Chitterror Tales

6 days ago

@horrorStories[HS]

CHITTERROR TALES - EPISODE 003 Woe is Thee. Tonight's story concerns a regular customer, a familiar order, and the importance of noticing when someone has changed. Viewer discretion is advised. Viewer participation is inevitable. --- You are a barista. You work mornings. There are worse shifts, really. Your alarm is at five in the morning. The drive is always in darkness. The smell of coffee clings to your clothes even after you have gone home. The first customer stands outside ten minutes before you open. You can feel their peering eyes through the glass, as though staring hard enough will force you to turn the lock. Still, you enjoy the mornings. Mornings have regulars. They are predictable enough that you can spend the next eight hours in a tolerable rhythm. There is an old man who gets a small black coffee. He always complains that it costs more today than it did the day prior. The price hasn't changed in four years. There's the nurse whose three shots of espresso over ice are the difference between dead and living patients. The construction crew always shows up on time, together, orders separately, and occupies all of your seats in the interim. Oh, then there's her. She arrives at 7:13 AM every single morning. Not around 7:13, always at 7:13. The first few times you noticed, you thought it was funny. Eventually, you started watching the clock. 7:13 every time. She's young. College-aged, it seems. Blonde hair. She is always dressed a little too formally. Dark skirts, sweaters, the occasional scarf even when it's warmer out. She carries books with her, too. Not textbooks, but just books. Old ones. The kind with cracked spines and embossed titles you don't recognize. Girls her age tend to like a little sweet treat before a long day. Not her. In her flat voice, from black-painted lips that carry the slightest condescending sneer, you have the same interaction every day. "Large coffee. Black." You don't even mention the price; it doesn't seem to matter to her. She is already holding her card to the payment terminal. She has no cream, no sugar, no flavoring. You like this about her. Not because she's friendly, but because you can tell all of the flavor she needs comes from her own life. She has the demeanor of someone who has decided how the conversation is going to end and would prefer that you catch up to her pace. Eventually, you work up the nerve to make small talk with her. Not because you're trying to be nosy, but you do try to keep some rapport with your customers. You ask what she's reading. She glances down at the book. Her soft voice comes through, starting off with a small crack, almost as though she wasn't quite ready to speak about it. "A poor translation, I suppose." You ask if it's good reading anyway. "No." You let out a chuckle. She doesn't. Then, eventually, the corner of her mouth turns upward. You decide she was joking. You write her order on the cup. BLACK COFFEE. She watches as you do it. "That's redundant," she says, clarifying the Sisyphean task you've undertaken. You like her just a little more. She has been a regular for quite some time. 7:13. Large coffee. Black. She takes the same table near the window. She opens her book. She writes in the margins. Sometimes she sits perfectly still while reading the same page. She never uses a phone. You don't think you've ever seen her with one. A few weeks of her coming have passed. You notice something about her is different for once. Her once-porcelain portrayal and posturing have a flaw. She looks tired. Shadows under her eyes look painted on with a broad brush. Her complexion is duller. You ask if she's had a rough night. "I've had many." You stop, considering the possibilities before asking her about her finals. "Hm?" She looks up from the book you didn't notice she had opened. "Something like that." You try to hand her the coffee. For the first time, she doesn't take it. She just stares at your hand. Eventually, she breaks her own trance, taking the cup. Her fingers brush against yours, somewhat intentionally. At first, you feel flattered. Then you realize how cold they are. Not, like, winter-morning cold, or maybe forgot-your-gloves cold. She is cold enough that you jump a little, pulling your hand away. She, of course, notices. "Sorry." It's the first time you've heard her apologize. She leaves at 7:46 AM. When you wipe down her table, there's a black ring where the cup of coffee sat. It does not come off. --- The next morning, she seems... gray. You know how silly that seems. People don't turn gray. Especially not like this. Maybe she's sick. Maybe... it's the lighting? Maybe it's makeup. Maybe you've just got this image in your head of what she should look like. Whatever the explanation, her skin has lost some of its color. Gray. Like reduced saturation on a T.V. screen. 