Why You Should Never Work the Graveyard Shift at a Diner
We are surrounded by things that look like us and act like us, but they’re not us. They’re something else entirely, and since my realization of this, my reality has begun to unravel.
I used to have a life, I used to see the world as a beautiful place with humans there to run it. Now I know that it is far from the truth. We are nothing but cattle, a food source for a more perfect predator on this earth, and they are determined to keep us under control.
I worked night shift at a diner. There is little that sets this diner apart from any other. However, we are situated along a highway in Wyoming. There isn’t another diner for many miles. Honestly, there isn’t much of anything for many miles other than a small motel about four miles up the road, but the guy who owns the diner owns that too. We mostly see travelers. We have a small handful of regulars, but I hardly ever see the same customer twice.
As a result, the owner is not really picky about the quality of the food being served. Those traveling late at night and early in the morning have no choice but to stop if they want to stretch their legs and get a warm meal. The seats in the booths are starting to show signs of wear and tear. A few even have strips of gray duct tape to keep the foam from pushing out of the red leather cushioning.
Because this place is pretty much in the middle of nowhere, the staff all work on a two-week rotation. Every two weeks, we stay at the motel up the road. The remoteness of the diner almost requires it, unless you want to drive a few hours to and from work each day. Myself, the woman who runs the register, and those who work in the kitchen, all do the same. Since we are working, the owner lets us stay in the rooms there for free.
It took me some time to get used to, but eventually I started to enjoy the routine. Being away from normal life for two weeks at a time was proving to be good for me, and I got along with the woman up front and the kitchen staff. We would stay up after our shifts, have a few drinks, and talk about where we were from, how we got here, and what our plans were for the future. It certainly made working in a dump like that feel like a better gig than it was.
Most nights were fairly quiet. Twenty, maybe twenty-five tables would come through. Most people just grabbed a takeout and headed to their cars. The truckers would stop, close themselves in the bathroom for thirty minutes, grab a bite for the road, and head on their way again.
There is one small group of people, three men and a woman, who came in kind of often. They traveled together in a large van and always stopped for a meal. When they’re in the area, they would come in two or three nights in a row. There was little unusual about them. They seem like ordinary people; they spoke quietly and often dressed in the same clothes. Nothing strange, think casual office wear, nice pants, polo shirts, that sort of thing.
They were easy customers, considering they always order exactly the same thing. One would have the burger, no cheese, just mustard. Another would order two waffles and a side of scrambled eggs. The woman liked tomato soup and grilled cheese. The fourth never ate, only ordered coffee.
They usually stay for an hour or so, and then they head out. It wasn’t until after about three months of serving them on every rotation that I started to wonder what they were doing there.
Why were they passing through two or three nights in a row?
Why were they driving in the middle of the night, wearing clothes like they all just left an office?
It seemed odd, but it was truly none of my business. All I had to do was take their order, deliver it, and enjoy the tip they left behind. That was until the cook asked me to keep an eye on them.
When I asked why, he said that their leftovers were odd. He explained that, no matter how often they’d been there or how long since they’d last visited, their plates always looked exactly the same coming back.
Their food was always cut in the same place, and they always had the same leftovers. Down to the pattern of the ketchup, used on the side of eggs, everything was precisely the same every time. I thought he was joking, or maybe a bit looney. Then he showed me photographs on his phone.
For months, he’d been photographing their leftovers. I had to admit, they looked pretty much exactly the same, but I didn’t know what to say, or if there was anything suspicious about it. He assured me that in the sixteen years he’d been a cook, he had never seen something like that. It didn’t seem that important to me, but I promised that I would keep a closer eye on them the next time they came in.
The next time I saw them, they had the same clothes, same order, same everything. I delivered the food to their table, with the cook’s words ringing in my mind about their leftovers. This time, I walked behind the counter and started rolling silverware while I waited for them to start eating, glancing up as often as I could.
