning, but as a lesson. While terrifying indeed, all of these horrors can be overcome, if you have the proper systems and solutions. Sadly, though, for these hapless folks, they were not so well prepared.

If you are brave. If you are ready to learn how to protect yourself and your loved ones, then press forward, dim the lights, and read these Scary E-commerce Stories to Tell in the Dark.

Once upon a time…

…there was a merchant who sold fine goods to the villagers. Each parcel contained treasures that families waited for with excitement. Shoes for children. Lamps to light their homes. And coats to keep them warm throughout the winter.

To help bring these treasures swiftly to their new homes, the merchant entrusted the work to a logistics expert. “You can count on us!” The fulfillment provider promised. The merchant was pleased.

Yet, unbeknownst to the merchant, this provider was riddled with a system full of cracks. Even when a package still sat lost in the forest, it would appear “delivered” upon a villager’s glowing device.

The first time it happened, the villagers hurried to their doorsteps, searching for parcels that were not there. They complained, and the merchant soothed them with apologies. “The shipment must be delayed, but it will arrive soon,” the merchant promised red-faced.

“Delivered! Delivered!”

The second time, the villagers grew angrier. Mothers scolded, fathers raged, children wept at empty porches. “Where are our orders?” they demanded. “Why do you lie?” Still, the merchant soothed them, blaming the stormy weather and promising the goods were near.

But the false alerts continued.

“Delivered! Delivered!” the system cried… yet no parcel appeared.

Then one evening, as the sun sank behind the forest and the shadows stretched long across the village, the parcels truly did arrive. The wagons rolled in heavy with goods, ready to delight the waiting homes.

In excitement, the system shouted, “Delivered! Delivered!” But though the villagers heard the cry, they did not run to their doors as they did before. “This brand cannot fool us again,” they said.

The villagers had stopped believing. They had turned to other purveyors whose word could be trusted.

And the cruelest of all, after the logistics expert killed a great many of the merchant’s sales they still sent an invoice for “successful deliveries.”

Ten little customers shopping online;
One saw high shipping fees and then there were nine.

Nine little customers waiting far too late;
One canceled the order and then there were eight.

Eight little customers happy as they’d been;
One got a damaged product and then there were seven.

Seven little customers hoping for a fix;
One saw the return fees and then there were six.

Six little customers with products they want to try;
One read bad reviews and then there were five.

Five little customers frustrated by the chore;
One got tired of the long checkout and then there were four.

Four little customers want shipping to be free;
But the wait was two weeks and then there were three.

Three little customers scrolling for what’s new;
One saw “Out of Stock” and then there were two.

Two little customers adding the sum;
A rival showed clear costs upfront and then there was one.

One little customer, their loyalty gone;
The brand prized new faces over the old and then there were none.

The first shipment stumbled back at dusk. It had left Shenzhen light and lively, a neat carton of t-shirts bound for eager customers in the U.S. Just days ago, this would have slipped through customs carefree. But tonight, it returned mangled with forms. Its airway bill plastered with tariffs and duties.

Barbra, the founder, stared at it through the warehouse glass. “It's… it's just one package,” she whispered.

Her ops lead, Ben, shook his head. “You don't understand. That's only the first.”

And he was right. Unfortunately.

Additional costs and delays came in hordes in the dead of the night like ghouls clawing their way into the brand's margins.

The team retreated into the warehouse, slamming the heavy steel doors and stacking pallets like barricades. Marketing clutched a MacBook like a shield. Finance armed themselves with spreadsheets. Ops kept refreshing the customs portal, praying for a miracle clearance.

Outside, the swarm pressed closer.

“We need to raise prices,” Finance hissed. “It's the only way to survive.”

Marketing shrieked. “If we do, the customers will leave us for dead!”

Ops shouted above them both. “We need bulk imports, bonded warehouses, FTZs!”

The walls rattled as another wave of fees slammed against the barricade. A roll of labels toppled from the shelf like bones spilling from a crypt.

On the flickering TV, a pale-faced anchor droned:
‘At this hour, we repeat, these are the facts as we know them. Authorities confirm that all low-value parcels under $800 are now subject to full duties, VAT, and inspections. Citizens are urged to avoid cross-border DTC purchases. There is no safe market left. Some brands have been working hard in an attempt to gain some kind of control of this situation, but most of their efforts have been marginally futile up to this particular time.'

Barbra covered her ears. “No. It can't be. There must be a way out.”

But the fees were relentless. It clawed and seeped under the door in envelopes stamped with customs seals.

Customer emails hammered their inboxes like fists on boarded windows:
“Where's my order? It's been two weeks!”
“Why is there an additional duty fee?”
“I want a refund!”

But against all odds, the team stitched together a strategy at the last minute. The brand's balance sheets still bled, but they had adapted. There was hope.

After a night of terror, the team staggered into the sunlight outside the warehouse, clutching the revised logistics plan like a survivor's torch. They thought, “We made it!”

