It’s 11:43 pm and Michael sits alone, hunched over an empty mug of coffee in the corner booth of Betty & Dave’s—a two-bit diner just off Route 39, a few miles east of Lucas. Chrome and red faux leather, ketchup and mustard bottles on every table, the smell of tobacco and grease soaked into the walls. He needed to get his shit together and this was as good a place as any.
Other than an old timer sitting at the counter on the other side of the diner, the place was dead. MTV was on the box but was barely audible over the incessant clink and clank of dishes being tossed around in the kitchen. The lights were low and the neon sign from out front cast a reddish glow over the booths close to the window where Michael sat.
“Honey, you OK?” whispers the waitress. She’s small and skinny and her sagging skin is a pasty pale white. Looks to be in her sixties but most likely forties. A hard life fueled by cigarettes and cheap cider.
“Honey…” She leans forward and prods Michael lightly on the shoulder. “Are you alright? You’ve been sitting like that for an hour.”
Michael winces in pain, the woman’s voice like a knife in his ear. The finger felt like a hot poker being sunk into his flesh. Trying to maintain his composure, he lifts his head and leans back against the red-cushioned seat. The cold sweats were fading slightly but the headache was still pounding his brain—the rhythmic pulse of his heart thudding in his ears.
“Yeah… I’m ok, thanks! Just keep the brew coming.” Michael lightly nods to his empty mug sitting in the middle of the table—a mistake as sharp bolt of pain shoots through his head.
“Sure thing, honey!” She leans over and starts filling his mug with a shaky left arm, his gaze moving up the boney hand to the sinewy arm and then to the loose skin around her neck. Her lipstick is smudged and cracking, plastered over non-existent lips. She brings her right hand over to the top of the coffee pot to steady it and fills it right to the brim with no spillage. Her arm twitches suddenly, and the lukewarm muddy liquid sploshes out of the pot onto her hand.
The waitress slowly leans forward; there is a weird jerking motion as she leans in, her face a few inches from Michael’s. He can smell the stale cigarettes on her breath.
“YOU HAVE BEEN A VE REE NOT EEE BOY,” she spits through gritted teeth, a venomous whisper. She quickly turns away from him and walks back towards the kitchen.
“Pardon? I didn’t catch that… What did you just say?” He tried to call out but didn’t manage more than a whisper; the pain was too great. She didn’t respond. He darts his eyes around the diner, already paranoid and on edge—this is not what he needed.
The old man at the counter was slurping down his soup while the door to the kitchen swung back and forth on its hinges. Looking out to the parking lot, that’s when he saw it, standing on the other side of the road. A petite woman with long brown hair, pale white skin and long black gown. Her milky, pupiless eyes wide open, staring at Michael.
“SHIT!” Michael utters as he tries to slide his way out of the booth. Just as he is about to stand, he catches the reflection of the diner in the window. He turns around.
The old man is shaking violently like he’s having a seizure, then he suddenly stops and slumps off his stool, the loud thud of his head cracking a table corner on the way down. The swing doors to the kitchen open slowly and the waitress, holding a large kitchen knife, shuffles out in a weird stop motion staccato rhythm. Her head is shaking in all directions, almost vibrating. A hugely distorted grin on her face with her yellow, coffee-stained teeth clenched together. Saliva foams at the corners and flecks of spit launch into the air.
“YOU HAVE BEEN A VE REE NOT EEE BOY… YOU HAVE BEEN A VE REE NOT EEE BOY… YOU HAVE BEEN A VE REE NOT EEE BOY,” she repeats, her voice full of hate and malice.
The volume of the TV starts to rise, the channels switching erratically before it’s nothing but static and white noise. The screeching static pierces Michael’s ears like a thousand needles; he feels an unbearable pressure in his head that builds quickly, then suddenly both his ear drums rupture. Grabbing his head, he falls back into the booth, screaming in pain. He looks up to see the woman’s face from across the street on the screen, her gaze filling him with dread.
The waitress is advancing quickly. With nowhere to go, he pushes himself into the corner of his booth, his right shoulder and arm pressing against the window. The glass starts to warp and sag like melting plastic. Hands push through, long spider-legged fingers grabbing with a vice-like grip. His arm is sunk within the window and the clawing hands reach up and engulf his face, pulling his head into the molten void. Legs kicking and thrashing, the coffee mug breaks as he brings his heel down on it hard, at least one large shard lodging itself into his Achilles tendon. Within an instant, he is gone completely. A small ripple runs across the large window like a pebble dropped in a still lake.
MTV clicks back onto the tube. The waitress looks slightly confused standing in the middle of the diner holding the large knife. It takes a moment before she realizes she has wet herself. Letting out a small whimper, she turns and runs to the restroom unaware of the dying man to her left. The old timer lies face down on the cold tiles, a large gash on the side of his head, bleeding out on the floor.
“SHIT!” yells the cook from the kitchen. The beef patties are burned black and smoke is billowing from the greasy flattop grill.
“Betty! Betty, get me the damned fire extinguisher!”
