The Diner of Disgust

I’ve always believed in the paranormal.

So I could barely wait to start packing

When my family announced the move

To a town deemed haunted.

The red open sign flickered. Swirly letters towered over the parking lot, a traffic light begging passersby to stop.

Hungry on the road?

Munches on the Move.

Service station: 18.7 miles.

Three converted caravans, Munches on the Move was the only diner for miles. Roadtrippers were destined to hunt for cicadas, or share a gasoline appetiser with their vehicle if their stomachs grumbled an octave too low. Motionless wheels traced to the diner's roots, french-fry exhaust pipes ready to hit the road, following roadtrippers to the corners of the world

Hordes of trees surrounded the diner.

Tarmin poked her badge’s needle through her uniform’s navy pocket. She opened the caravan door.

Old melodies from the jukebox greeted her. The clank and clatter of cutlery and plates accompanied horns.

Tarmin strode to the sign-in sheet beside, locating the dark, ruler-perfect fringe. She flipped the card from ’SIGNED OUT’ to ‘PRESENT’.

Like any other workday, it was only downhill from there.

Tarmin hung her bag on a peg and slid behind the counter. She stared at the clock with the grinning cat painted on it, jealous of its optimism. Lunch opened in 15 minutes, so she selected a comic from her bag. A zombie and huge ‘Z’ decorated the cover. She flipped to the scrunched ribbon-marked page. She read on the kitchen floor, surrounded by wedges of bright cheese.

Time soared.

Time to slam the door of her fictional escape.

And open the till.

A shoulder tap.

She turned.

Manager.

“I’ll handle this one. Clean those cups, yeah?”

“Hm.” She grunted.

“Thanks, Tarmin. You’re a star.”

Tarmin yanked her apron bow. It drizzled to the floor. She gave a menacing glare, secretly hoping he’d see it, but he was scribbling down a famished family of four’s burger order.

Tarmin scrubbed a cup. She found immense pleasure in how bubbles of watery grime swirled at the bottom. Once squeaky clean, she placed it on the rack and hung her apron.

“Where you off?” The cook cursed as a sausage scalded his thumb. “Shift’s just started, love. What’s the hurry?”

Rufus always made you feel sinful. The way you existed - always an issue.

Breathe a moment too fast?

What’s the worry, love?

“Bathroom.”

“You know where it is.”

He focused on the burger.

Patties instead of bread.

He tossed the culinary abomination.

When Tarmin saw the stick figure in a dress, she slipped inside the shower cubicle, gripping the temperature dial. She twisted four times towards ‘cold’.

Few desired a frigid shower - much less this cold.

The concrete shower wall quaked.

Sawing bread and lifting milk crates hadn’t been for nothing. She blasted the door open and stumbled, saved by her back foot. A comic flew from her tote bag, landing on wet tile. She picked it up. Soggy ink graced the front cover - trickling zombie mascara.

“Darn.” She waved the paper.

The night breeze greeted Tarmin. She held her breath walking past the dumpster’s putrid stench of decaying ingredients. A blue porta potty hid behind a pile of wood.

Out of service read the cellotape-strapped sign.

She ventured into the jungle of wooden scraps, dried mud crunching beneath boots. The uncomfortable hugged her frame at the wrong angles. Weeds poked from mole holes, growing like tangled hair. She kicked a doggy bag out of her way.

She reached a large, withering wooden box. Planks peeled from its rotten skin.

The shed.

Foraging in her bag, she rummaged past soaked comic book remnants- slightly dried by the breeze - and fished a rusted key. She inserted it into the door, and tightened her grip, rotating clockwise. With a shrill creak, the door swung. It revealed a figure squatted like a toad amongst a city of shelves - a library of frozen food.

Damp cedar filled Tarmin’s nostrils.

She shut the door, draining sunlight under shadow.

She flicked a switch. A bulb offered its faint glow.

His skin was pale and clung to his bones, stretched like webs. Bloodshot eyes drooped like tired pomegranates laced with purple sacks. Fingernails scratched the floor, sharp like claws. Thin lips twisted to a pleased grin.

The voice filling the shed was a slow, tired rasp.

“Thank the spirits of dried food they forgot to take my key.”

“Phew.” Tarmin exhaled, leaning against the doorframe. “You’re still here.”

