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cover of episode 10 Rules For Working at the Midnight Diner | Part 1

10 Rules For Working at the Midnight Diner | Part 1

2025/6/4
logo of podcast Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep

Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep

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A
Atticus
H
Horton Shulkhill
女巫1
女巫2
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@Horton Shulkhill :作为午夜餐馆的经理,@我 强调了几条重要的规则。首先,餐馆是用来吃饭和喝酒的,不是用来打架或做其他事情的。其次,我们不接受任何食物替换,因为这会扰乱厨房的效率,并可能导致不必要的诅咒。第三,我们只接受现金支付,不接受其他形式的支付,如珠宝、武器或魔法物品。此外,对待幽灵要友善,因为他们负责食物的运送。最后,务必询问顾客是否有过敏原或特殊饮食需求,以避免潜在的危险情况,例如恶魔爆炸或狼人受伤。 @Atticus :作为午夜餐馆的厨师,我总是很忙,而且我经常撒谎。我喜欢在食物中添加一些特别的东西,比如食用闪光粉,让食物更有趣。 我:作为新来的服务员,我正在努力学习餐馆的规则。我发现有些顾客很粗鲁,但我知道我必须对他们保持礼貌,只要他们能付钱。我还了解到,女巫可能会很麻烦,因为她们总是要求替换食材,而且可能会施咒。此外,我还了解到,如果食物中含有盐,可能会对小恶魔造成伤害。 @女巫1 :我们是午夜餐馆的顾客,我们喜欢捉弄新来的服务员。我们把经理缩小并放进了盐瓶里,只是为了好玩。我们还喜欢要求替换食材,看看服务员会怎么做。 @女巫2 :我们是午夜餐馆的顾客,我们喜欢捉弄新来的服务员。我们喜欢点一些奇怪的食物,比如用驴屁股代替服务员的头。

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Chapters
The narrator starts their first day at the Midnight Diner and learns the first rule from the manager, Horton: the diner is for eating. Horton's attempts to tie the narrator's apron lead to a comical yet tense interaction with the cook, Atticus, revealing the chaotic nature of the diner.
  • The first rule is that the diner is for eating.
  • The Midnight Diner attracts a diverse clientele including ogres and witches.
  • Atticus, the cook, is described as a grizzled old man who might be a mythical creature.

Shownotes Transcript

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You can Venmo this, or you can Venmo that.

The Venmo MasterCard is issued by the Bancorp Bank N.A. Pursuant to license by MasterCard International Incorporated. Card may be used everywhere MasterCard is accepted. Venmo purchase restrictions apply. First rule is the diner is for eating. The manager, Horton Shulkhill, says to me as I try to tie my apron around my waist. When he doesn't continue, I look up and see him glaring at me. You gonna listen, kid? Or you gonna play with yourself? Um, sorry, I say, and give up on the apron.

I can't seem to get it tied. Forget about the damn apron. I don't want to get my shirt messy. Horton eyes me, then laughs. It isn't a kind laugh. It isn't meant to make me feel better. No, it's a cruel laugh. The laugh of someone who knows better. Kid.

By the time your shift is over, you'll be lucky that shirt isn't covered in shit, blood or vomit. Or all three. This is the Midnight Diner. The whole city comes here. And the city brings its messes right along. Which is why we have the rules. You follow the rules and you'll make it here just fine. You miss even one rule and... Well, it ain't gonna be pretty, I can tell you that. Right.

"Sorry," I say, and just let the strings of my apron fall to the side. Horton sighs, reaches out, and tries to tie my apron for me, and tries, and tries. "Atticus!" he shouts, making the few customers in the diner look up from their plates. "Get your ass out of here now!" "I'm busy!" a voice calls out from the kitchen. "I don't give a good goddamn! Get your ass out of here now!"

The sound of pans being thrown and dishes breaking echoes out from the order window, then silence. Finally, a grizzled old man who has to be in his late 80s or close to it comes shuffling out of the kitchen's swinging door. Like Horton, Atticus is human, which isn't always the case in the city.

But the guy is so shriveled and wrinkly that he looks like he could be any one of several different species. A small troll, a large hobgoblin, an elf left too long in the sun, a hairless wendigo, although he'd have to have antlers coming out of his head to be a wendigo. But who knows, maybe he had them removed. "What'd you do to this apron?" Horton asks Atticus, his finger aiming right at my wrist. "Did you hex the strings?"

"No," Atticus says, and turns to go back to the kitchen. "Hold your horses, mister," Horton barks. "Are you lying to me?" "Yep," Atticus says without breaking stride. He's lost to the kitchen once more, and the sounds of pots and pans banging start up again. "Gimme that," Horton says, and snaps his fingers at me. "Give you what?" "What do you think? The damn apron." "Right. Sorry." I take the apron off and hand it to him.

