The Diner’s Special

It’s funny how tales like this cling to you, worming their way into your mind, gnawing away, festering like a wound. They say truth is stranger than fiction, but sometimes the stories we pass down—the ones we whisper in shadowy corners or over drinks at seedy bars—are more chilling and grotesque than any proven fact. This is one of those tales. A fable, sure, but one that sits far too close to reality. Told by those who find comfort in the macabre, and believed by those who understand that the scariest monsters are always human.

Ever heard of Helen? The lonely, gaunt old woman who ran that ramshackle diner out on Highway 22—the one no one seems to remember until their car breaks down right in front of it? Yeah, that diner. The one that looked like it was barely hanging on, just like Helen herself.

She’d been running that place for years, way past its expiration date, and it had worn her down—mentally, physically, emotionally. The regulars were mostly truckers and the occasional passerby—people too tired or too drunk to care about the grime coating the counters or the smell of burnt grease. Helen herself was a fixture behind the counter, her face locked in a permanent scowl, her hands shaking from a mix of age and exhaustion.

It’s said that one Halloween night was when it all changed for her, when something finally snapped. The details vary depending on who’s telling the tale, but they all agree on one thing: by the end of that night, the world had shifted in some imperceptible way, and Helen—well, Helen was never the same.

Not that Helen was ever innocent to begin with. Far from it. Life had beaten her down long before that night, by years of slaving away in a diner that should’ve been closed long ago. But she kept going, grinding her bones into the linoleum floor, pouring what was left of her soul into greasy plates of food for truckers and worn-out locals who barely noticed she was there. She wasn’t a saint, and she wasn’t kind. You’d have to be half-mad already to keep going with a place like that. She was just… stuck. Too tired to stop, too scared to let go.

She persisted, for reasons that defy common sense. Hope? Or maybe just stubbornness. A lot of people call it “hard work”, but sometimes, that’s just another word for being too scared to give up.

And that Halloween? It had been a miserable day, as most of her days were. The diner was dead, just like the business had been for years. No customers, no cars pulling into the gravel lot. But Helen’s regulars? Oh, they showed up. Like they always did. A couple of worn-out truckers, grumbling about the coffee, and that group of teenagers.The type you can picture—the entitled ones, full of themselves, treating her like a servant they didn’t even have to pay, like the world owed them something just for existing. They’d been coming in for weeks, making her life hell with their obnoxious laughter, sneering faces, and cheap orders. Every night, they’d leave a mess, spill soda on the floors, scribble obscene things on the napkins—pushing every button they could find. And every night, Helen would clean up after them, swallowing her rage like spoiled milk.

But on that Halloween night, they might have just gone too far. They’d torn up the menus, thrown food on the floor, and when she finally asked them to leave, one of them—some punk kid with a smirk too big for his face—spat at her feet. She stood there, staring at the spittle on her worn-out shoes, her hands shaking with something she could no longer swallow. The crack inside her widened, just a little, and then a little more.

But still, she didn’t lash out. Not right away. She kept it together—because what else could she do? What do you do when your life is nothing but a series of humiliations, day after day? She muttered the same mantra she’d been repeating for years. Just one more night. As if that would make the suffering worth it. She’d always believed in that idea: that if she could just survive today, tomorrow might be better. But some nights… some nights, it just doesn’t seem worth it, does it?

So, she locked up, cleaned the mess those brats had left behind, sweeping broken dishes and mopping up soda while her body moved on autopilot. Her mind, though… her mind was somewhere else entirely. She didn’t notice the door jingle when he came in.

She hadn’t heard a car pull up, hadn’t seen anyone approach, but there he was.

He was no drifter, not like the truckers and transients she was used to. There was something off about him, something that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. No, this man—this thing—was tall, with greasy hair and clothes that looked like they’d been stolen from a corpse. But it was his eyes, those empty, black eyes that seemed to devour everything around him. Like they saw right through her.

“Can I help you?”, she asked, forcing the kind of smile that comes out like a grimace.

The man sat down at one of the booths, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world.

“Yeah.”, he said in a voice so low and gravelly it seemed to vibrate in her bones. “I’ll take your special. The one that isn’t on the menu.”

