This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/No_Focus8984 on 2024-10-22 20:35:21+00:00.
I’ve worked the night shift at Ruby’s Diner for the past few months. The money’s decent, and I don’t mind the peace and quiet after the dinner rush ends. Ruby, the owner, keeps things running smoothly, but there are… rules.
The first time Ruby gave me the list, I thought she was joking. The place is clean, no major pest problems, nothing that screamed "haunted" or anything. But she was dead serious.
1. Never let the front door open after 11:00 p.m. No matter who or what knocks. 2. The jukebox will play by itself sometimes. Do not unplug it. Just let it finish the song. 3. If the man in the gray suit comes in, serve him a cup of coffee—black. Do not speak to him, and do not make eye contact. 4. Keep all the lights on. Every single one. 5. At 3:15 a.m., you’ll hear the phone ring. Do not answer it.
I’d laughed at the rules when I first read them. Ruby was always a bit quirky, but this seemed like next-level weird. She stared at me with a look that shut me up real fast.
“It’s not a joke, and if you can’t handle it, don’t come back,” she said, her voice cold and serious.
I shrugged it off. What’s the worst that could happen? Ghostly jukebox tunes? An old guy who wants coffee? I thought I’d handle it fine.
The first few nights were uneventful. Yeah, the jukebox played a few times on its own, but it was always old, scratchy songs—nothing creepy, just odd. I kept the lights on, locked the door at 11:00 p.m., and everything was fine.
Until last Tuesday.
It started around 11:30 p.m. I was wiping down the counter when I heard knocking at the door. Three steady knocks. I froze, staring at the clock on the wall. It was definitely after 11:00 p.m.
Another three knocks. Louder this time.
I glanced through the glass door, but no one was there. My heart pounded. I wanted to open it, to check, but the rule was clear: Don’t open the door.
I backed away slowly and went to the kitchen, trying to distract myself with cleaning.
The knocking didn’t stop.
It went on for almost an hour, constant and steady, like whoever—or whatever—it was, knew I was inside and was waiting for me to crack.
Finally, it stopped. But that was when the jukebox started.
Without warning, it lit up and started playing some old jazz tune I didn’t recognize. The air in the diner felt colder. I remembered Ruby’s second rule: Don’t unplug it. Let it finish.
The song went on for what felt like forever. I kept wiping the same spot on the counter, trying to ignore the eerie melody. When it finally stopped, the diner went dead silent again.
I thought that was the end of it for the night, but at around 1:00 a.m., the door swung open, even though I knew I’d locked it. A man stepped inside. He wore a gray suit, just like Ruby had warned.
I froze, my mind racing. The man in the gray suit. I quickly poured a cup of coffee and slid it onto the counter without saying a word, keeping my eyes on the floor. I could feel him watching me, but I didn’t look up.
He sat down at the corner booth and sipped his coffee slowly, the sound of his slurping making my skin crawl. Minutes passed, maybe hours, I couldn’t tell. When I finally built up the courage to glance in his direction, he was gone. The coffee cup sat there, still full.
I was shaking, but I made it through the rest of the night without anything else happening. That is, until 3:15 a.m.
The phone rang.
I stared at it, my mind screaming not to answer. The ringing was loud, persistent. It wasn’t the regular sound of a phone ringing. It was deeper, distorted, like something was trying to call from somewhere it shouldn’t.
It rang again, then again. I backed away from the counter, my back pressing into the wall, heart racing in my chest. I could almost hear Ruby’s voice in my head: Do not answer it.
I don’t know how long it rang before it finally stopped. But when it did, I realized something horrible.
The lights had flickered off.
Every single one.
I was standing in the middle of a pitch-black diner, alone—or at least, I hoped I was alone. I fumbled for the light switches, flipping them over and over, but nothing happened.
I felt the floor creak behind me, like someone—or something—was walking toward me. Cold air brushed my neck, and I could hear faint breathing. I didn’t dare turn around. My mind raced. The rules didn’t say anything about what to do if the lights went out.
My only option was to wait.
I closed my eyes, standing completely still, willing the lights to come back on. The breathing behind me grew louder, closer, until I could feel the cold presence hovering just inches away from me.
Then, as quickly as it started, it stopped.
The lights flickered back on.
I spun around, but there was nothing there—just the empty diner, the same as before. But on the counter, the phone was off the hook, swaying slightly as if someone had just hung up.
I didn’t wait for the shift to end. I grabbed my things and bolted out of the diner, breaking the rule about keeping all the lights on.
The next morning, Ruby called me. “You left in the middle of your shift,” she said, her voice eerily calm. “I told you to follow the rules.”
“I did,” I stammered. “The door stayed locked, I didn’t answer the phone, I—”
“You let the lights go out.”
I froze. How did she know?
“They’ll be back for you, you know,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “Once you break the rules, they don’t stop.”
I haven’t gone back to Ruby’s since that night. But every night, at 3:15 a.m., my phone rings.
And I never answer it maybe that is for the best maybe that's why I'm still alive.