The Looping Stranger

Looking in the mirror, I give myself one last look over, trying to hide the exhaustion in my face. Hair swirled in a messy bun. Using an excessive amount of concealer to hide the darkness beneath my eyes. A little eyeshadow, two coats of mascara, just enough to fake brightness in my face. I wear the usual baggy mom jeans and the required company policy black shirt. All I need is my apron, which is probably crumpled on the floor of my truck. Late-night training, early morning shifts, the double life of a college student, athlete, and barista.

Driving over to the café feels slower than usual, as if everyone is moving in slow motion. The bell dings as I push the door open. Coworkers greet me, customers turn to look when I spot him in the corner, and he glances up from a newspaper. Who even reads a newspaper these days? He wears a dark suit that seems out of place; the fabric has a tiny shimmer in the light, as if it has a life of its own. We often see business types, lawyers in particular, with their laptops in the corner, but something about him stands out.

His eyes track me as I make my way behind the counter. Rising from the table, he moves as if gliding toward me. “Medium black coffee, two sugars.” His voice is eerily smooth, like velvet. I can’t shake the feeling that something is off. Slowly placing the cup of coffee on the counter, he reaches inside his coat pocket. “Thanks, keep the change,” he says. Before I can say a word, he turns and walks out.

It’s a typical busy shift—crowds coming in and out in waves, orders stacking like small tidal pulls. In slow times, we wipe tables or goof off, but a heaviness stays with me no matter how hard I try to laugh it off. It's hanging in the air, a dark cloud that follows me.

Back at my dorm, I peel off my jeans and stand under the hot water, trying to wash the feeling down the drain. Lying in bed, drifting, I hear distant voices and the steady electronic beeping, and then a whisper: “Wake up.” I shoot up. The room is empty and the TV is off, maybe I was half-dreaming.

Waking up the next morning, I shuffle to the bathroom. Something isn’t right; my jeans aren’t on the floor, and I could have sworn I brought my apron in this time. Maybe I was so exhausted I imagined it. Same routine as yesterday, I drink coffee from home, sit at my desk, and try to push through schoolwork before my shift.

Time gets away from me, and I’m back in the bathroom, checking myself before work. My apron is on the floor of my truck, but something just isn't right. The drive to the café drags, slow as ever.

The café bell dings sharp this time, like a blade. It sounds louder, as if the room goes quiet before I step inside. Coworkers greet me, customers glance up, and then my stomach jumps. The man in the corner with his newspaper. He was here yesterday. His eyes track me as he glides to the counter while I stand frozen.

“Medium black coffee, two sugars.” The smoothness of his voice puts me on edge. I move slowly, like sudden motion might trigger him, as if he were some creature stalking his prey. Placing the coffee on the counter, he says, “Thanks, keep the change.” He turns and walks out. Maybe he’s just a new regular. It happens all the time.

My shift feels over before it even starts. My mind spirals back to the man in the suit. People become regulars all the time. Orders get memorized; I know what they want before they reach the door. Does he wait for me to get here? Is he a stalker? Questions ricochet through my head as I sit alone at my dining room table. Eating a college kid meal, ramen I make in a microwave. I decide I’m going to place my jeans on the floor in a specific spot this time, and just needing proof that I’m not losing my mind.

Haunted by beeps and voices as I fall into a dream: flashes of a hospital hallway, doctors rushing, faces I can’t make out blurring past. Same faint voice at the edge of my ears, “wake up,” growing louder until a woman’s face is inches from mine, and screaming the words. I jolt upright, breathless, like someone’s sitting on my chest. The bedroom is empty—only the fan hums. Rushing to the bathroom, I splash water on my face and grab a towel. I look down to see that my jeans aren’t where I left them.

Panic sets in. Is my dorm haunted? Was that the woman telling me to wake up? Sunlight spills through the window, and I let warmth wash over me to calm my mind. Desperate to get out of the dorm and to work as soon as possible. I find my jeans where I usually keep them, foled in a drawer. And my apron is in a ball on the floor of my truck. I hate this feeling, this hollow dread, as if something bad is about to happen.

Walking into the café, the bell rings, and I freeze in the doorway. It sounds even louder than before, but I can’t move. He’s there in the same corner, same newspaper, same stillness I’ve been watching for days. Rushing to get behind the counter, I lean over to my coworker. “How long has that man been sitting there?” I ask, wondering if he’s been waiting for me.

She frowns. “What man?”

“That man in the suit, sitting in the corner with a newspaper,” I say, panic cracking in my voice.

“I don’t see a man in a suit. Are you alright?” She looks at me with concern. Not wanting to be dropped off at the closest psych ward, I brush it off. I watch him. He doesn’t just glide. He doesn’t disturb a single customer.