For a second, Helen just stared at him, her mind struggling to catch up. She didn’t know what to say to that. I mean, what do you say to someone who looks like he’s asking for your soul on a plate?

But here’s where it gets interesting. Instead of sending him on his way, she hesitated. Why? Maybe part of her liked the idea of breaking the rules, of giving someone exactly what they wanted, even if it was something she wasn’t supposed to offer.

“I—I don’t have a special.”, she stammered, her voice thin, almost pleading. “Just the usual burgers and fries, meatloaf, breakfast all day…”

“I’m not looking for any of that.” His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, his voice like the scrape of a blade across stone. “I want what you keep hidden away. The flesh that’s fresh, unspoiled.”

Her blood ran cold. She blinked, trying to make sense of what he was saying, but the words didn’t fit into anything that made sense. “Flesh? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Oh, I think you do.”, he interrupted, his voice dripping with something darker than mere hunger. “You know exactly what I want. And I think it’s time you serve it.”

For a moment, time hung suspended in the air. The crack in her mind widened. And then, something slipped through. In that moment, it wasn’t fear that seized her. It was curiosity. The kind of curiosity that gnaws at the back of your mind, that asks you, just once, to break the rules. What if… what if she gave him what he wanted? She wasn’t the good woman, the rule-follower, the one who always did what was right. That had never been her. No, the temptation to give in was almost natural, more comfortable, like slipping back into an old habit.

“I can’t…”, she whispered, her eyes flickering towards the kitchen as if searching for a lifeline. “I don’t have anything like that…”

The man didn’t move. He just sat there, watching her, like he knew the struggle inside her and was waiting for it to resolve itself. “Then you better get some.”, he said, his voice soft, patient, terrifyingly calm.

Now, she should have thrown him out right then and there. That’s what any sane person would’ve done. But she wasn’t sane, not anymore. Weeks of dealing with those nasty kids, months of watching her diner fall apart, years of enduring the slow decay of everything she’d built. It had worn her down to the bone.

“I—I’ll see what I can do.”, she said, like she was talking to any regular customer, like she was making him a damn cup of coffee. The air grew thick, heavy with a tension that made it hard to breathe. She glanced toward the kitchen, a mixture of dread and intrigue gnawing at her insides.

She went to the back, and I imagine that old kitchen must have felt like a tomb. The fridge was nearly empty—just the usual scraps of old meat, leftovers that had been sitting too long, remnants of meals no one wanted anymore. Nothing that could satisfy the man’s request. But as she stared at the meager offerings, the whispers took on a different tone. They weren’t telling her to be afraid anymore.

You know what you need to do.

Her breath quickened. “I—I can’t.”, she murmured, clutching the edges of the counter, trying to ground herself in reality. But the whispers wouldn’t stop. Do it. You’ve done everything else. Why not this?

She glanced around, her eyes landing on the old shotgun that hung on the wall, a relic from a time when she still believed in the safety it promised. Her fingers trembled as she reached for it, the cold metal sending a jolt of adrenaline through her veins.”I’ll get it. I’ll find what you want.”, she whispered to herself, her voice shaky but determined.

The night outside was cold and still, the wind howling through the trees like the wails of lost souls. Helen stumbled into the darkness, the shotgun heavy in her hands, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She didn’t know what she was looking for, only that she had to find it—something, anything. Just a quick hunt, she told herself. Just one sacrifice. And then it’ll all be over.

The darkness was thick as she wandered away from the diner, the moon a sliver in the sky, casting jagged shadows across the ground. It felt as though the very earth held its breath, waiting for her to make a choice. In the distance, she heard a rustling—a sound that pulled her closer, beckoning her into the depths of the night.

But what was she hunting for, really? An animal, a victim, or the last piece of herself? It didn’t matter. She found something. There, in the underbrush, she spotted a small creature—lost, innocent, perhaps a rabbit or a deer, she didn’t know for sure. She didn’t care. It didn’t matter. It trembled as she approached, its eyes wide with fear. “It’ll be okay.”, she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “Just a quick meal, nothing personal.”

