There's Something Wrong with Chef

The flick of the lighter was the only form of comfort I had at this point. Inhaling the rolled-up nicotine and letting the smoke evaporate around me was a twisted form of peace. If I couldn’t have the needle, at least I had the smoke.

           It was late and I’d let my break last a couple minutes too long, probably. I knew Chef wouldn’t be happy with me, but it was growing harder and harder to care. I only had this job because Ricky really stuck his neck out for me, and I knew I should’ve been more appreciative.

           All well, I thought, life goes on.

           I flicked the butt of the cigarette onto the pavement behind the dumpster and headed back into the kitchen. The fluorescent lights stung my eyes after coming from the dark alley behind the café. It took a few blinks before my eyes fully adjusted. I was moving at a snail’s pace, gathering up all the dishes and tossing them into the soap and water-filled sink. I felt sluggish, like a zombie. My steps were slow and clumsy, my eyes barely staying open from exhaustion. The smell of everything that had been cooked and burned and oiled and fried hit like a tidal wave of nausea. They told me when I first started that I’d get used to the smell, but I just couldn’t see that happening. What started out as bearable in the morning became atrocious by the end of the night.

           I held back a gag as I started scrubbing the pans of their canola oil ichor. It was peaceful sometimes- being the only one left in the kitchen at night, performing mind-numbing tasks just for something to do. It kept me from doing the thing I really wanted to be doing, and I was told that was a good thing.

           “Stay busy,” they would all say, “it’ll keep you from using.”

           I shook my head and focused on keeping my eyes open as I cleaned. It wasn’t a hard job by any means, and I suppose for that I was at least grateful.

           Sliding the last of the plates into the drying rack, I heard a faint clicking sound behind me, like high heels on tile. Odd, there wasn’t anyone who wore heels to work, or anyone who should even be at work at this hour. I was always the last to leave. I turned to find no one there. It took a moment before I realized it was the water from the tap slowly drip, drip, dripping against the stainless-steel sink. I let out a breath of amusement and twisted the knob off.

           I heard the kitchen door leading into the restaurant swing open. I spun around to see Chef standing in the doorway, his arms folded over his chest. I hadn’t realized he was still here. I think he could tell that by the surprised look on my face.

           “Chef,” I sputtered, “I didn’t know you were…” I trailed off when I noticed his expression was completely blank. It was like all the life had left his eyes. He was staring straight ahead at nothing, his whole body frigid.

           I took a hesitant step towards him. “Chef?”

           “Johnny,” it was his voice, but something about it sounded foreign and empty. It was a stranger’s voice wearing Chef’s face, and when he spoke again his words were flat and monotone. “Johnny, you were late today. That cannot keep happening, Johnny.”

           “Chef?” I squeaked out. “Chef, I’m sorry I…” there was no point in responding. He wasn’t paying any attention to me. He just kept staring at the blank wall opposite him, his mouth hanging open dully. I found it in me to get even closer to him. From this close, I could see the red stains splashed across his apron and face, but no sign of any wounds on him. I fought back the urge to run away. Clearly something had happened, what if someone was hurt?

           I glanced over his shoulder into the restaurant, trying to see if there was anyone else out there, anyone bleeding or… dead? No, don’t think like that. Maybe this is all just some stupid prank that Ricky’s pulling or something. Yeah, yeah, it was just a prank.

           I managed a deep breath and tried shrugging it off playfully, punching Chef’s arm lightly as I said, “Good one guys, you really had me going there for a second.”

           And that’s when Chef’s head slowly turned to face me. His eyes were no longer empty- it was much worse now. He looked angry. A deep, burning rage filled his black eyes and his lips twisted into a distorted grimace. When he spoke there was a roiling sort of darkness in his throat.

           “No one is playing with you, Johnny. None of the other kids like you very much, Johnny.”

           I stumbled back as his arms unfolded and his hands reached out towards me. I fell backwards, tipping the mop bucket over. Water flooded the tile and I slipped trying to get back to my feet as Chef inched closer and closer to me, hands still outstretched.

           “But I’ll play with you, Johnny. See, I like you. You’re fun.”

           I scrambled to my feet and bolted for the backdoor. It swung open and I crashed into the alleyway. It was too dark to see out here, so I just started running in what I hoped was the way to my car. I didn’t even bother looking over my shoulder to see if he’d followed me. My breath was coming in ragged gasps, my lungs felt like they were on fire. Everything felt dizzy and far away. I thought maybe I’d went the wrong way, and I’d be running down this alley forever.