Nothing seemed strange until about halfway through the meal. Just as I glanced up, I saw the woman push some of her grilled cheese sandwich onto her lap. It was so odd that I didn’t lower my eyes back down to the silverware in my hands.
The man across from her cut into his food and, carefully, he pushed it off his plate, over the table, and onto his lap. I remember thinking how odd it was, and knowing what the cook had observed, I wondered what are they doing?
When they finished, before they called me over to remove their plates, they wrapped up the napkins lying in their laps and stuffed them into their bags. It was then that the woman looked up and caught me staring.
I quickly looked away, but my watching had clearly concerned her. She leaned forward and muttered some words quietly, and suddenly, the entire table was looking back at me. I felt a little nervous, as if I were in a dark room. There was a spotlight pointing at me.
Then, one of them broke out into a wide and forced smile. It was such a grin that it seemed as if he had more teeth than he needed. He signaled to me for the check, making a check mark in the air with his right hand, and I walked over and handed it to him. They paid, left their normal tip, and hurried out the door. It was only then that I felt as if I could take a decent breath.
I started cleaning off their table, gathering their leftovers. They were exactly the same as the cook’s photos. I hurried back to the kitchen. I told the cook what I saw, and he thought it was the weirdest thing he had ever heard. We tried to figure out what they were doing and why they were doing it, but we were stumped.
So, they were coming in two or three nights, every two weeks, and pretending to eat. It was only then that I realized their drinks were always returned, never touched. If they weren’t eating and drinking, then what were they doing there?
That night, back at the hotel, I barely slept. I couldn’t get it out of my mind. The strangeness of it all, their concern at me watching them, the wide grin I saw when they noticed, and because I knew their pattern, I knew they would be back the next night.
Sure enough, the next night they arrived, but a half-hour later than usual. They wore different clothes, more everyday style, jeans, and t-shirts. They also ordered different meals than their usuals. Why, after all that time, had they suddenly changed their entire routine? This time, they were also watching me, eyes darting across to me more often.
I tried not to look in their direction, to prove to them that I was minding my own business, that I wasn’t suspicious of them. However, when I did glance over, I always caught one of them staring at me. Their constant gaze gave me the chills. I didn’t know what I was getting into, but I knew I didn’t want to find out.
It was precisely this looking away that made me spot something off at another table. A woman, who looked like she was in her forties, wore a large black sun hat, like you would wear to the beach, despite it being the middle of the night. Slid a piece of food onto her lap. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I turned, walked back into the kitchen, and told the cook that there was another one.
I knew our food wasn’t the greatest, but no one ever asked for their money back, asked for a manager, or sent back food because it was not cooked right. There was no reason for such odd behavior. Later that night, after our shift had ended, the cook decided that it was time we spoke to the owner about it. Of course, you can imagine how well that went. He called us crazy and told us that we’d been working too many night shifts.
The cook was insistent that something strange was going on. The owner reluctantly agreed to check the video from the security camera. He scanned through the footage of the previous night. However, it was no use. Just as the group walked in, the footage became warped. He smacked the side of the screen, cursing. We decided it was no worry, we could simply go back to another night. This group came in pretty often.
It was no use. Every time they entered the store, the feed started warping. Then we noticed it happening when other people walked in as well. I glanced at the cook, and he was pale with worry, eyes fixed on the screen as it warped again and again. It was beginning to feel ridiculous. Perhaps the camera was just broken, and the owner was right; we were too tired, too isolated, and connecting things that didn’t connect.
I looked at the cook and cracked a joke about us losing our minds, we had one more shift. Then it was two weeks back home. Our next shift was uneventful, no regulars, just nameless faces, we would never see again. Back home, I tried for days to figure out what the people were doing. Why were they sliding the food into their napkins and stuffing it in their bags?
Having distance from the diner, I was able to get some clarity about the madness of it. I decided that all I had to do was ask them when I saw them again. It was that simple. They were just people, hopefully, they would tell me, and we would get to the bottom of it all.