He mumbles a few words that I can't quite hear, then tosses the apron back at me. It hits me in the face and I fumble to keep from dropping it. "Do I need to tell you what to do next?" "No sir, sorry," I say, and put the apron back on. The strings tie without a problem. "Well, now that we have that stupidity out of the way," Horton says and rubs his face. "Where were we?" "You said the first rule is that the diner is for eating."

"The first rule? We're only on the first damn rule!" He shakes his head and turns away from me, muttering, "I'm gonna burn this place down one day. Mark my words." "Can I get some more coffee?" A young ogre shouts from the corner booth. "Coming right up!" Horton says, his voice cheery and polite, not the mean growl he's been subjecting me to. He nods. Horton grabs the coffee pot from the machine and walks out from behind the counter.

I do as he says and follow right behind. We walk past a few customers finishing their meals. None of them is who I'm looking for. "How is everything?" he asks the young ogre, who is busy reading a very thick book. "Good book? It's fine," the young ogre says, and pushes his coffee cup close to the edge of the table. "Excellent, excellent," Horton says, pouring coffee.

"Are you interested in ordering some food? Or will it just be coffee this morning?" "Just coffee," the ogre says in a tone that tells me he's five seconds from smashing the now full cup with his fist, or with the book. The thing is thick enough to easily crack ceramic, sure. "Very well then," Horton says and gives a little bow. "Just holler when you need more." The ogre stops reading and looks up at Horton.

His eyes are the color of brushed steel. "Or you can do your job and keep my cup full without me having to ask. Can you do that, old man? Can you?" Orton swallows, and the sound echoes throughout the diner. Then he widens his smile and does the same small bow again. "Of course." He turns to leave and almost crashes into me. I have to scramble to get out of his way. I glance at the young ogre, but he's back to reading his book, as if none of that had just happened.

If I was my regular self, I'd show him some manners. But I can't crack now. This is a long game. When we're back behind the counter, I ask Horton, "Is one of the rules that we have to kiss rude customers' asses? You ever see what an ogre can do to a man's head with just one hand?" Horton asks, setting the coffee pot back in the machine. "Um, no." I lie.

Then shut your trap about rude customers. Unless they start to get violent, they can be as rude as they want to be. He fixes his eyes on me and grins. It's a genuine grin. As long as they can pay. Is that a rule? What? That they pay? No. No, that's commerce. That's the law. Of course. Sorry. Stop saying sorry, or I'll give you something to be sorry about. My dad used to say that. Wise man.

He was eaten by a griffin over near Stalker's Park when I was eight. Stalker's Park? What was he doing over there? Stalking. Walked into that one, Horton mutters. We stand there for a second, me anxious that I've already blown the job before I've even taken my first order, and Horton probably wondering whether he's made a huge mistake in hiring me. I can't blow this job. I put in a lot of work to get it.

"Why is the first rule, the diner is for eating? What does that even mean?" Horton takes a deep breath to get himself back on track. "It means this diner is for eating, not for fighting, not for working, not for hunting, not for nothing except for sitting down, ordering some food, and eating it. Or drinking." "What?" "Or drinking. Like the ogre in the corner. He's just drinking." Horton blinks, then shakes his head.

Yeah, and for drinking too. But that's sort of implied in the eating. I start to argue the point, since drinking isn't the same as eating. But the look on Horton's face makes my words die before they can pass my lips. The front door chimes, and three women of indiscriminate age walk in, their heads close together as they whisper to each other.

I say indiscriminate age because their features continually shift from young to old to middle age over and over and over. "Sit anywhere you'd like, ladies," Horton calls out. The three look up and stare at us. Their faces solidify into three young women, and they each give us huge smiles. "Thank you, kind sir," one of them says, ushering her friends to the closest table.

They plop down and lean close again. Their whispers, like a cold draft worming its way through a crack in an old window pane. Orton grabs three menus and then nods at me to follow. "Ladies," he says, setting a menu in front of each of them. "Something to drink to start. Black tea," one says. "Same," the second says. "I'd like the fruit smoothie, but instead of strawberries, can you add frog livers?" the third asks.

"No, I am sorry, but we cannot do substitutions." "Cannot?" "I'm sure you can figure out a way to make the switch," the woman says, batting her eyes at Horton. "Unfortunately, no," Horton says, then he turns to me. "That is the second rule: no substitutions."

