Neon Night Nerves

The old diner sat at the edge of town, its neon sign flickering intermittently in the stale, warm night. Outside, the dark was eerily quiet, save for a lone dog barking somewhere in the distance, interspersed with the occasional rumble of a passing truck on the nearby highway.

I took a booth near the window, more than ready to begin nursing a cup of coffee to sober up from a night of clubbing with friends. My tired eyes scanned the diner, barely registering the two women chatting in hushed tones two booths away. They seemed lost in their own world as they sipped their drinks.

The clock above the counter ticked past 2 am, casting a dim glow over the worn linoleum floor and the faded red booths. Mine had a crack running through the seat, the white showing underneath as evidence of time. Use. The waitress, a tired-looking woman with what looked to be a perpetual frown, shuffled over to take my order. I asked for strong coffee and a waffle, my mind still foggy from the night's festivities.

As I waited for my food, I glanced at my phone, scrolling through messages from my friends about our wild night out. The air inside the diner was heavy with the scent of stale grease and coffee, mingling with the faint hint of syrup from the nearby condiment station. I thanked my server profusely when she returned with coffee and a little bowl of creamers.

I sipped my coffee, trying to shake off the lingering buzz of alcohol. The warmth spread through me, comforting in the chilly atmosphere of the diner, a stark contrast to the warm summer night. But as the minutes passed, a faint unease crept into my mind.

I glanced around the empty booths, the diner's fluorescent lights casting long shadows across the tables. The two women in the booth nearby seemed to fade into the background, their murmured conversation barely registering in my consciousness.

And then, just as I was about to dismiss my unease as mere paranoia, I caught snippets of their conversation. Words that sent a chill down my spine and made my heart race.

"...dark alley... no witnesses... perfect plan..."

I couldn't make out the rest, but the implication was clear. My mind raced with questions. Were they talking about something sinister? Was it just a harmless conversation taken out of context?

I tried to focus on my coffee, to drown out the unsettling thoughts. But the atmosphere in the diner had shifted, the once comforting warmth now tinged with a sense of dread.

As I waited for my food, the conversation between the two women continued, each word fueling my growing unease. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was very wrong, and that if I wasn’t careful I could somehow end up caught in the middle of it.

I leaned over my table, now straining to hear them both, but I could only manage to catch snippets from the man speaking in my direction. I felt a chill run down my spine when I noticed the waitress was nowhere to be found. Just gone out for a smoke break, maybe? I hoped she would return soon…

The waitress finally appeared, carrying my waffle. She set the plate down with a clatter and was gone before I could ask for extra butter, so I took a bite of my waffle, forcing myself to focus on something other than the hushed conversation. But then, one of the women speaks, her voice calm and even.

"Did you remember the crowbar?" she asks. “Crucial.”

The other woman nods, her reply barely a whisper. "And the bag, with all of the ears. So many ears."

The normalcy of their tone clashes horrifically with the implications of their words. It's like discussing grocery shopping while planning a murder.

My waffle sat there, a soggy monument to my fading buzz. I shoved a limp bite in my mouth, trying to ignore the pit forming in my stomach. The women two booths over were quiet again, but the silence was worse. It felt heavy, loaded.

Just as I convinced myself it was all paranoia fueled by cheap vodka, a phrase sliced through the stillness. It was calm, casual, like discussing the weather. "...ceremonial dagger," one said. My fork clattered to the plate. A ceremonial dagger? What in the world...?

My eyes darted towards the window, the deserted street offering no comfort. Then, another snippet drifted over. "...before the clock tower chimes twelve." The clock tower. The one right by my apartment building? Surely not. A cold sweat pricked my skin.

Taking a deep breath, I dared a peek at the women. One of them turned slightly, and a sliver of recognition slammed into me. Mrs. Henderson? The sweet old lady? My neighbor, the lovely woman who always brought me cookies when I was little? What could she possibly be discussing. My mind reeled. Mrs. Henderson and her friend, discussing daggers and deadlines by the clock tower?

The conversation shifted abruptly. They started talking about the movie that just came out, their voices light and breezy. But the air crackled with a tension that had nothing to do with the film. They were trying to throw me off, weren't they? Playing it cool? Had they noticed me noticing? It only made my fear spike.

The diner door creaked open, momentarily pulling my attention. A lone customer shuffled in, but I barely registered him. My focus was glued to the women. Then, a whisper, barely audible, sent chills down my spine.

"...the girl in the next booth," one murmured. "Did you see?" My heart plummeted. They knew. They knew I'd been listening. My heart skipped a beat, but then they continued, and slowly, it became clearer.

“...well anyway, I heard they found the victim's phone in a dumpster. Talk about covering your tracks. The way the hosts describe those crime scenes on the podcast... chilling. They’ve really got their method down pat" she said.

"...and then he said he'd never leave a trace. Can you imagine?" asked her friend.

"The way they talk on their episodes almost makes it all feel like an art form. So precise, so…morbidly fascinating" she replied, her voice suddenly shrinking at the confession when she locked eyes with me for a split second. We both shrank from the encounter, embarrassed.

The other friend continued, "It's like a game to them, you know? Always one step ahead of the listener. No more, no less. It keeps you listening!"

"And those lines they come up with: I can't believe they got away with it for so long. The perfect crime, they call it. Hah! Such fun."

"Ah, yes.” Mrs. Henderson said, engaging with her friend once more after glancing over, likely to make sure I wasn’t staring at her any more. Creep, I thought to myself. I was being such a creep. The thought didn’t stop me from listening on, however, just in case… “One of my favorites is, ‘I think they're onto something big this time’ and, oh, ‘The clues are all there, if you know where to look…’"

So, Mrs. Henderson is into true crime podcasts. 

A sense of relief flooded her, and she drooped in her booth. Her hair got sticky with syrup as she slumped, head down in her waffle, breathing. Recovering from the panic, the adrenaline that was still pumping through her. You’re acting crazy, girl, she thought to herself. You’re just drunk. 

”I didn’t see that one coming,” she muttered to herself in relief. Perhaps I shouldn’t have taken that last round of shots.