The coffee shop that brewed nightmares

Every morning at 7:03 AM, the barista at *Hollow Grounds* hands me my usual—a black eye (two shots of espresso in drip coffee)—before I even speak.

Today, my cup has a lipstick stain on the rim. I don’t wear lipstick.

**"YOUR TURN TO SERVE,"** the receipt reads.

The shop is empty, but I hear grinding beans. The espresso machine hisses like a living thing. Behind the counter, the chalkboard menu now lists just one item:

**"Pay Your Tab: 1 Soul (or Equivalent Memory)"**

The barista smiles. Their teeth are too white. Too many.

"Did you really think," they whisper, "*coffee* was the only thing brewing here?"

Behind me, the door locks.

The lipstick stain glistens—**raspberry red, like Lauren’s**. My ex-wife always wore this shade. Even the night her car skidded off the bridge. The night no body was found.

The grinder erupts without being touched. Coffee beans cascade like **teeth from a broken jaw**.

*"Hollow Grounds serves what you need,"* the barista says, polishing a mug with their sleeve. The fabric rides up, revealing a **wrist tattoo of my social security number**.

I choke on my coffee. The liquid moves **against gravity**, crawling back up the cup’s sides.

The exit door is now a solid wall of **dried coffee stains**. The "OPEN" sign flickers to **"RUN"**, then **"TOO LATE"**.

My phone buzzes. A text from *Lauren’s old number*:

**"Tell them you’ll take the morning shift. I did."**

The espresso machine vomits a **tangled black mass** into my cup. It pulses. Something inside it **blinks**.