"Why?" "Yeah, we'd like to know why too," the third woman says. "My apologies, ladies," Orton says. "I am training this young man. It is his first day." He clears his throat. "The reason for the second rule is that we have a set menu and only one cook. Substitutions tend to create hiccups in our efficient flow, and orders become backed up, hurting all customers." "That's it?" the first woman asks. "You don't want to be inconvenienced?

"That, and we also do not want any inadvertent hexes to be created," Horton continues. "You'd be surprised how a tweak here and a tweak there can change an ordinary dish like a tuna melt into a nightmare of a sentient sandwich that tries to eat all of the customers." "Oh crap, has that happened?" I ask. "It was an example only," Horton says, then focuses on the third woman. "Would you still care for the smoothie as is, ma'am?"

"Yeah, sure. I don't care," the woman says with a shrug. "I just like the taste of liver. But strawberries are good too." "Excellent. Two black teas and a smoothie coming right up. I'll have the teas out right away. The smoothie will just be a minute." He leaves the table and I follow right behind.

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"Witches," he says under his breath as he grabs two cups for the tea and puts in the order for the smoothie. "They're one of the main reasons we don't do substitutions." "Them?" I ask, looking over at the women. "Stop staring, fool. Sorry."

"You see, kid, witches will substitute ingredients all day long until the next thing you know, you've brewed up some elixir for them that not only costs ten times what the original dish would have cost, but can also turn you into a dog or tree or shoe salesman. I don't want to be any of those things." "No one does, kid. No one does." He pours hot water over the tea bags, then picks up the cups and starts to walk away. I begin to follow, but he shakes his head.

"Go check on the ogre and see how his coffee is," Horton says. "Also, see if he wants his check. The lunch rush will be soon, and we'll need the table." "Lunch rush? It's, um, two in the morning. Not everyone eats lunch in the middle of the day, kid." "Right. Sorry, I'll ask." I look around, basically turning in a circle like a moron, then stop, take a breath, grab the coffee pot, and head over to the corner booth.

"Wanna fill up?" I ask the young ogre. "No." "Um, would you like the check?" "No." "Oh." I just sort of stand in place. He shut me down on the two things I was supposed to accomplish, so I'm not quite sure where to go from here. "You need something?" the ogre asks without looking up from his book.

"I, um, well, we sorta will need the table in a bit," I say. "The lunch rush is coming." "And that's my problem how?" "Oh, it's not, it's not." "Then why are you still standing here bothering me? Smoothie up!" Atticus shouts from the order window. "I, uh, well, um," I stammer as I try to figure out how to get myself out of this customer service debacle I've gotten myself into. "What's the name of the book?" "What?"

"The book you're reading? What's the name?" He rolls his eyes, then flips the book over. "How to Make Enemies and Disembowel People," I say, reading the cover out loud. "So it's self-help?" "It helps someone," the young ogre says, then goes back to reading. "Right, great. I'll come back soon and check on your coffee." "Good idea." I hurry back behind the counter and set the coffee pot into the machine.

My hands are shaking so hard, I thought I was going to drop the pot. "Don't worry, ogres bites are worse than their barks," Atticus says from the order window. "Don't you mean their barks are worse than their bites? Did I say that? No. Then you figure it out, genius." I nod an apology and narrow my eyes. "Is this the smoothie for the table with the three ladies?" I ask, seeing that the smoothie hasn't been picked up and delivered yet. I look about the diner.

"Where's Horton?" "No clue, genius," Atticus says, then moves away from the order window and out of sight. Then there's more crashing of pots and pans. I grab the smoothie and deliver it to the table. "Straw?" I ask. "No thanks," the third woman says as she proceeds to gulp down the smoothie. The other two just watch me closely, their eyes twinkling like they have a secret.

If they're witches like Horton said, then they probably have all kinds of secrets. But something in the way they keep shifting in their seats tells me that this secret is relevant to the diner. "Um, not to be a bother, but have you seen the manager?" I ask. "We have," the first woman replies. "Oh, good," I say with audible relief. "Um, did you happen to see where he went?"

"Boss track of the boss, did you?" the second woman asks. The third woman is busy smacking her lips, having finished her smoothie. I try to think of something to say that doesn't sound stupid. When nothing comes to mind, I just nod. "Have you looked for him?" the second woman asks. "Like, really looked for him?" the first woman adds. "Not yet, no," I say, and I'm about to continue when something catches my eye.

Horton is inside the salt shaker and pounding his little tiny fists against the glass as he screams and screams and screams. I point. Did you do that? Who? Us? The first woman asks with fake innocence. Do we look like we could shrink a man and put him inside a salt shaker? The second woman asks. I'm ready to order. Are you guys ready to order? The third woman says. Totally. The first woman says.

