The Grease Trap

The boil-up happened every Sunday, but this one was different. We were all crammed into Eli’s cramped studio above his family’s failing diner, the place smelling of stale fryer oil and desperation. Outside, the March sleet hammered the window, blurring the neon ‘OPEN’ sign that hadn’t glowed in weeks. We were supposed to be studying for finals, but instead, we’d descended into the usual game of one-upmanship with scary stories, each trying to out-creep the other. It was my turn, but my throat was dry from the cheap coffee and the oppressive weight of the building. Eli was picking at the duct tape on his beanbag chair, and Maya was twisting her hair into knots. That’s when I spotted the board, tucked behind a stack of old menus. It was old, the cardboard warped, the letters faded, but the planchette was a greasy, heavy thing, like it had been carved from a bone.

Eli grabbed it with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Found this in the basement. My grandpa used it, said it was just for show.’ But his hand was shaking as he set it on the floor. We all knelt around it, a parody of a seance. I could feel the heat from the vents blasting, but a cold spot lingered right above the board. Maya put her fingers on the planchette first, then Eli, then me. We all swore not to move it, to just ask questions and see. I cleared my throat and asked, ‘Is anyone here with us in the diner?’ Nothing. The planchette sat there, heavy and still. I asked again, my voice weaker. It didn’t budge. Eli cracked a joke, but I saw his knuckles were white. Maya whispered, ‘Ask something else.’

I took a breath and asked, ‘Are you the owner of this place?’ The planchette twitched, then slid with a dry scratch to ‘YES’. My heart hammered. Eli went pale. Maya’s fingers were trembling. She asked, ‘Are you… are you dead?’ The planchette dragged to ‘YES’ again, slow and deliberate, as if it were being pulled through mud. I felt a prickle of sweat on my neck. I asked, ‘Do you want to hurt us?’ The planchette hovered, then moved to ‘NO’. I felt a moment of relief, but then the board began to vibrate, a low hum like an old fridge. The planchette started moving on its own, tracing slow, deliberate circles, then it spelled out, ‘HUNGRY’.

We all laughed nervously. ‘It’s a prank,’ Eli said, but his voice cracked. The planchette moved again, faster: ‘NOT HUNGRY. FED.’ I asked, ‘What… what did you eat?’ The planchette stopped. The room was silent except for the blast of the vent. Then, without warning, the lights flickered and died. A foul stench rose from the floor, a mix of rotten meat and burnt grease. The planchette flew off the board, clattering against the wall, and we screamed. In the dark, I heard a wet, slurping sound from the kitchen, like something being dragged across tile. The back door slammed open, and a gust of frozen air hit us. We scrambled up, knocking over the coffee table, and fled into the night, leaving Eli behind.

The next week, the diner was condemned. The authorities wouldn’t say why, but the health inspector paled at the sight of the grease trap. Eli has been missing ever since. Last night, I got a letter postmarked from our old town. Inside was a single, grease-stained photograph: a handprint on a wall, and behind it, a shape that might have been a face, its mouth open impossibly wide. On the back, in shaky handwriting, were the words: ‘IT WAS HUNGRY, BUT NOW IT’S GOT A TASTE FOR THE LIVING. SEE YOU SOON.’