The Locked Door

At 6:15 AM, the alarm clock on my nightstand rattled like a death rattle. I slapped it silent and stared at the water stain on the ceiling that looked like a crooked finger pointing at the door. My name is Jamie, and at nineteen, I worked the breakfast shift at ‘The Rusty Biscuit,’ a greasy spoon diner that catered to truckers and early commuters on the outskirts of a town that had seen better decades. My manager, Mr. Holloway, a gaunt man with a limp and a nervous twitch, synchronized his watch with mine every morning at 8 AM. He would unlock the front door, let us in, and then re-lock it behind us with a heavy brass key that hung from a chain around his neck. We were a two-person crew until the cook arrived at 10. After he took the deposit to the bank, I was alone for almost two hours.

I never minded the solitude. In fact, I liked the quiet hum of the refrigerators and the hiss of the industrial coffee maker. That morning, the air was thick with a smell like burned toast mixed with wet ash, which I blamed on the ancient wiring behind the pie case. I was in the back, prepping the onions and lettuce for the lunch rush, when I saw something move in the reflection of the stainless steel prep table. A man, shaped like a bundled jacket, stood at the front counter, his face a smear of darkness as if the overhead fluorescents had died right in front of him. He wore a long, dark raincoat despite the cloudless sky, and his hands were stuffed in his pockets. I called out, ‘Be right there!’ and peeled off my gloves, wiping my hands on my apron. When I stepped through the kitchen’s swinging door, the counter was empty. The floor was damp, leaving a trail of wet footprints that led to the restroom door, which was now barely ajar.

I pushed the restroom door open with a finger, the wood creaking like a dry bone. The overhead light flickered, revealing a gray, dripping hand reaching from behind the toilet. In the grime-smeared mirror, I saw a horrifying reflection: a tall silhouette with no face, only a void that seemed to drink all the light, and it held a butcher’s knife from our own kitchen. I stumbled backward, but my feet wouldn’t obey. The figure tilted its head as if curious, and then, from the dark void where its mouth should be, it whispered my name not in a voice but in the sound of the bacon fryer spitting grease. ‘Jaaamie,’ it said. I tried to scream, but only a dry click came out. Then the bathroom light cut off completely.

I squeezed my eyes shut, counting to ten, telling myself it was a prank. When I opened them, the bathroom was empty. No water on the floor, no knife, nothing. I laughed nervously and walked back to the prep station, but I noticed the back door was slightly open, a line of pale daylight cutting across the tile. I thought I saw a figure crouched behind the dumpster, and the swinging door to the dining area swayed on its own. I rushed to lock the back door, turning the deadbolt, but the lock twisted without resistance, as if something had already tampered with it. I ran to the front, pressing my face to the glass, searching for any sign of life outside. The parking lot was empty, but a single muddy boot print was visible on the welcome mat. I called Mr. Holloway on my cell, but the line just crackled with static.

I decided to wait by the counter, clutching a serrated knife from the kitchen. Minutes felt like hours. Then, I saw the shadowy figure pass by the front window again, this time pausing, its unseen face turned toward me. It raised a hand and slowly, deliberately, wrote a fogged ‘OPEN’ on the glass, then dragged its finger downward, making a long drip like blood. My heart hammered against my ribs. I looked down at my hands; they were shaking, and the knife was slick with something that was not water. A red stain spread across my apron, and I felt a cold pain in my side. The figure tilted its head again, and I realized the ‘shadow’ over its face was actually a gaping, toothless mouth that had sealed shut. It mouthed, ‘Too bad the cook never comes.’ Then, the lights went out completely.

I don’t remember fleeing, but I ran through the kitchen and out the back door, past the dumpster, and into the sunlit alley, which felt unnaturally cold. I slipped on a patch of ice that appeared out of nowhere, landing hard. When I looked up, the diner’s windows were dark and covered in streaks like a hand clawing to get out. I scrambled to my feet and ran to the strip mall at the end of the road, where a guard at the old bank sat reading a newspaper. He looked up, startled, and asked if I was okay. I tried to explain, but all I could utter was, ‘The door was locked.’ He frowned, lit a cigarette, and said, ‘Son, there ain’t no alley behind that diner. It’s a brick wall.’ I turned back, but the diner had vanished. In its place was a vacant lot overgrown with weeds, and a single white plastic bag snagged on a chain-link fence, fluttering like a ghost. To this day, when I hear the sound of a heavy lock turning, I feel that grip on my wrist, and I see that man’s faceless face pressed against every window I pass, writing my name in fog.