There is nothing like Whataburger after a night of drinking.
It’s not a secret, not if you live near one. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the hops or just how the world works but a Whataburger grilled cheese at two in the morning is the most delicious thing on the planet. At least to me it is. Others claim it’s the burger or the patty melt but I’ve always liked the cheese. My mouth is already watering by the time I pull in front of the menu. There isn’t a line tonight, oddly enough, but I’m not worried about that. All that matters is that I get some good food in me soon.
I wait a few seconds. A few seconds turn into a minute and I squint at the speaker. Someone should have taken my order by now, right? Whataburger is open 24 hours so I know there’s someone on the other line. They didn’t all walk out, did they?
“Hello?” I call, stretching the o until it forms a whole other word. The speaker stays silent. I’m a second away from calling it a night and trying out Waffle House instead when the speaker finally comes to life.
“Hel…lo? Wel…come?” a voice appears, changing its tone and pitch with every syllable, as if trying out the words.
Great, so I’ve got a weirdo for a cashier. With a sigh, I take a sip from the beer in my cup holder and lean towards the speaker so that they can hear me.
“Yes, hello,” I start slowly. “I’d like a grilled cheese please. That’s it. Just one. Can you do that for me?”
The speaker is silent for a little while longer. I impatiently tap the side of my car and take another sip while I wait on the worker to answer. They take their time again, maybe trying to comprehend the words or something, before the speaker speaks again.
“Come… get… it…”
“What’s the price?” I ask. The voice takes its time answering again but I’m all out of patience. With a groan, I ride around to the next window to find the price face to face.
There’s no one there. It looks more abandoned than anything. There is dust all over the window, the stool is overturned, and there’s even a few drops of ketchup on the cash register. Overall, just a pathetic display that would make any customer annoyed. After a few more seconds of waiting, I move to the next window, ready to just grab my sandwich and call it a night.
A woman is waiting for me there. After the fiasco at the speaker, I expected her to look weird. A big head, misshapen face, something that shows why she talks the way she does. Instead, she’s just a woman with slightly chubby cheeks, dark brown hair, and blue eyes that look off in a way I can’t put my finger on.
It’s after several seconds of silent staring that I finally realize what’s wrong. They’re dry. They would look more at home on a painting or in a plastic skeleton than in a person’s face. Despite that, she doesn’t blink once, not even a wince.
“Can… I… help you?” she asks, eventually deciding on a high-pitched voice that sounds like it belongs to a preppy cheerleader.
“Yeah, just here for my sandwich,” I say, feeling the alcohol fade out of me. The situation is weird. I don’t know what’s wrong, I don’t know if it’s the eyes or the voice, but I’m a second away from slamming my foot into the pedal. Only the knowledge that I’m drunk and probably overreacting stops me.
"Right... the sandwich. Let me get that for you," she whispers. I watch her step away from the window and start walking towards the kitchen. On the way, she seems to see something on the floor. I look away to take another sip of beer, I need it at this point, and look back to see that she’s squatting over something. Even her squats look weird, but I don’t know exactly-
Her knees are the wrong way.
I can’t help the shout that escapes my throat at the sight. It’s like she replaced her legs with a deer’s, the knees bending backwards in a way no human’s was ever meant to. In a blink, she’s back at the window, leaning half her body out with a frown. Her dry eyes finally blink, but they look no different when she opens them again, a few inches in front of my own.
“Is something wrong?” she asks, all the tones from earlier combining at the final word. Frantically, I shake my head.
“Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to scream. Just thought I saw a cop. Not supposed to be driving. That’s all,” I stammer out, holding up a shaking can as proof.
“Very well,” she says before disappearing again. This time I wait until she’s all the way in the kitchen to look away, chugging my beer like it’s the last drink I’ll ever have.
That couldn’t have been real. It couldn’t have been. I’m too drunk. Way too drunk. Shouldn’t even be driving. But I need to. I need to get home right now. I need to slam my foot into the pedal and get as far away as possible. That thing isn’t right. It isn’t right and every second I stay here I risk everything.
