Season 2/Episode 7: The Night Shift
by Jessica Best
Nasty meat eaters
The music is wrong
An old new friend
----
Content Advisories for this episode can be found below
Support Unwell and HartLife NFP on Patreon at www.patreon.com/hartlifenfp
This episode features: Kathleen Hoil as Abbie, Clarisa Cherie Rios as Lily, Ele Matelan as [REDACTED], Sebastian H. Orr as [REDACTED], Matt Young as Tim, and Tom Dyke as a Creepy Patron.
Written by Jessica Best, sound design by Jeffrey Nils Gardner, directed by Jeffrey Nils Gardner, music composed by Stephen Poon, recording engineer Mel Ruder, Theme performed by Stephen Poon, Lauren Kelly, Gunnar Jebsen, Travis Elfers, Mel Ruder, and Betsey Palmer, Radio music by Komiku and 80 Foots, Unwell lead sound designer Ryan Schile, Executives Producers Eleanor Hyde and Jeffrey Gardner, by HartLife NFP.
This episode contains:
-Monstrous sounds and eating sounds
-Jump scares
-Sleep deprivation
-Misgendering
ABBIE’S RECORDER IS TURNED ON
ABBIE:
Project Hunter’s, Day Zero.
The problem with infiltrating Mount Absalom’s sinister, carnivorous
fever-dream of a diner as a server in the hopes of unraveling the
seemingly supernatural--I hate that word, let’s say opaque--conspiracy
surrounding the establishment, is that the first step still involves...getting
hired as a server.
Servers function in chaos. They resolve chaos, professionally. They
perform emotional labor on their feet, in motion, for eight plus hours a day
and they do it while smiling.
The first step of regaining traction is admitting when you are in over your
head. The second is calling in a ringer.
ABBIE’S RECORDER IS TURNED OFF
LILY: I don’t really know what to tell you, I’m hardly an expert--
ABBIE: If anyone is qualified to help me right now--
LILY: Abbie, I can’t give you career advice. I don’t have a career, I have--a
string of choices that I made based on chance, convenience, and not
wanting to get bit by an alpaca again.
ABBIE: Don’t hide your light under a bushel, it’s annoying. I’ve seen your resume,
Lily. You’ve been hired for over a dozen customer service jobs.
LILY: Hasn’t everyone?
ABBIE: Literally every paying job I’ve ever had has involved a desk, an office
basement, and screens filled with spreadsheets. I am profoundly out of
my depth here.
LILY: It’s not a skill. It’s a numbers game. If you apply for enough stuff,
eventually, you get something.
ABBIE: Lily.
LILY: Yeah?
ABBIE: Why do you want to work here?
LILY: What?
ABBIE: Thanks for coming in for this job interview today, Ms. Harper. What made
you apply to work at Hunter’s 24-Hour Diner?
LILY: Uh.
ABBIE: Hypothetically.
LILY: Hypothetically?
ABBIE: Yes.
LILY: Let’s see. (CUSTOMER SERVICE VOICE) Well, for one thing, I’m
passionate about good food and great service. I really believe that the
right meal can brighten a person’s day and that the little touches make a
difference. I love what you’ve created here and I want to be a part of it.
ABBIE: Case in point: all I had was “because rent costs money.”
LILY: You just tell them what they want to hear.
ABBIE: (AGREEING) You get into their heads.
LILY: Sure, if you feel like framing it in the creepiest way possible--
ABBIE: I don’t want to be in their heads. I barely want to be in their diner.
LILY: Then don’t do this. At least don’t do it alone. Nobody’s asking you to.
ABBIE: You and Dot have your hands full trying to resolve your sexist loophole
debt. Wes is--
LILY: Dead?
ABBIE: How much solid proof do we have of that?
LILY: Do you want me to describe what it was like in his house again?
ABBIE: Does that automatically point to dead? Certainly, something--opaque is
happening with him--
LILY: I’d say “otherworldly,” but how otherworldly can he be when he’s never
even been to Julian.
ABBIE: Really.
LILY: And you probably hate words like--
ABBIE: I do, but--Julian is only forty minutes away. He’s seriously never been?
LILY: I don’t know if it’s that weird; I don’t think he drives.
ABBIE: Until we have a larger sample size, everything and nothing is significant.
Point being, something is happening with Wes. And Rudy is occupied by
the observatory repair, and the general business of being a gormless,
dissembling turncoat.