           I didn’t even see when a silhouette stepped directly into my path and I barreled straight into it. I screamed and started swinging my fists wildly. I felt hands grab my wrists, and I could hear a voice trying to calm me down, but my head felt so fuzzy and disoriented that it took several moments for me to realize that it was Ricky.

           “John, calm down, man, calm down,” he was saying over and over again until I finally collapsed onto the pavement at his feet. I felt my breath start to slow, my vision stabilizing.

           “Chef,” I huffed out between gasps. “Something… not… right.”

           “What?” Ricky knelt in front of me and took my face in his hands. “Man, you look crazed. Are you using again?” He asked, his eyes searching my features intently.

           I yanked myself from his grip. “No!” I defended. “Of course not. I’m not crazed. Something isn’t right, I’m telling you.”

           Ricky looked around the alley, then brought his intense gaze back to me. “There’s nobody here, John. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He was quiet for a beat, biting at his lower lip in thought. “Maybe we should get you to a center.”

           “I’m not using!” I screamed, and I could hear my voice echoing on the walls of the alley. I felt so tired then, my bones felt weak and useless. I just wanted this to be over. To go home and sleep and forget anything had ever happened.

           I rubbed a hand across my face and took a deep breath. “I think…” I wasn’t sure how to phrase it in a way that would make him believe me. “I think Chef is possessed or something.”

           Ricky’s bark of laughter startled me. I shot my head up and looked at him in surprise. He was actually laughing at me. I was clearly panicked, why didn’t he believe that something was actually wrong here?

           “There’s no such thing as possession, John,” he said with a smirk. “You’re imagining things. You’re probably just over-tired. You haven’t been sleeping much.”

           He wasn’t wrong. I was exhausted. Sleep had been eluding me lately. Maybe it had all just been a weird hallucination. Maybe I was crazy. Damn, I really needed a cigarette.

           “I left my keys,” I said as it dawned on me that even if I had made it my car, it would’ve been no use without my keys. “I’m not going back there, though.”

           Ricky sighed and got to his feet before pulling me up to mine. “Alright, I’ll go back with you.”

           It took several minutes of Ricky convincing me that I had been hallucinating before I decided to walk back with him. It was strange, I didn’t remember this alley being so endless. I mean, I had to have been running for at least a couple minutes before I got to Ricky. I shook the thought from my head. I’d had enough for one night.

           I had to take a few deep breaths before entering the kitchen once we’d got to the back door. I made Ricky go in first and scope it out. He returned with a shrug, informing me there was nothing there. I took a shaky step inside, the lights flickering above me. Always flickering.

           I grabbed my keys and wallet from my locker, trying to move as quickly as I could. I wasn’t sure I wanted to come back here. I knew I’d have to resign.

           “Ok, let’s go,” I turned to find that Ricky wasn’t behind me like I’d thought. “Ricky?” I called. I shut my locker and took a hesitant step forward. “Ricky?” I called again, this time a bit louder.

           I paused. Ricky was never at the café this late. What had he been doing down the alley? I hadn’t thought of it before, the adrenaline had been too high. But now, as I crossed the kitchen warily towards the door, it started to make my head pound. If I just didn’t think about it, maybe it wouldn’t matter. I just had to make it to the door and get out of there, with or without Ricky.

           “John,” I heard Ricky’s voice off to my right, too far for me to see him, but close enough for me to hear him. “John, come here.”

           I swallowed, glancing from the back door to Ricky’s voice. Ugh, fine, I thought as I went to find him. At least his voice still sounded normal, unlike Chef’s. He was standing in front of the open freezer, a look of horror and shock on his face. As I stepped closer, it was the smell that hit me first. That rotten, putrid, fleshy smell that made me want to gag. I held my breath and peeked over his shoulder into the freezer, and my blood went cold.

           I had no words. I felt my throat constrict with fear, my breathing halted as I stared at the horrors of the freezer. I nudged Ricky’s arm to try and start pulling him away, back towards the exit. But when he turned his head to look at me- a slow, unnatural pivot- there was mania behind his eyes. He twisted his lips into a half-smile, and I could see the stain of dried blood on his teeth. And when he spoke, his voice sounded hollow and far away yet still carrying a deranged sort of amusement.

           “I think you were right,” he whispered, his words an echo of the friend I thought I knew. “I think there’s something wrong with Chef.”