7:13. Large coffee. Black. You ask if everything is okay. "No," she responds with her earnest bluntness. It somewhat surprises you. She looks at you, then the coffee, then back at you. "But it will be." You aren't sure what that really means, or if it's reassuring. She sits down at her usual table. Today's book is enormous. No title on the cover. When you happen to clean the nearby table, you see the pages are black with white writing. You tell yourself that it must be something artsy. You have to tell yourself several times. --- It is now Wednesday. She is grayer. Then Thursday rolls by. Grayer. Friday. You consider asking if she's wearing makeup. You don't. There are things you ask customers, and there are things you don't. 7:13. Black coffee. Large. Same table. She is reading faster now. Not skimming, but reading. She is physically engaged, leaning forward. Pages turn every few seconds. Sometimes several at once. You begin to notice something. No one will sit near her. You aren't sure why. You see customers begin to approach the nearby table, stop, look strangely confused, then move to another seat. You see a toddler pointing at her and crying. The dog tied outside is barking at the window until its owner drags it away. The lights above her table burn out. You replace them. They burn out again. Your manager blames the fixture. You don't tell him about the strange thing in the shadows. You don't tell him how you're certain her shadow postures differently than she does. Like it was her before all of this. Most of the time, it follows her. But sometimes, you catch it still sitting at the table. Sometimes, it reaches for her coffee before she does. When she's reading, the shadow's head is pointed at you while she keeps her eyes on the page. That is enough to get you to stop watching. --- Monday. 7:13. The bell above the door rings. She walks in. For a moment, you forget what you're doing. The milk is steaming in your hand until it spits boiling foam over the pitcher and onto your skin. It doesn't hurt. You switch off the steamer. She approaches the counter. Oh. She is completely gray now. Not, like, sickly pale. Gray. Her blonde hair has turned a stark white. Against her face, it looks like it belongs to someone else and has been placed on a statue. Her eyes are darker. You try not to stare. "Large. Black. Please." You turn, you pour, you put the lid on. You turn back. She's closer. You didn't hear her move. You nearly drop the cup, and she raises her brow. "You appear distressed, dear." You laugh it off. You didn't get enough sleep, you explain. "Neither did I." She takes the coffee. You don't let your hands touch. You know she notices. Her smile is small. "I'm not contagious." You laugh because you can't be entirely sure about that. She does not laugh. At 7:31, both televisions in the shop turn on. You normally keep them off until around noon for the lunch crowd. Both screens are filled with static. Your manager comes from the office and begins banging on the screens. Eventually, the static clears. A man sits behind a desk on screen. Black suit, white gloves. A face so brightly illuminated that the camera can't pick it up. He adjusts his stack of cards. [Good morning.] Your manager reaches for the remote. The buttons do little to stop the program. The man on screen turns his head. Not toward the camera, but toward the table by the window. [Ah.] Your regular does not look up from her book. The Host smiles. [There she is.] Your manager unplugs the television. It remains on, despite him staring at the cable in his hand. You can't stop staring at the screen. The Host shuffles his cards with the expertise of a magician with a century of practice. [Our apologies for the interruption, viewers. It seems one of our scheduled guests has elected to arrive ahead of her appearance.] The girl turns a page, not bothering to look up. "Ignore him." You look at her intently. "I said ignore him." The Host rests his chin against one of his white-gloved hands. [You are just so dreadfully impolite. Always have been, you know.] For the first time since you've met her, she looks angry. Irritated doesn't amount to a percent of a percent of the rage she feels. She closes the book. The televisions go black. Your manager spends the next hour insisting it's some sort of prank. You don't tell him the man on the television knew her. You don't ask her about it. You really, really want to. But your survival instincts disagree. --- Tuesday. She is gray. Wednesday. Grayer. Thursday. Her eyes look... wrong. The whites seem too bright, the pupils seem too dark. Sometimes, when you look at them, it's like you're staring down a long hallway with something at the end. She doesn't have books anymore. Just pages. Hundreds of them. Loose sheets covered edge to edge in handwriting. Some of it seems like hers. Most of it isn't. Diagrams, circles, eyes. Tentacles. She arranges stars in patterns that make your head ache with pain if you stare for too long. She catches you looking. "Curious?" You shake your head no. "Good." She begins turning the page over. You catch three words before they are hidden. THEY ARE LISTENING. --- Eventually, she doesn't come in. 7:13 passes. You stare at the door, astonished. 