It’s been two hours. It’s been fifty minutes. It’s been a day. The sun is dipping over the horizon.
It’s still high in the sky. The trees drop their leaves even as they are green, and the mist from the
sprinklers hits your face. It’s warm. It’s cold.
This place—this restaurant—is incomprehensible.
The live musician at the patio has been playing Hotel California for the entire evening. It’s been
played fifteen times—no, twenty? Thirty. His singing blends with the crowd, who happily sing along
for the chorus. The numerous voices surround you, making you smile. It’s a lovely place. You hum
along as you wait.
There was this sense of calm that washed over you as soon as you entered, leaving you relaxed.
That sense of calm is still with you as you settle into the cushioned seat even further. It’s almost like
you’re being hugged.
You take a sip of your tea. It tastes suspiciously carbonated, almost like soda. You put it down
and look at it. It’s turned into water. You furrow your eyebrows in confusion and push it away; you no
longer feel thirsty.
“Calzone right here for you!” says a cheerful voice.
You hadn’t ordered a calzone. You open your mouth to correct the waiter, who has gotten taller,
but you close it when you see the enchiladas set before you. You hadn’t ordered that either. At the very
least, they have chicken, so you accept it and begin to dig in.
You take a bite. It tastes like sawdust. It takes everything in you to not spit it out while the
waiter watches you with blank eyes. Instead, you dab at your mouth with a napkin and hide it with that.
The waiter, satisfied, turns and leaves. You sigh in relief.
The guitar continues to play, the people continue to chat, and you continue to try and choke
down the enchiladas. The first bite was sawdust, but the second tastes like beef. Your taste buds are
confused. You are confused. You raise your hand to flag down the waiter, but he’s pouring drinks for a
table that wasn’t there a moment ago.
You wait. Hotel California continues to ring through your ears.
Minutes pass.
You shift in your seat. Someone’s crying nearby.
Seconds tick by.
After an hour of the sun teetering between dusk and dawn, you manage to flag down the waiter
to get the check. His grimace betrays his anger even as he tells you, “Of course!” You shudder at the
sight of his canines.
He whips out the check and a pen, then sets them in front of you. It has your card information
on it. You haven’t even taken it out of your pocket. You examine it carefully, baffled, and the numbers
fade into asterisks. Everything’s correct. It’s so convenient. But is it worth your sense of security?
Your hand shakes as you sign. The pen bleeds onto the receipt. It dries instantly. You set the
receipt down and put it under your plate. The plate’s too heavy for you to lift. Your throat feels dry, but
you’re not tempted by the juice that sits in front of you.
Everything’s wrong here in this lovely place. No one else seems to notice, nor do they care. But
you do, and you want to leave. Even as you think that, you feel eyes on you. You swallow nervously
and stand up from your stool. The chair legs scrape the wood beneath you.
The guitar stops, as does the chatter. All of the people, who suddenly seem solid and unique, are
staring at you. You stare back, petrified, unsure of what’s happening. One by one, they stand, never
blinking.
All of them have blank eyes like the waiter.
You turn and run. Your feet feel like molasses; it’s almost impossible to move. The faster you
go, the slower you move. It’s only when you slow to a crawl that you finally start to outpace the group
walking behind you. You pass by the building’s entrance, pushing the wooden fence against the iron.
The gate opens easily, but it’s hot to the touch.
Nothing is right. Nothing is right. Nothing is right.
You flee to your car, mystified by how fast you’re running now. The cool exterior of your car is
nice and familiar. The leather feels right, and so does your steering wheel. You sigh again, this time in
relief. You’re safe here. Everything is fine.
Everything is fine.
You start the car, then look back at where the restaurant is. It’s gone now, replaced by burned
out debris that had been long abandoned. Vague shapes of people are standing there, their blank eyes
staring into yours. Eventually, you manage to tear your gaze away.
You leave the area as quickly as possible, still tasting the sawdust in your mouth.
Nicxan Brooks is an author that loves, loves, LOVES horror in every sense of the word. She even works at a haunted attraction seasonally, that’s how much she loves it! However, she gears towards the uncanny and the unnerving; she finds that sticks with people. She lives in Georgia with her cat Pertwee.