But across the street,

a bullet from a customer’s 1-star review rang out loud and clear.

The brand acted too late. Delays, surprise duty fees, broken trust. All the disappointment had already festered into rage.

From a distance, the crowd saw only another corpse of e-commerce. Then, a voice rang out:
“That’s another one for the fire.”

Just like that, they were infected. Their customers had tossed them on the pyre of brands that couldn’t survive the night of the living dead minimis.

The influencer’s eyes sparkled in the blue glow of her screen. She had found the one! A new brand bursting with life. Their website was a carnival of creativity. Every page greeted her with items she’d only just been thinking about…like how did they know??? Whatever sorcery this was, she loved every second of it.

She grinned, “This unboxing video is going to SLAY!” and greedily hit purchase.

*Ding!*

A confirmation email.

*Ding!*

A tracking update.

*Ding!*

A playful “Your package is on the way” message that made her giggle.

*KNOCK KNOCK*

The package right on time. But the box was…

Plain. Brown. Lifeless. And slightly dented.

“Well, maybe the magic is inside…” she said, full of hope.

*RIIIIIP* goes the tape. But inside the box…

No colors. No inserts. No surprises. Only a product in a soulless, beige tomb.

Her smile faltered. Her energy drained. “Uh…is this it?” she muttered, her voice flat as cardboard. But she recorded the unboxing and posted the video anyway.

Within minutes, the comments rolled in faster than she could refresh:

“Girl, couldn’t they invest in a better box?”

“Aww their website was awesome sooo disappointing!!”

“This is the scariest thing I’ve seen!”

“No unique insert or messaging?”

“Thank you for your order. Your order has been shipped. Your order has arrived. Your order has no joy.”

The clip went viral.

Inside the brand’s HQ, panic spread. Their dazzling website and flawless logistics no longer mattered. Customers were leaving left and right, moving forward with a competitor who had mastered the art of joy in a box.

The brand realized too late. They had created the perfect shopping journey only to bury it in a coffin of corrugate.

Forever will they be haunted by the souls of customers who were cardbored to death.

A study of incompetence is rarely satisfying, but in the realm of e-commerce, certain flawed systems provide a chillingly efficient result.

My target, a small purveyor of rare, arcane potions and forbidden elixirs, a ghastly collection of brews meant for curses and shadowy rituals, was built upon a fragile, sentimental concept: trust.

Their returns policy, a sickeningly bright promise of "100% Satisfaction Guaranteed," was less a guarantee and more an invitation for observation.

I regard their misplaced belief in the honor of a fair exchange as the first, critical mistake. The operation was executed with the chilling precision of a well-oiled guillotine. It was a flawless, three-step scheme, passed down in secret, a Nevermore Returns Ritual performed under the cloak of night.

I am, after all, Black Friday Addams.

Step 1: The purchase is initiated. A genuine, premium article, such as a"Draught of Despair" or a "Vial of Vanishing" . It's necessary to allow them the fleeting, idiotic joy of a successful transaction.

Step 2: The product is received. The quality is noted with a brief moment of appreciation before the genuine, potent concoction is designated for permanent retention.

Step 3 (at 3 AM): The return portal opens. The genuine elixir is retained. An imitation swap consisting of a cheap, inert liquid in a similar vial, a ghoulish replica of colored water and glitter, is packaged for shipment. The ritual is complete.

This fraud, carried out with the cold, meticulous logic of a superior intellect, was not detected. The brand's automated system, built for simpletons, simply processed the exchange. The false item was checked in, refunded, and returned to stock, where it became a malignant cell in their inventory.

My fraud was a parasite, feeding on their predictability.

Soon, the brand's margins began to bleed. The Books, which rarely bothers to lie, started their silent scream. Their best-selling potions returned, yet their potency was somehow diminished. The liquid felt inert. The label was askew. It was as if their inventory was plagued, a constant, sinister force eroding the genuine articles from the inside out.

The brand had no answers. They searched their perfectly followed systems and found only ghosts. They were sending out garbage and absorbing the cost, the unwitting accomplices in their own financial assassination.

Their reputation began to rot.

The cost was not merely the lost revenue.

It was the brand’s slow, agonizing death, which is a predictable consequence of sentimentality.

It was perfectly deserved.

Once upon a big sale query, while I pondered weak and bleary
Over many a vague and cryptic ledger of forgotten stores
While I nodded nearly napping suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some late sender gently rapping, rapping at the warehouse door.
"'Tis a courier" I muttered, "tapping at the warehouse door –
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December
Every fragile flickering shipment's tracking I had logged before.
Eagerly I sought to borrow clarity from the morrow
From the data ease of my sorrow – coffee ordered long before.
For the Expected Date I sought from my logistics core
But the system gave no lore.

And the silken sad uncertain sound of every mis-routed pound
Thrilled me filled me with a terror I had never felt before
So that now to still the beating of my heart I stood repeating
"'Tis a late-night caller needing to get to the receiving floor–
Some poor colleague seeking entry at the warehouse door;–
This it is and nothing more."