Her hand shook as she raised the shotgun, the world narrowing to that single moment, the trigger heavy beneath her finger. “You’ll feed him.”, she said, her voice rising in urgency. “You have to.”

One shot. That’s all it took. The crack of the gun shattered the stillness, and with it, whatever humanity Helen had left. Helen stood over its crumpled, lifeless body. The deafening echo of the shotgun blast still reverberated through her skull. Its eyes were wide, frozen in a final moment of terror, and its blood slowly seeped into the dirt beneath it—a sacrifice to something greater than herself. She didn’t even know what she’d killed—it didn’t matter.

She grabbed it by the legs, trying to ignore the wet warmth of the blood now soaking into her apron, and began the slow, agonizing trek back to the diner. Every step felt heavier than the last, the darkness pressing in on her from all sides as if the night itself were alive, watching her, judging her.

When she reached the back door of the diner, her limbs ached with exhaustion, and her mind was frayed to the point of unraveling. She stood there for a moment, staring at the faded sign above the door, the one that promised ‘Best Diner on the Highway!’—a promise long broken, just like everything else in her life.

She pushed the door open with her shoulder, the hinges creaking in protest, and stumbled inside. The warm, greasy air hit her like a wall, mixing with the stench of blood and dirt. The diner was eerily quiet, the fluorescent lights flickering weakly overhead, casting long, distorted shadows across the empty booths.

And there he was, still sitting at the same table, his black eyes locked onto her the moment she crossed the threshold. He hadn’t moved. He hadn’t so much as blinked.

For a second, she thought she saw a flicker of a smile on his gaunt face, but it disappeared so quickly she wasn’t sure if it had been real.

The man said nothing. He simply watched as she heaved the limp body onto the counter, her hands slick with blood, her mind racing with thoughts she couldn’t control.

Helen fumbled with a butcher knife, her fingers slipping on the handle as she began to slice into the creature’s flesh. The smell of blood filled the air, metallic and sharp, as the blade cut deeper. She worked mechanically, her movements no longer her own, with a precision she didn’t remember possessing, carving away the skin, separating muscle from bone. Each slice was cleaner than the last, each cut more perfect.

She cooked the flesh, seasoned it, like it was any other meal. Maybe she even hummed a tune while she worked, a tune from her childhood, perhaps, who knows? Something innocent, though nothing about this moment felt that way. But what was truly disturbing was how right it all felt. As if she’d finally found the missing piece of herself, the part that had always been willing to feed the darkest appetites, even at the highest cost.

The meat sizzled on the grill, the smell of blood and burning fat filling the air.

“Just a little more.”, she whispered, trying to drown out the guilt clawing at her insides. “He needs this. He’ll love it.” Was it a confession? Or a plea?

The man sat patiently at the booth, watching her with those unsettling eyes, a predator savoring the scent of blood in the air. “Good. You’re doing well, Helen.”, he murmured, his voice wrapping around her like cold fingers. “Just keep going.”

As she plated the dish, a sense of triumph or euphoria swelled within her. “You’ll love it.”, she said, her voice trembling but resolute, as if she was trying to convince herself as much as him. “I promise.”

The man leaned forward, taking the plate with a slow, deliberate motion. His gaze remained locked on her, a connection that felt too intimate, too invasive. His eyes never left hers, and she knew, without him saying a word, that she had given him exactly what he wanted. He took a bite, his eyes closing in rapture. “So rich, so delicious.”

Helen felt a surge of satisfaction blossom within her—twisted, an ecstasy that filled the void of her sanity. She couldn’t help but feel a sick sense of pride. She’d done it. Isn’t that what she had wanted—what we all want, deep down? To be recognized, to be appreciated? Even if it’s for the worst parts of ourselves?

As he devoured the meal, a creeping unease began to unravel the edges of her euphoria. The whispers returned, slithering into her thoughts like snakes, winding through her mind with cruel intentions. “What have I done?”, she murmured again, her voice a broken echo. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air heavier, thick with the smell of cooked meat and her own unraveling sanity.