"You okay, kid?" the second woman asks me. "You look like you're gonna be sick." My eyes never leave the salt shaker. "It's, you know, my first day and now my boss is in a salt shaker and the lunch rush is coming and I haven't even learned the third rule for the midnight diner." I say all in a rush. "Lunch rush? It's 2:30 in the morning," the second woman says. "I think I'll have the Monte Cristo sandwich," the third woman says. "But I don't know.

"Rules?" the first woman asks and leans toward me. "Tell us about these rules." "Um, the diner is for eating and no substitutions," I say in Shrek. "That's all I've learned." The first woman frowns. "That's so sad. Maybe I'll have the sloppy Joe instead." The third woman muses and looks at me. "How much real Joe is there in the sandwich? An arm? A leg? A torso? Are we talking the whole Joe here?" I'd have to ask the cook.

"Look at that sad face," the first woman says. "He's really bumming me out. You want to set the prick free from the shaker, don't you?" The second woman responds to the first. "For the kid's sake, seriously? Look at him." They do, and I shrink a little. Not literally. I don't think I could shrink any more than I have, but I give the appearance of collapsing in on myself. Honestly, I'm surprised they haven't sniffed me out.

"Kriss-kringle on a cracker. Yeah, he does look sad," the second woman says with a laugh. "Just pitiful." "Hey, can I get some more coffee?" the young ogre shouts. "Be right there, sir." "Sir?" the second woman says, looking over her shoulder. "Did you just call an ogre 'sir'? It's the polite thing to do."

"Is that one of the rules?" the first woman asks. "I don't know," I reply. "Maybe. I haven't heard all the rules. We know." The first woman interrupts. "The black-eyed peas," the third woman says, tapping the menu. "How exactly do they get the black eyes? Do you punch the peas yourselves, or do they already come pre-beaten?" "Hey, man, my coffee? Be right there, sir!" I sigh and try to steady my voice.

"May I please ask you ladies to release the manager, so I can continue training?" "Only because you said please," the first woman says and grabs the salt shaker. She tosses it to me, and I barely catch it after bobbling it a bit. "Take that behind your counter and dump it on the floor. He'll be good as new." "Just dump it out?" I ask, holding the salt shaker like it's a precious egg. "Behind the counter. It won't work unless you're behind the counter."

"Oh, okay, thanks." I hurried to the counter, trying to look at the corner booth along the way. "I'll get that coffee for you now." Behind the counter, I crouched down and unscrewed the shaker's lid. Then I turned it upside down and let the contents, which include Horton, dump out onto the rubber runner. Before I can even move, Horton is growing full size, the top of his head clipping my chin and making me bite my tongue.

Damn witches, Horton exclaims under his breath as he brushes salt from his clothes. Always with the little tricks, he frowns. What's wrong with you, kid? Bit my tongue. Coffee! The young ogre roars. I'm stuck inside a salt shaker for a few minutes and you've already forgotten how to do your job, Horton says, exasperated. I was setting you free. I protest as I grab the coffee pot. I'm on it, I'm on it. My stomach growls.

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I stare at him for a moment as my stomach growls again. He thinks he knows why. He's wrong. "Go on," he snaps. "Get the ogre his coffee," I nod and hurry off. "Took you long enough," the young ogre says when I reach his table and fill his cup. "I'll take that stupid check now." "Oh great," I say. "I'll be right back." "Great? What does that mean? You want to get rid of me, is that it?"

What? No, no. It's just the booth will be free for the rush, that's all. I didn't mean anything by it. Better not have. I'm sweating like a cursed pig when I get back behind the counter and start looking for the ogre's check. Orton hands it to me. Cash only, he says. Good to know. I say and start to walk off.

He grabs my arm. "No, that's the third rule. Cash only. We don't take jewels, gold, weapons of any kind, cursed or not, and certainly no cursed feathers, rocks, beans, definitely no magic beans, firstborns, wishes, promises, goose eggs, golden or otherwise, spun straw or frogs, and no personal checks or credit cards. So, just cash. Just cash."

I nod and hustle back to the ogre, his check pinched between my fingers. "Here you go," I say and set the check down by his coffee cup. "You pay at the register." He just rolls his eyes. When I return to the counter, the ogre is heading toward the restrooms. The door chime dings and about a dozen wraiths come shuffling into the diner, each with a stack of delivery bags in their arms.

They hiss and grunt from inside their dark hoods, and I watch their short bodies move toward the center. "Be nice to the wraiths," Horton whispers to me as he bends over the counter to look at the short creatures. Each wraith's head barely clears the top of the counter. "That's the fourth rule."