7:14. Nothing. 7:20. Nothing. You think you are relieved... But you aren't, really. At 7:46, you realize you made her coffee for nothing. Large. Black. On the counter getting cold. Wednesday. No one. Thursday. Nothing. Friday, you've stopped making her coffee. You think that whatever was happening is over. Maybe she got help. Maybe she found another shop. The thought bothers you more than it should. --- Monday. 7:12. You're wiping down the counter after a small spill. The lights flicker. You stop. Something is moving outside. Not someone. Something. There is a shape beyond the window. It is tall, then short, then tall. The glass is distorting around it like a funhouse mirror. Then the bell above the door rings. 7:13. She enters. No one speaks. Every conversation in the coffee shop has stopped. She is gray. Completely gray. Her clothes have changed. Black fabric hangs from her body in shapes you cannot quite follow, clinging to flesh that's there one moment, then gone the next. It gathers around her shoulders and trails behind her despite there being no breeze indoors. Her hair floats slightly above her back, longer than before. Her eyes are gone. Not closed. Gone. In their place is white. Perfect, radiant white. She approaches the counter. Your body moves before your mind does. Large. Black. Your hands shake. She watches you. You greet her with a good morning. Her mouth moves before the words come out. For a moment, nothing emerges. Maybe nothingness, to be exact. It feels like deafness. Then every speaker activates. The television, the headset, the speaker inside the register, every phone in the store. A voice pours from them all simultaneously. It is hers. It is not hers. There are so many voices speaking beneath the roaring chorus. "Good morning." Several customers run. One makes it to the door. But there's no parking lot outside. It is an ocean of black water stretched beneath a violet sky. You watch in the distance as an impossibly large figure swells beneath the surface. The customer slams the door shut. Everyone screams. She doesn't react. You give her the coffee. She looks down at it as though she has forgotten what it is. You whisper to her that it is a large coffee. Black. Her head tilts. Something behind her is moving. At first, you think it's the fabric. Then you realize the shapes around her are not clothing. They extend too far, bend too many times, and some vanish above the ceiling tiles as though she is clipping through them. One curls around a chair. Yet another rests against the window. The walls seem to creak. The air seems too thick to breathe. The television turns on. The Host appears. He isn't smiling. He looks at her. She looks at him. Neither speaks. Then he turns toward the camera. [Our regularly scheduled programming will not be seen this morning.] The thing wearing the shape of your favorite customer reaches for the coffee. Her limb passes through the cup, and then the cardboard collapses inward on itself like a singularity. Black liquid pours onto the counter. Not coffee. It doesn't fall toward the floor. It rises, like reverse rain droplets. Her mouth opens. It is deep. An impossible depth filled with distant lights. Like the night sky. But no, those are not stars. They are eyes. Thousands of them. Looking through her. Something older than her. Than the shop. Than the street. Older than mornings. Older than the idea of a miserable little world. You understand that the gray woman standing before you hasn't become something different. She has hollowed herself out to make room. Before you can continue thinking, you are interrupted. [Dear viewers.] The lights begin bursting one by one. [It has been brought to my attention that our guest will not require an introduction.] The final bulb above you explodes. Darkness. The only illumination comes from her eyes before they disappear, too. --- This episode was brought to you by Channel 0. We hope you enjoyed it. Whatever is watching certainly did. --- Content Tags: #horror #body-horror #cw-unreality #cw-eldritch-horror #cw-transformation Submission Form: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLScrx-q5ORGYYyOTKPerojhkRN_BFT7Aggaf16QlaHISxqaUcA/viewform?usp=header