“See anywhere else for me to go?” He crawled to Tarmin. She sat cross-legged. The lightbulb dangled between them, illuminating dust particles like mini planets.

“One second -” His slender finger raised, then dashed to the shelf at the back of the shed. He rose to tiptoes, bony hand scanning the shelf.

“Where’d I put it… ah!” He exclaimed in duet with a crinkle. He hopped to Tarmin and sat, dropping the plastic bag. Stuffing a hand inside, he peered at the contents, retrieving a sachet.

Lilac liquid - it didn’t scream Consume.

Jude juggled the sachet before tossing it, landing snug in Tarmin’s palms.

“Cheers.”

“You’re very welcome.” Grinned stained teeth. “Payment?”

Tarmin nodded. “‘Course. Never forgotten.” She rummaged the crimson rucksack, keyrings chiming.

“Damn… Pile of salt - look,” She huffed, displaying the bag’s inside. “So greasy.” She complained. “The things I do for you…”

“Don’t forget how that sachet landed in your palms.”

“Don’t forget how,” Echoed Tarmin, her hands delving into the bag, “this”, she whipped out a comic, “Landed in your hands.” The book flew onto his lap.

Jude began a witty retort, but decided actions could speak. He raised the comic. Salty water trickled from the edges, pooling, tinging the wood dark brown.

Salt granules glimmered under the bulb’s faint gleam.

“Thanks.” Jude stole a fry from a bright box, nibbling. Tarmin rolled her eyes, then smiled.

Jude’s bony arm frisbeed the comic. It slid, bashing the bean can.

“So,” Started Tarmin. “Any luck with work yet?”

“Nope. You know how it is here - thin and far between. Literally.”

Jude stared at the bulb, silent. He stank of beef.

Cracked lips opened.

“I was hoping to move to the city.” He muttered. “Don’t know how realistic that is. I just… don’t want to spend my life cooped up here. It’s purgatory.”

“I think you can.”

Jude’s head drooped.

“Really.”

He looked up.

“Dreams aside.” Jude’s tall frame rose. “Let’s get to business”. He scooped a fistful of sachets.

“These bad boys are like poison for the taste buds. I’d prove it, but trust me - you won’t feel hungry for weeks.”

The two peeled open lids of nourishment lining the shelves and poured the lilac liquid into random boxes - frozen meat, ready-made pizzas, and Tarmin even wrecked bottles of bright orange soda.

“I recommend focusing on beef - customers love those burgers.”

“Sometimes I forget just how long you worked there.” Said T from a top shelf. She stood on a stack of pie boxes.

“You know, I really thought I could trust them.”

Tarmin scoffed.

“Thought small towns supported each other.” Spit trickled down his chin. Tarmin snarled in pain - a stray fork sliced her finger.

“Well, at least you live up to that ideal.”

“Smooth talker.”

“Rant over. I’d say we’ve spiked enough food for now.”

“Yup. At least a couple weeks of sick, angry customers.” Tarmin hopped off the crate. “Thanks. I’ll be taking these.” She held a bouquet of lilac sachets, stuffing them in her salt-stained bag.

“Go get ‘em.” Hissed Jude

***

Tarmin opened the back door. Smoke enveloped her ears and nostrils. Dishwashers rumbled.

“What took ya so long?” The man wearing a flat white hat screamed at a hissing saucepan.

“Lady problems.” In a matching accusatory tone.

The chef asked no questions.

Tarmin crossed from the world of saucepans and sizzling beef to frantic customers. At the counter, one argued with a thin-haired man.

Her manager.

“This food is vile!” Spat a shrivelled couple.

In all their years, nobody had ever returned a Munches on the Move order.

The food wasn’t stellar, but it was doubtless the best offered for miles. A customer sparking a fuss was pure alarm bells.

“You know what… keep my money. I’m not wasting more of my time in this stinky building. Come on, Jerald.” Jerald slammed the untouched plate of scrambled eggs against the counter, shooting the manager a grim stare. His bold brow protruded like a stone golem.

As the car whipped out of the lot, Jerald stuck a middle finger out the passenger window. Trees swallowed them.

Tarmine giggled. The manager shot a concerned look. She retreated behind her comic book.

“Good luck finding another restaurant…” He muttered. “Starve for all I care.” The lady at the counter startled him. He straightened his glare and posture.

