You’re the New Night-Shift Worker at a Remote Roadside Diner — And Something is Watching

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The Job Seemed Perfect - Until the Rules Came

You're twenty-three, broke, and stranded in a nowhere town off Route 46. So when the Sunset Grille offers a night-shift position, you take it without blinking.

 Twelve bucks an hour. Free meals. No customers most nights. Just peace and quiet.

Your manager, Dennis, meets you once - a heavyset guy with tired eyes and yellow teeth. He shows you around: fryer, register, coffee machine, freezer, breaker box.

Before leaving, he hands you a worn binder labeled "Night Procedures."

"There's a page in there you'll want to read," he says. "The one with the red tag."

And then he's gone.

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The Rules Are Simple. Strange. And Deadly Serious.

You flip open the binder after your first coffee refill.

 Inside, page 13 is marked with a red sticky note that simply reads:

 "DO NOT IGNORE."

The page has no header. No explanation. Just rules. Handwritten. And shaking slightly, you read:

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1. If you hear three knocks at the back door - do not open it. Turn off every light. Hide under the counter. Stay silent for 30 minutes. Don't speak. Don't move. Even if someone calls your name.

2. If someone comes to the drive-thru and says your name, do not answer. Do not engage. Immediately go to the freezer, shut the door, and wait until you hear the car drive away.

3. If you look into the service window and see your own reflection blink out of sync, do not speak. Do not touch anything. Leave through the front door. Do not clock out. Walk. Do not look back. Someone will cover your shift.

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You chuckle. A joke, you think. A twisted prank for newbies. But something about the messy, rushed handwriting… it makes your stomach churn.

You text your best friend a photo of the page, laughing it off.

"I think I just joined a cult kitchen," you joke.

But they don't respond.

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1:42 A.M. - The First Knock Comes

You're halfway through your shift when the silence changes.

The fryer pops. The ice machine rattles.

Then: knock… knock… knock.

Three soft, spaced knocks at the back door.

You freeze, the binder's words crawling back into your mind.

You laugh nervously. Must be a delivery guy - or maybe Dennis messing with you.

Then the knocking happens again.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You walk toward the back door, hand hovering over the knob - 

And then someone whispers your name from the other side.

It's your voice. But it sounds wrong. Like it's underwater. Like it's trying too hard to sound… normal.

Your hand jerks away from the door.

You kill the lights.

You dive behind the counter and pull your hoodie over your head. The diner falls into complete darkness.

You sit.

And wait.

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The Silence is Not Empty

You hear footsteps. Slow. Barefoot. Moving from the back hallway into the main room.

You squeeze your eyes shut. The floor creaks. Something drips. You bite your lip to keep from crying.

Thirty minutes pass. You count every second.

And then - just as suddenly as it came - it stops.

You flick the lights on.

Everything's where it should be.

Except now, the rule sheet in the binder is gone.

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3:08 A.M. - Someone Knows Your Name

You try to calm down. Maybe the binder fell. Maybe Dennis came by.

Then headlights crawl up the drive-thru lane.

No engine sound.

A black car. Windows too dark. No license plate.

You freeze.

The intercom buzzes.

The speaker crackles.

And a voice - your father's voice, but he's been dead five years - says your full name.

You drop the headset.

You run.

You fling open the freezer door and slam it behind you. You sit between buckets of onion rings and a giant sack of frozen beef patties.

You cover your ears.

You wait.

Outside, the intercom keeps repeating your name in different voices. Your mom. Your old math teacher. A stranger who whispers it like a prayer.

It finally stops.

When you emerge, the car is gone.

But all the mirrors in the diner have fog on the inside.

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4:17 A.M. - Your Reflection is Not You

Only 43 minutes left.

You stand by the grill, wiping it clean when something catches your eye in the service window. You look up.

Your reflection looks back.

Same face. Same apron. Same tired posture.

But then it winks.

Just one eye. Yours don't move.

You blink. It doesn't.

It just keeps smiling.

You drop the rag.

And without thinking, you do exactly what the rule said:

You walk out the front door.

You leave everything. Your bag. Your keys. Your phone.

You walk into the early morning mist.

You don't look back.

You don't speak.

The road ahead curves and stretches on endlessly.

You walk.

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It's Not Over

The next morning, you wake up in your own bed.

Your phone is plugged in. Your bag is beside your nightstand. There's a text from your manager:

"Thanks for covering the shift. We'll see you tonight."

You never remember coming home.

And your mirror? It's covered in steam.

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If you hear three knocks, don't answer.

 If someone calls your name, don't speak.

 If your reflection moves wrong… it's already too late.

Because you never left the diner.

Not really.

You're still there.

And now it's someone else's turn to read the rules.