Everything is happening over and over again; it’s the same thing for the third day in a row. This feels like something straight out of a comic book. I’m stuck in a nightmare, or I’m going insane. I quickly decide I’m going to change something, even if it’s small. I move the sugar from one side of the counter to the other. “Medium black coffee, two sugars.” His voice sends chills down my bones. There is something dark yet angelic about it, like a quality he uses to draw people in. Every instinct in my body screams not to trust it. He must be stuck in a loop, and somehow, I’m tied to it.

Testing this even further, I place an empty cup on the counter. He reaches for it as I pour straight from the carafe, my eyes flicking between his face and the cup. Coffee spills over his hand, but he doesn’t flinch. No grimace. No reaction at all. My stomach falls as I look back down. There is no coffee, no spill. The sugar sits neatly where it always does, as if everything has reset.

“Thanks, keep the change.” He turns and walks out. Screaming for him to wait, I attempt to run around the counter to chase after him. To find out what is going on, who is he?. My coworker grabs my arm. “What is wrong?” she asks, panic written all over her face.

“The man who was here. There is something wrong, and I am somehow connected,” I yell.

“There was no man. I can show you,” she shoots back.

We pull up the security feed. There’s nothing there. No man in the corner. When I tested him with the coffee, the cameras glitched, and time seemed to skip. For a beat, it was just me yelling for him to wait.

“I think you need to go home and get some sleep,” my coworker says, gentle and firm as if she were taming the feral raccoon in the alley. “We’ll be fine here, or I will call someone in.” My stomach drops. Please don’t let that be code for psych ward.

Sleep drags me under deep, like an anchor dropping into the ocean’s depths. The dream is dark and stronger this time. Beeps pierce louder, sharper, pounding into my skull. Fluorescent lights overhead, and I’m back in the middle of the hospital hallway. Nurses and doctors rush past, their faces blurred as if smeared out of a photo. I reach out for one, but my hand passes right through.

A woman leans over me, her lips forming the exact words again and again: Wake up, wake up, wake up. Her voice grows until it’s a scream that rattles my nerves. I bolt upright in my dorm bed, drenched in sweat, goosebumps all over my body, lungs clawing for air. The fan hums steadily in silence, but beneath it, I swear I can still hear the monitors beeping.

I pace my dorm, knowing it’s not this dorm that’s haunted but the man in the suit. I won’t go back there, not until I figure this out. I call my boss and tell them I’m sick, that I need more rest, and that I will not be coming in today. Shoving a piece of toast into my mouth, I decide I’m going to go to my college library to see what I can find out about that café and the man in the suit.

Putting on shorts and a baggy T-shirt I left on the floor, I grab my keys. Swinging my front door open in a panic, I step through—and it’s not my dorm hallway. The café bell rings out with a deafening sound. The sound echoes in my ears as my eyes dart from the counter to the man in the corner. I look down. I’m in my work uniform, apron tied at my waist.

This time, the entire café is frozen, staring at me with dead eyes. The only movement comes from the man in the suit when he shakes his newspaper. The noise startles me, and I instinctively look at him. I don’t want to move. What is going to happen to me?

Unable to take it anymore, I shout, “What do you want from me?” My voice cracks, but he gives nothing back. Refusing silence as an answer, I step into the middle of the café floor. The air is thick, heavy like smoke. My pulse is hammering in my ears. He lowers the paper and folds it with care. His eyes catch mine while rising from his chair, gliding until he towers over me. “Medium black coffee, two sugars.” The words splinter something inside me. Tears swell at the corners of my eyes.

“What do you want from me?” My whisper barely carries.

Silence stretches. Then, soft and deliberate, he leans in. “You aren’t supposed to be here.”

His words hang in the air, heavy enough to crush me. The café wavers at the edges, tables bending like reflections in water. My knees lock to keep me standing. Not supposed to be here.

He tilts his head, studying me like a specimen. “Do you hear them?”

At first, only silence. Then it seeps in, the faint beep…beep…beep of a machine, the muffled sobs of someone begging me to wake up. My throat closes. “You’re in between,” he says, voice low, almost tender. His hand brushes a table, and the sugar packets scatter, then snap back into place, untouched. My head feels like it's spinning, and for a moment, I see white sheets and wires, a still body on a bed. My body.

I stumble back, clutching my apron. “I want to go home, I want to wake up,” I choke out. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Then choose.” He holds out a cup of black coffee, two sugars. The steam curls upward, but the scent is wrong, like smoke and a hint of metal clawing at my throat. Is this man the devil? What did I do to deserve this hell? I shake my head, backing away a few steps.

“What is going to happen to me?” His smile sharpens, thin as a blade. “Choose,” he repeats.

“You’re not telling me what is going to happen to me. No. I won’t.” My voice cracks.

“So be it.” He lifts the cup, and the café snaps back into place. Customers laughing, coworkers moving as if nothing happened. The bell dings sharp. Suddenly, the weight of my apron drags heavily on my shoulders. For the first time, he looks back as he walks out the door. I look down at the newspaper left on the counter, and my chest caves. Across the top, bold and dark, one word: “Purgatory”