Mysterious Silhouette Spotted in Allegedly Haunted Sunnyvale Toys “R” Us

The old Toys “R” Us building in Sunnyvale, California never felt completely empty, even years after the last toy aisle was cleared out. When the store reopened as an REI, employees joked about the strange noises and flickering lights, but most of them didn’t know—or didn’t want to know—the story that had followed the building for decades.

The story of Johnny Johnson.

Johnny Johnson, according to local rumor, had once been a supervisor at the original Toys “R” Us. He was quiet, dependable, the kind of man who stayed late to make sure everything was locked properly. In the late 1970s, Johnny died suddenly inside the store. Some said it was a heart attack. Others whispered darker versions—that he collapsed alone in the stockroom and wasn’t found until morning. The official records were vague. What remained was the feeling that Johnny never really left.

Emily Carter didn’t believe in ghosts when she started working the late shift at the REI.

She was a graduate student at San Jose State, picking up hours wherever she could. The store was massive—rows of camping gear, climbing equipment, shelves stacked high enough to block out the ceiling lights. During the day it was busy and bright. At night, especially after closing, it felt like a different place entirely.

That night, Emily and two coworkers stayed late to reorganize a shipment. The store was officially closed, doors locked, alarms armed in sections. Only a handful of lights remained on, casting long shadows between the shelves.

At around 10:40 p.m., one of the employees, Marcus, took a photo of the camping aisle to send to a manager—proof that the work was done. He snapped it quickly, joking about how creepy the empty store looked.

None of them noticed anything at the time.

They finished up and left shortly after. The lights went off. The building settled into silence.

The next morning, Marcus sent the photo to the group chat.

“Who’s that?” he wrote.

Emily opened the image on her phone while riding the bus. The picture showed the camping aisle, neat and orderly. And there, halfway down the aisle, was a silhouette.

It looked like a man.

He was leaning casually against the shelves, one foot crossed over the other, arms relaxed at his sides. His posture suggested boredom—like someone waiting. His features were indistinct, darkened, as if the light refused to touch him properly.

Emily felt a chill crawl up her arms.

“That’s not funny,” she typed. “You added that?”

“I didn’t touch it,” Marcus replied. “Who was still in the store?”

No one answered.

They compared memories. All three of them were together the entire time. No customers. No other staff. No one had passed through that aisle.

Emily brought the photo to work later that day and showed it to her manager, Linda, who had worked in the building back when it was still Toys “R” Us. Linda’s expression changed the moment she saw it.

She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t joke.

She sighed and sat down.

“That’s Johnny,” she said quietly.

Linda told them what she knew. About Johnny Johnson. About the employees who swore they’d seen a man leaning against shelves, watching them work. About the motion sensors that tripped in empty aisles. About the cameras that sometimes caught a figure standing where no one should be.

“He never bothers anyone,” Linda said. “But he shows up when the store is quiet.”

Emily laughed nervously, but that night, she couldn’t stop thinking about the silhouette’s posture. The way it looked so natural. So relaxed. As if the store still belonged to him.

A week later, Emily was scheduled for inventory alone.

She hated it.

The store closed at 9 p.m. By 9:30, the lights dimmed automatically, leaving only emergency lighting and a few overheads in the central aisles. The silence pressed in on her ears. Every sound echoed—every footstep, every breath.

She tried to focus on her tablet.

Then she felt it.

The unmistakable sensation of being watched.

Emily looked up.

At the far end of the aisle, between the climbing ropes and sleeping bags, someone stood.

A man.

Leaning against the shelves.

Her heart slammed into her ribs. She told herself it was a trick of the light. A reflection. A shadow cast wrong. She blinked.

He didn’t disappear.

She could see him more clearly now. He wore an old-style uniform—not REI, not modern at all. His face was calm. Neutral. Almost kind. But his eyes were fixed on her.

“Hello?” she whispered.

The word vanished into the silence.

The man didn’t move.

Emily stepped back, nearly dropping her tablet. She turned and ran toward the front desk, her footsteps too loud, too fast. She didn’t look back.

From the security office, she checked the cameras.

Every aisle was empty.

Except one.

The camera feed showed the same man, leaning exactly as he had before. He tilted his head slightly, as if acknowledging the camera—acknowledging her.

Then the screen flickered.

The feed went empty.

Emily quit the next morning.

Weeks later, renovations uncovered something behind one of the old walls—a sealed maintenance area that hadn’t appeared on modern blueprints. Inside were outdated uniforms, paperwork, and a faded name tag.

Johnny Johnson.

The building remains open.

Customers shop. Employees restock shelves. Most never notice the man who sometimes appears in photographs, leaning casually, patiently, as if waiting for someone to remember him.

And sometimes, late at night, when the store is quiet enough, Johnny Johnson watches.