My next shift, the cook wasn’t too pleased with this plan; he thought it was a bad idea. In truth, I wasn’t prepared to waste more time wondering about it, speculating about its purpose. I had to know. However, none of them came back for months. Not the group of four, or the lady in the black hat. Everything was quiet, and I’d even started to forget about it when they walked through the door again. This time, the woman with the black hat had joined their group. They walked in together and sat at the same table.
They greeted me with friendly smiles, which was unusual for that group, as they typically stayed to themselves. They ordered a new set of menu items and a different course of drinks. They attempted some small talk with me, which felt uncomfortable and forced.
I delivered their food and decided I needed to watch them. This time, I didn’t want them to know that I was watching. So, I walked into the back. Just out of sight, and then peered at them through the crack of the curtain that separated the dining room door from the kitchen.
They looked around the room before they cut into their food. It was as if they wanted to see if I was watching. Then, they cut into the food and slipped it onto their laps. This time, I watched as they made a conscious effort to make a mess of their food, cutting erratically.
It was beyond strange. When they seemed done, I approached their table, and they requested the check. Their glasses remained full of their drinks. I couldn’t avoid it. I simply asked them.
“What do you keep the food for?”
They looked at me in disbelief. I spoke more softly, worried that they might possibly have been embarrassed.
“I’ve seen you push the food into the napkins and put it in your bags,” I whispered. “What do you take it for?”
I locked eyes with one of them, and I suddenly felt as if I was in danger. He placed a large bill down on the table, more than enough to cover their check, then they all rose from their seats and left. Saying nothing. As they walked out the door, the guy in the back held the door with one hand, slightly longer than he needed to, turned, and looked back at me. I could feel his energy radiating off him, and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.
After they left, I raced to check the security footage. As always, the footage was damaged, warped. I relayed what just happened to the cook, who agreed it was really odd and was furious at me for asking them.
That morning at the hotel, I lay in bed, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face staring back at me, refusing to let me sleep. I heard my doorknob rattle. I glanced at the clock next to my bed, 5:37 am. Thinking it might be someone who worked at the diner, I called out to them. There was no response.
Instead, the doorknob rattled again in a more forceful manner. I shot up nervously in bed. I focused on the doorknob. As I quietly approached the door, I could feel my pulse beating in my neck. I peered through the peephole. It was the man who had turned around and looked back at me, whose eyes I still saw when I closed mine.
My heart was pounding, I felt a tingle of fear running through every part of my body. At that moment, he slowly tilted his head to the side, staring directly at me back through the peephole, “Hello, aren’t you just a nosy little pig?”
I wanted to back away, but I was frozen in fear. As he looked at me, the whites of his eyes turned a dark red, his iris black as night. The blood vessels around his eyes started to rise up to the surface from under his skin. Then he smiled, revealing a set of sharp, pointed teeth. He smacked his hand on the door. I could hear him dragging his nails down the metal door, like knives across a glass dinner plate.
He hesitated, looked off to his right, then back at me. “Saved by the sun, lucky little pig. “
“Not to worry, night comes soon enough. See you then.”
And with that, he was gone. I sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to process what I just watched unfold in front of me with my own eyes. I left that morning, never went back. Didn’t show up for my shift the next night, never spoke to anyone from that diner again. Just got in my car that morning and drove home. I can’t help but feel that I’m still in danger. Since then, I barricade the door at night when I go to bed, and I never step foot outside at night.
I started working at a new restaurant, day shift only. I don’t watch anybody when they eat anymore. Even in the daytime, I don’t think they are human. I think they are dark entities that disguise themselves as humans. I think they are all around us. I will let you know if they ever find me, if he ever comes back. That is, of course, if I survive the visit. I might have noticed too much and put my life at risk.
This has been Pale Lantern Media. If you’ve seen someone push untouched food into their lap…
If you’ve watched their smile show too many teeth… If you’ve heard them promise they’ll see you after dark…
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And we’ll keep the lantern lit, for as long as we can.