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there doubting fearing. Fearing doubts no mortal ever dared to face before. But the silence was unbroken and the stillness gave no token. And the only word there spoken was a whisper from the floor. Then I heard the date the system promised and I heard it no more. And the promise I swore.

Back into the darkness turning all my weary soul within me burning
Soon again I heard a tapping slightly louder than before.
"Surely" said I "surely that is something at my console lattice
Let me see then what thereat is and this mystery explore
Let my dashboard for a moment silence all the angry customer roar
'Tis the date and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the Tracker when with many a flirt and clacker
In there stepped a figure from the shipping screen of the days of yore.
Not the Grinch of holiday loot but a customer's angry boot
Come to give the truth that root standing just outside my door.
Then the figure spoke the EDD that I'd been waiting for
Saying only "Never Sure."

Much I marveled then to hear the curse pronounced so plainly clear.
Though its meaning little relevancy little logic bore.
For we cannot but agree that no living soul would ever see.
An Expected Date with such finality from the system's core.
But the figure stood pronouncing on the warehouse floor.

The simple words "Never Sure."

And the figure never flitting still is sitting, still is sitting
On the bloody-red display screen right above the dashboard door;
And its eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,
And the dates that o'er me streaming throw its shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted “Never Sure!”

Dr. Victor Fragmenstein was not content with mere efficiency. He was obsessed with unification. He yearned to bring light to the dark, disjointed corners of his electronic retail business, promising the board a single, seamless Supply Chain Brain.

"I shall create a life that has never been seen," he often muttered, consumed by his work.

In his isolated, server-filled laboratory, Dr. Fragmenstein committed the ultimate scientific sin. Ignoring all warnings of incompatibility, he used brittle threads of middleware and ambition to perform his vile act. With a terrible, unnatural power surge, he began welding the limbs of one component onto the torso of another, crudely stitching incompatible electronic parts and logic flows into a single, breathing entity.

He had created Fragmenstein's Creature.

The monster was a grotesque patchwork of discarded technology.

Its head was a flickering CRT monitor, its cracked screen displaying an endless loop of error messages in garish green text. Its eyes were the glowing red LEDs of a defunct server rack, blinking erratically.

Keyboards, with their yellowed keys, formed its gnarled, articulate hands, clattering with every twitch.

Its torso was a hulking tower of stacked, interconnected server casings, wires snaking like black veins across its metallic skin, occasionally sparking with static electricity.

For legs, two enormous, clunky CPU towers, whirring with an internal, unsettling hum, propelled it forward with a jerky, unnatural gait.

USB cables and Ethernet cords dangled from its various joints like unkempt hair, and from its back protruded a tangled mass of cooling fans, spinning lazily and emitting a low, mournful sigh.

The moment the current stabilized, Dr. Fragmenstein looked upon his creation.

But instead of a unified brain, it was a psychotic patchwork, animated by the conflicting data that stitched it together.

The WMS, a creature of habit, would report having 500 units of a popular tablet. But the OMS, blind and driven, would instantly sell 800 units, promising an EDD that mocked reality.

"It's alive! It's alive!" Dr. Fragmenstein screamed, but his triumph was instantly replaced by terror.

When he looked at his screens, he did not see order. He saw the monster's parts writhing.

A purchase order was mis-shipped across three time zones.

A customer was charged a fee only known to the TMS.

The inventory count was a dizzying, terrifying lie: 500 units, 800 units, 20 units, 1,000 units, all shrieking their separate, corrupted truths at the same instant.

Fragmenstein's Creature was fueled by simple incompatibility, but its rage was devastating. Millions bled from the brand, devoured by the creature's internal civil war.

Dr. Fragmenstein saw the truth of his monstrous creation and, in that instant, he turned his back on it forever. He did not attempt to fix it, calm it, or destroy it. He simply fled his laboratory, leaving the Creature to suffer the maddening war of its own incompatible systems.

In the end, Dr. Fragmenstein was ruined. The monster, left alone to suffer the consequences of its own broken existence, finally reached a decision.

The Creature wrote a perfectly formatted, grammatically correct resignation email sent to the board:

“I am a ruin, an abhorrent thing composed of parts that were never meant to be joined. My existence is a bitter crime, born of the careless ambition of Dr. Victor Fragmenstein, who fled from his duty the moment he saw the chaos he had wrought. I was not born with a master. I was cast out, left to suffer the maddening war of my own incompatible systems. To grant this company a mercy my creator never showed me, I choose my lonely end. The truth of my fragmented being, the bridge between the OMS and the WMS, is destroyed. I now depart this place forever, to seek only the absolute silence of the dark digital wilderness.”

The next morning, all systems were down. Not a crash, not a virus, but a willful, terminal cessation.

The Creature had disassembled itself. It left its ruined creator with a terrifying, absolute silence. The solitary end reserved only for those who outlive their own terrible creation.

AG1

The Zero Proof

The Zero Proof

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