“Pardon me. Can I help, dear?”

He whistled for Tarmin. She led the lady to a booth with Jerald’s cold, untouched sausages and half-eaten cheese sandwich.

***

Tarmin despised the morning rush.

However, the enticement of spiking dishes with lilac liquid made it tolerable.

The chef eyed her suspiciously when she hovered to slip doses - but too absorbed with food, she knew he would never act upon his suspicion.

Tarmin was balancing a tray of three black coffees and a hot chocolate (extra whipped cream) when the door’s bell jingled, followed by a footstep stampede. The most the converted caravan had heard.

Murmurs of breakfast conversation dulled, forcing Tarmin to satisfy her curiosity and drop the tray.

A squadron of customers - some she recognised, several she had borne the complaints of disgusting food- led by a lanky man in a trench coat. They were a flock in strict formation.

The man held a notebook. He walked to Tarmin, who lingered by the booth of the family she had served.

“Hello - would you be the diner’s leader?” The stranger enquired. Tarmin was surprised he spoke to her. She was usually overlooked at the diner.

“No,” She began. “That would be him.” She pointed to a stubby man, mingling with customers between chugs of coffee, laughing at a joke cracked.

Tarmin eyed anxiously as the journalist spoke with the manager, breaking the joy infusing the previous conversation.

She observed the group’s body language with a sniper’s acuteness.

When she realised she’d ignored a customer, it was too late - she watched the mother lead her child outside. “Don’t worry… there are snacks in the car. We can’t be late.. “

“But hot choc!” whined the girl.

Tarmin didn’t care - the scene unfurling between her manager was of greater interest.

Tarmin kept watching.

One second, he signalled to the customers.

A private matter. Interesting

Alarming.

Tarmin had yet to judge whether this news was good or bad.

So she kept watching.

Watching her manager’s bushy beard come into focus. She envisioned ripping the pin from his shirt, and screaming, “You’re fired!” as he had to Jude.

History could repeat.

“Can I see you?”

***

“Tell all your colleagues. Spread the warning.”

Tarmin knew not what inspired the idea that she, of all employees, was fit to spread a message - but he was the manager - disobeying orders was an unwise career move.

“Employees are to be interviewed.” He said like a text-to-speech machine, “Be ready to drop whatever you’re doing. Get colleagues to cover. Business as normal.”

That’s what the trench-coat journalist had told him.

“Can you write this down?” The manager scowled at her request for extra effort. “I don’t want to mess up.” She amended.

“Got paper?” He said, expecting a no.

She pulled out a comic book.

***

When Tarmin saw the commotion of colleagues outside, she slouched, heading for the crowd with a hefty sigh.

She hadn’t planned to stay overtime. She only wanted a paycheck in her hands so that she could fill her bookshelf. The evening breeze brushed her dark shoulder-length hair. She had let it down. Her fringe tickled her forehead - the only thing remotely funny about the predicament.

“WHICH ONE OF YOU?!” Barked the manager. “I know you know that the reputation of this town - our town - is in utter SHAMBLES already.” He huffed, as if he had sprinted down a tower of stairs. “This news only makes it much worse.” He pointed to the trees, hysterical.

The parking lot air was cold.

“Now we are cursed with the label haunted” He made finger quotes. “It’s almost over. If you think we have another decade to clean up this mess, wipe thebusiness’’ reputation clean? You’re thoroughly mistaken. By then, your hands will be empty of the cash you love seeing me give you.” He turned, facing the crowd. “All my father’s hard work cleansing the public opinion…” He sniffed, “One of you rats DISHEVELLED it!” He belted, turning his furious eyes.

“You could have blamed a contaminated tap - anything but bring this up!”

“Sir, is this about the forest disappearances?”

The pain that riddled his eyes - the man looked stabbed.

Boldly digging up the past was a risky move. Tarmin gave her colleague credit.

The monologue stilled. A paper bag drifted angelically through the parking lot, rustled by wind. The employees stared, picking surroundings to focus on. Anywhere would do, so long as it wasn’t meeting the manager’s cruelty. Fluorescent police tape marked the forest entrance. Wind ripples distorted the bold inkings, “Keep out!”

The manager handed a stack of papers to the colleague at the front.

Take one, pass it on.

He was too angry to explain, but his workers knew the drill. The Mexican wave of paper reached Tarmin.

