Hey there strangers, my name is Allie-Mae. I’m the owner of a small diner tucked away in a town somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. The diner doesn’t really get much action aside from townsfolk and the occasional out of towner passing through and looking for a hot meal. And when those folk happen to come by I like to introduce myself, bring them their food, and then sit down with them and explain a little game I like to play to pass the time out here.
For some context, I inherited this diner from my parents, and have spent practically my whole life in this town aside from the rare trips to nearby events (markets, state fairs, etc) but those are really only reserved for special occasions. And I don’t mind that. I enjoy the peace and quiet that comes with my lifestyle and I can’t deny that as far as lives go, I happen to have myself a pretty good one. I have wonderful friends, the sweetest husband, and a beautiful baby girl named Kate. But as nice as my life is to me, I can’t deny that it’s also real slow. Not many big things have happened to me, if y’all understand what I’m saying.
And so whenever an unknown face walks into my diner, I ask them if they have any stories to tell me. And if they do I’m always more than happy to give them a discount on their meal. I’ve been doing this since I was twenty-two, so about ten years now.
Okay, I’m going to admit something a bit embarrassing to y’all. The reason I had when I first started to do this was that I had recently found out about the notion of cryptids and I thought the concept was pretty damn cool. More specifically I thought people viewing me as a cryptid would be pretty damn cool. You know, some girl in some diner in the middle of nowhere that you end up spilling your darkest secrets to and then never see again. Wouldn’t that be a kind of neat way to be perceived? Well, my spooky little young adult self thought so and that’s where it all began.
Normally people are quite hesitant to talk at first. However they tend to warm up to the idea after I remind them not only will we likely never cross paths again, but I don’t care about what kind of story they tell me. Whatever they feel like talking about I’ll listen to, I just want a break from the monotony of small town life. And boy, have I heard it all.
Love affairs. Childhood traumas. Batshit deathbed confessions heard by nurses. The story of a very intoxicating and very hush-hush two month relationship a customer had with another woman in college before she tragically passed in an accident that she’s never told a soul about since. (Especially not her very Catholic now-husband.) But besides all that jazz, there’s one type of story I keep being told. Horror.
Now I get why this is. Ghost stories, supernatural shit, whatever you want to call it, that’s the kind of thing people are hesitant to talk about. And in my opinion, half of it is because that’s the kind of thing people are hesitant to believe. But who cares if you tell it to me? You’re not going to see me again, so what’s the harm in finally telling someone? It even wouldn’t matter if I didn’t believe them, they’d still get the discount.
But I do believe the stories people tell me. It’s something in their eyes, I think. When I look into them I can see they’re being haunted by something awful. And I think it helps them to talk about it. To leave here with the knowledge they’re not carrying that burden alone. And carrying it with them is something I’m thankful I get to do. I listen to their stories, bring them sweet tea and dessert to cheer them up afterwards, I’ll hold their hands if they’ll let me, just generally try to help them. It’s one small way I can make an impact on some people who are really hurting, being the kind stranger they can confide in knowing that they’ll be believed.
But anyways, I’ve told my husband some of these stories over the years, and he recently started browsing this subreddit and mentioned to me that I should think about sharing some of them with y’all. And so here I am, sitting in my comfy chair after my baby girl finally fell asleep with my laptop and my absolutely darling cat Cinnamon. I really do hope you guys enjoy the story I decided to share today, and I’ll probably post some more soon. :)
It was about five years ago now, I think this happened sometime in early July so it was just after my twenty-seventh birthday. A young woman stumbled into the diner, I’d guess she was maybe a few years younger than I was? Twenty-three maybe? Well, the poor thing looked like she hadn’t properly slept in weeks, with eyebags so dark I had to take a moment to figure out if they were actually black eyes. She sat down at a booth and I came over to pour her some coffee, which she gratefully accepted. I took her order (waffles with powdered sugar and a side of mixed fruit) and moved to sit down across from her.
Instead of asking if she had stories to tell I decided to ask her if she was alright, as the way her eyes shifted around the room and the way her hands trembled so violently as she tried to use the cutlery made me nervous that she was in some sort of danger. She looked at me and her eyes began to water, and in the softest voice you could ever imagine she just told me that I wouldn’t believe her.