I’m halfway to listening to myself when I stop, foot hovering a few inches above the pedal. What if I’m wrong? I just admitted to someone that I’m drinking and driving. I can’t get caught for that, my parents would never pay for a lawyer. I’d lose everything.
Slowly, I force myself to calm down. Of course I’m wrong. I’m too drunk. That’s it. I’ll get home, eat my sandwich, and laugh all about this little episode in the morning. I’m never telling a soul about it, of course, but it’ll be funny to look back at when I’m old and wondering how I got to that age.
“Your sandwich,” the girl said.
I turn to see her holding up a bag. It’s soaked. Red is leaking out of the bottom in a steady drip, staining the counter below it. If the girl notices something’s off, she doesn’t show it, she just keeps staring at me with those lifeless eyes.
I knew it. This isn’t right. No drink is strong enough to imagine that.
Before I can drive away, the girl reached forward and grabs my arm, tilting her head as she holds out the bag.
“Is there something wrong?” she asks again.
“No, no,” I stutter, trying to rip my arm out of her hand. It doesn’t budge. Whatever this thing is, it has a stronger grip than anyone I’ve ever met before. “Nothing wrong at all. I love ketchup. Was just surprised.”
“Sur…prise?” the thing asks, its head tilting further until the neck is at ninety degrees. It takes me a moment to realize that it is testing out a new word. I want to drive away then and there, arm or not. I was teaching the thing something. I was helping it just by talking.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I really like the meal. I think it’ll be good. Here, let me grab it.”
It still doesn’t release its grip. I have to put my beer down and reach over with my other hand, tangling my limbs together as I grab the soaked bag. I throw it into the seat next to me like its something rotten.
“Thanks for the meal,” I say, feeling the tears build up between my eyes from sheer fear. No, I can’t cry now. Not yet. I’ll do it later. I need to leave. Need to drive and keep on driving until there is nothing in sight.
“Eat it.”
“What?” I ask, wincing as the grip tightens.
“You like it. Eat it. There’s nothing wrong, right?” it asks.
I can’t help the tear that slides down my cheek. Nodding silently, I reach over and open up the bag, pulling out the abomination of a meal inside. It’s a sandwich, exactly what I ordered, but the bread is covered with a thick red liquid. I know what it is but I can’t say it. I can’t even think it. It’s like my mind refuses to accept what I’m holding.
It tastes disgusting. It tastes like I was eating with a split lip but much, much worse. It takes everything in me not to vomit as I swallow the first bite. I can’t last the entire sandwich. I can’t. I’ll break and it’ll know something is off. It’ll know I know. What then? What will it do to me?
I don’t have to answer. The grip on my arm releases and I almost collapse into the wheel with a sob. Luckily, it doesn’t notice anything’s off. I turn to see the thing smiling at me with too many rows of teeth, some sharp, some blunt, and none of them human.
“Thanks for the meal,” it says in my voice. My voice. I scream again, barely seeing the thing’s smile drop, and slam on the gas pedal. My tires squeal, keeping me there just long enough to see the thing open its mouth wide, too wide, and cry the most repulsive sound I’ve ever heard.
It’s too late though, I’m already driving. The thing leaps out the window but it’s nowhere near as fast as a car, not even when it’s leaping on all fours. A few other vehicles honk their horns as I speed down the road but it doesn’t matter, nothing does. I escaped, I escaped, I escaped.
It isn’t until a few minutes later while I’m speeding down the same road that I see the bag flailing in my passenger seat. I pull over on the shoulder immediately and hunch out of car, vomiting more food and drink than I can remember eating. It’s red. Oh God, it’s red.
I reach in and grab the bag, throwing it as far as I can. Away from me, away from my car, away from anything normal. Then I cry. I cry like I haven’t since I was an infant. It makes my legs too weak to hold me and my body too useless to do anything but shake.
I don’t know how long I stay like that, sobbing in a ball as cars pass by. All I know is that I can’t stop until I feel something grab my shoulders in a tight grip. I can’t look behind me, I don’t have to, I can feel something’s breath trickling down my spine.
It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real. Nothing’s wrong. It’s-
“Surprise,” my voice whispers behind me. I don’t know which one of us screams. Then I don’t know anything at all.