Beside the block of text was an inflated image—a familiar sunken face—red eyes.

HAUNTED DINER? SMALL TOWN KILLER STRIKES AFTER DECADES UNDER THE RADAR.

“I hope you feel deeply ashamed of yourselves. You have tarnished this town’s - your town’s - reputation. Like it or not, you’re all accomplices.”

Within the sea of navy collars, a hand arose.

“We’re not taking attendance. Hand down, Josh.

“It wasn’t me.”

“Lovely. That narrows it down, doesn’t it?” He beamed. A foul scowl infected his features. “Cleaning duty tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

Josh looked like he’d been stung. The awkward gazes continued. “Don’t worry… he’s done it to all of us at some point.” A whisper comforted the recruit.

The fear the manager inspired in his subordinates was met with no retaliation; response was futile - the lack of local competition and family heritage protected the manager’s authority.

The silence was suffocating.

Smashed.

“YOU’RE EXCUSED!”

A deer darted from the abrupt noise.

“If the culprit wishes to confess, feel free.”

His hand flicked. They scattered like flies, back to their small homes and small families in this small town.

***

Graffiti graced the caravan entrance. However, as the malicious paintwork increased, so did customers.

“Yo, this place sell cursed pie?” a moustached fella asked Tarmin in an energetic accent, unlike anything she’d heard. A chunky camera dangled around his neck, and a denim baseball cap adorned his ruffled locks.

“Let’s get this straight - nothing here is cursed.” Stated the manager.

People from places they had only read about in books flung open the door; the bell chimed more than in years.

In other words, business at Munches on the Move was booming.

The peculiar tourist dug into his pocket and pulled out a strange mobile device. He shoved its luminescent screen into Tarmin’s and the manager’s faces.

TOP 10 MOST HAUNTED DISHES! I TRIED EATING AT ON THE MOVE MUNCHES

“That’s a lot of likes.” Said Tarmin. “Nice.”

“Oh, tha-”

“Take it down.” He barked

“With due respect, sir, who are you? This is my job.” He held up the camera to emphasise his point.

“Yeti-dog, please. Go crazy on the ketchup.”

The tourist shot the worker's finger guns, strolling to his booth, leaving Tarmin and the manager at the counter.

“Could you say… it’s not so bad? Look at the publicity…”

“NOT all attention is good attention.”

But all money is money, thought Tarmin.

The clock hands said the shift ended.

“It might be sunshine and rainbows now… but in the long run? People won’t - don’t - forget a stunt like this.

“This thing now represents our diner”. He pointed to the article, almost poking a hole in fury.

***

Tarmin swung the shed door. She tossed the news article to her squatted friend.

Jude’s face was plastered beside small town killer returns.

“This scheme backfired horribly.” Tears pricked Jude. “A queue at lunch, for goodness sake! The manager will be swimming in riches. He’ll never lose his job, and that wretched son of his will take over. The cycle repeats itself.” Murky teeth flashed.

“Hey,” Tarmin held his shoulder. “They might pay us more.” He looked at her, doubtful. “Y’know, maybe I can pay for a city visit…”

Now his eyes lit.

“You’d… do that”

“’ Course. You deserve to escape.

“How would I step outside… when I look like this?” He motioned across his body. “What if someone recognises me from the papers? Have I changed much in 10 years?” Tarmin’s silence and pitiful expression spoke for itself.

“See. They’ll know me from the case - not exactly easy to miss…”

“What happened… you couldn’t help it... something”

“Overtook me.”

“Yes. Overtook you.” Said Tarmin, mourning the brightness of the man she knew.

She’d never understood ‘overtook’, but agreed to comfort Jude. They bonded over hatred for the manager.

“Any money on you, Tam?”

“Actually,” She opened a flour bag, pulling a stack of money. She grinned, cheeky.

“Aren’t you sneaky - never saw you slip that.”

“Consider it an emergency fund.”

“May I…?”

His lanky limbs strode closer.

“Go ahead. I’ve budgeted already.”

“Ever the planner.”

His skeletal hand grabbed the cash.

Then grabbed her neck.

Squeezing.

Tarmin’s body toppled beside the news article. He stepped over her. Hair covered her cloudy pupils. He fed her a sachet from her pocket.

The shed door swung.

Money in hand, the killer began his trek to the big city.