I'm always nice to wraiths. It's just a good general rule to have. Be nice to the wraiths. They handle all food deliveries in the city. And if you piss even one of them off, then word spreads. And soon you're getting three-day-old Pad Thai delivered to you instead of fresh lobster rolls. Yeah, being nice to the wraiths is always a good idea.

Plus, I want to stay off their radar. If anything can sniff me out, it's a wraith." "Atticus!" Horton shouts. "What?" Atticus asks after he appears in the order window. Then he looks past us at the tops of hoods at the counter. "Oh, right. Send him back. Atticus has your orders ready in the kitchen," Horton says to the wraiths. The wraiths shuffle past the counter and through the kitchen door.

The sound of pots and pans being banged around increases a hundredfold, and I swear someone is screaming too. But then the kitchen door swings open, and the Wraiths walk out with their delivery bags full, all headed for the front door. "What happened back there?" I ask Horton. "What do you mean? The Wraiths picked up their orders. That's what happened back there." "Yeah, but it sounded like-" "It sounded like work is what it sounded like. You know work, right kid?"

I get the hint and let the subject drop. "What's the fifth rule?" "Always ask about allergens or dietary needs," he says. "Speaking of, have you taken the witch's orders yet?" "Oh, no. I was busy getting you out of the salt shaker." "Well, you still have to do your job."

Right. I was going to go back to them after filling the ogre's coffee. But then you... You're blaming me for your laziness? What? No, I'm not blaming you for anything. I was just... So you take responsibility for your own laziness. That's how it should be. I wasn't being... Go take their order. Okay, sure. And I'll remember the fifth rule. You'll remember all the rules. But I've only learned... Go! I scramble out from behind the counter and over to the witch's.

"Have you decided?" "Going with the Monte Cristo," the third woman says. "It's not made from real count, is it? My system can't do too much aristocracy. Tears me up inside. It's not pretty." "It's not," the second woman says. "And I'll have the vegetable soup. But instead of green beans, I'd like newt legs. Thanks." "No substitutions, sorry." "How about I substitute your head for a donkey's ass? I bet you'll be real sorry then."

"Dear, calm down," the first woman says to the second. "The kid is only doing his job. Whatever," the second woman replies. She looks me up and down. "Right. Would you still like the soup?" I ask, ignoring her scrutiny. She may suspect, but she doesn't know. If she did, they'd let me know. "Fine, I'll have the soup with the green beans," she finally says. "We could get fried newt legs on the side," the third woman suggests.

"Do that," the second says to me. "Fried newt legs on the side, got it," I say, and look at the first woman. "And for you?" "You never answered me about the amount of count in the Monte Cristo," the third woman says. "None as far as I know," I say. My focus still on the first woman. "Ma'am, the garden salad with blue cheese dressing. Extra onions, please."

"Great. I'll get your order in right away. Thank you, ladies," I say and rush back to the counter, excited to put in my first order. "Did you ask about allergens?" Horton asks me. "Crap! No, I forgot. I'll go ask now." "Yes, you will. Do you know what would happen if a minor demon were to come in here and there was salt in its food?"

"No? Well, it's not good. They swell up and then explode, and it can take weeks to find all the pieces. Demons have a way of detonating in the most annoying of ways." "I didn't know that." "Or if you were to serve a cupcake to a werewolf, what if the decorations have silver in them?" Sometimes Atticus gets a little crazy with the edible glitter. "It gives the food pizzazz!" Atticus shouts from the kitchen.

"I don't want any werewolves or minor demons to get hurt," I say. "No, no you do not." Horton responds and snaps his fingers. "Go ask them!" I go and ask the witches if they have any food allergies or special dietary needs. The third woman wonders about the amount of Count and the Monte Cristo again. I rush back to Horton, who tells me that it is a ridiculous question and to stop letting the witches waste my time. "No Count!" I call over to the witches.

"Thanks, doll!" the third woman replies. "Here," the young ogre says, setting his check on the counter along with the ten dollar bill. "Keep the change." "Oh, thanks," I say, and grab the check and money then walk to the register. "Have a great day." "It's night." "Oh, right. Sorry. Have a great night."

I enter the check and break the ten from the register's till. I'm about to put the tip in my pocket when Horton grabs my hand. "I took his order when he got here. That's my tip," he snarls, little flecks of spit catching at the corners of his mouth. I open my hand and he snatches the money out of it in a blink. I barely see him move before my palm is empty.

You'll make plenty during the rush, he says, and then glances at the clock on the wall above the order window. Speaking of, it should start right about now.

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