The man finished, his lips curling into a smile that felt more like a sneer. “You’re quite the chef, Helen. You’ve outdone yourself.”, he said, his voice thick with approval.

“I’ve outdone myself.” She blinked, the world spinning and warping around her. “But… what was it? What did I cook?” The shadows in her mind whispered cruelly, teasing her with answers she didn’t want to hear.

“I’ll be going now.” The man rose from the booth, his movement fluid, unnatural.”Thank you for the meal.” His eyes glittered with something dark, something knowing.

A pit opened in Helen’s stomach, realization just beyond her reach. “Wait! I—”, she started, but the words fell away as he turned to leave.

He lingered at the door, a shadow against the dim light, a shadow of something far worse than a man. “This is the night you’ll always remember, Helen. The night you stopped pretending. The night you finally became what you were always meant to be.”

And then he was gone, leaving her alone in the empty diner. The room echoed with silence, save for the whispers that still swirled around her, more insistent than before. They clung to her like the grease and red stained on her fingers, like the blood in the cracks of the floor. She stood there, heart racing, unable to shake the feeling of impending doom.

Leaving her with nothing but the whispers and the weight of what she’d done, she finally understood. This was what she had been all along—someone capable of anything, so long as someone wanted it badly enough.

A manic laugh bubbled up from her throat, starting as a soft, nervous chuckle, then growing louder, more frantic, until it rang out in the stillness, a hysterical, broken sound. An involuntary reaction to the madness encircling her. “What did I do?”, she shrieked, collapsing against the counter, her body trembling as if it might come apart at the seams.

The world around her began to blur, the walls closing in as she sunk deeper into the madness that had been lying in wait all these years. She could still hear the remnants of his praise echoing in her ears, “So rich, so delicious…” His words echoed through the diner, mixing with the whispers, amplifying the cacophony in her mind.

In a moment of clarity, or perhaps madness, she reached for the shotgun once more. The cold metal pressed against her skin, grounding her in the only way she knew how. “It wasn’t meant to be like this.”, she whispered, tears streaming down her face.

She lifted the gun, the barrel cool against her lips, and for the briefest second, the diner was quiet. No whispers, no laughter, just the cold, dead air of what was once her life.

And as she pulled the trigger, the last sound that escaped her lips was a broken, hollow laugh. It was the sound of everything she had become, everything she had lost. The world faded to black, the shadows consumed her, and Helen became nothing more than a whisper in the dark.

Who knows if that part’s true? But I like to think it is. After all, some endings just make more sense than others.

The man? Maybe he was never real. Maybe he was just a manifestation of the thing Helen couldn’t face, the thing gnawing inside her all these years. People say you see what you want to see when the cracks start to show. Maybe that’s all he ever was—her reflection, twisted into something darker, something she could finally blame.

After all, the mind has a funny way of conjuring monsters when we can’t confront our own guilt. And sometimes, the most terrifying thing is realizing you’ve been haunted by nothing but your own thoughts. The monster in the mirror, the one that wears your skin better than you ever could.

Whether she had truly served that shadow of a man or not, she had definitely fed something that night—something real, something still breathing. And maybe, when it took that first bite, she realised that the hunger wasn’t his at all. Perhaps it had been hers, all along.

The diner’s still there, you know. Quiet, empty. People avoid it now—not out of any real memory, but because something about it just feels wrong. There’s an unease, a kind of sickness that settles in your gut when you drive by, like something is watching you from behind those dark windows. The neon sign flickers occasionally, though no one’s ever seen it fully lit.

No one mentions Helen by name anymore. Not directly, anyway. Just hushed conversations, exchanged in dark corners, stories shared around campfires with a nervous chuckle.

They say Helen’s still in there, waiting. For what, no one really knows. But the bloodstains in the back kitchen never quite faded, no matter how much they scrubbed. And sometimes, just sometimes, the flicker of the neon sign isn’t as random as it seems. Maybe it’s trying to call someone back. Maybe one day the door, though locked for years, will creak open for just the right person.

And when it does, maybe that feeling in your stomach won’t be dread or fear, it won’t be unease at all.

No, it’ll be hunger.