LILY: Just because Chester said Rudy’s working with them--
ABBIE: It fits too well. Ever since he got deep into the observatory problem,
Rudy’s been avoiding both texts and eye contact. Dot says he turned
down pigs in a blanket the other day. Pigs in a blanket, Lily.
And in the meantime, we know something’s going on at the diner. We
know it’s something the Delphics don’t understand or approve of. And if
they’re as prevalent in this town as you say they are, if their influence is
only growing, someone needs to look into this now.
LILY: (SIGH) Tell them you’re a people person.
ABBIE: What?
LILY: In the job interview. Find some way to slip in how much you love people.
Greatest asset, why you left your last job, why you want this job--
something.
ABBIE: And say it with a straight face.
LILY: Hell, say it with a smile.
ABBIE: Whoever made you believe customer service wasn’t a skill should be
drawn and quartered.
ABBIE’S RECORDER IS TURNED ON
ABBIE I...am a people person.
ABBIE’S RECORDER IS TURNED OFF
ABBIE IS IN THEIR ROOM. THE
RADIATOR IS CLANKING.
ABBIE: (PRACTICING) I am a people person.
I love working with people.
ABBIE IS DRIVING
ABBIE: I just--I love working with people, you know?
I love helping people. I love serving people food.
SINK RUNNING. TEETH BRUSHING.
ABBIE SPITS OUT A MOUTHFUL OF
TOOTHPASTE.
ABBIE: People person. People person. My greatest ambition in life is to hand
someone a slice of pie.
LILY (OFF) Hey Abbie? Uh, Rudy wants to know how much longer you’ll be in there.
ABBIE: Tell Rudy to ask me himself. And also to fuck off.
TRANSITION
DINER DOOR DINGS AS ABBIE WALKS
INSIDE. MUZAK IS PLAYING.
WAITRESS: Seat yourself.
ABBIE: (CUSTOMER SERVICE VOICE. IT’S NOT AS GOOD AS LILY’S) Hi
there! My name is Abbie Douglas, and actually I’m dropping off my
resume?
WAITRESS: One moment.
ABBIE: Uh. (CUSTOMER SERVICE VOICE) Sure thing!
(FOOTSTEPS ON SHAG CARPET)
PROPRIETOR: Hello, I am the proprietor here. You wish to become a waitress?
ABBIE: The gender-neutral equivalent, yes. “Server.”
PROPRIETOR: Of course. Can you work nights?
ABBIE: Yes.
PROPRIETOR: Are you squeamish?
ABBIE: ...no.
THERE IS A PAUSE.
PROPRIETOR: Come back tonight at ten.
ABBIE: For a job interview--?
A STACK OF FABRIC IS DUMPED INTO
ABBIE’S HANDS.
PROPRIETOR: Here you are! Your shirt, hat, apron, and name tag. Pants are not
provided. Jeans are not acceptable.
And are your shoes...washable? (THERE IS SOMETHING STRANGELY
SINISTER ABOUT THE PAUSE)
ABBIE: I... (CUSTOMER SERVICE VOICE GIVES WAY TO REGULAR VOICE)
have no reason to believe they aren’t.
PROPRIETOR: Excellent. Ten.
ABBIE TAKES SEVERAL STEPS BACK
OUT OF HUNTER’S. THE DOOR DINGS,
AND SWISHES SHUT. ABBIE IS ON THE
SIDEWALK OUTSIDE. CARS WHIZZ
PAST.
ABBIE: What the hell--?
ABBIE’S RECORDER IS TURNED ON
ABBIE: Project Hunter’s. Day one. Night one.
AN OWL HOOTS. ABBIE TURNS OFF THE
RECORDER AND WALKS INTO THE
DINER AGAIN. THE DOOR DINGS.
MUZAK IS PLAYING. IT’S THE SAME
SONG AS BEFORE.
WAITRESS: Seat yourself.
ABBIE: Weren’t you here twelve hours ago?
WAITRESS: Hmm?
ABBIE: Hi, I’m Abbie Douglas, it’s my first day of work? Here. I--work here, I
think?
WAITRESS: Punch in and out over there.
FOOTSTEPS TO AN OLD-FASHIONED
PUNCHCARD MACHINE. ABBIE
PUNCHES IN.
PROPRIETOR: Pardon me--
ABBIE: (STARTLED SOUND)
PROPRIETOR: --but I can’t help noticing it’s ten oh one.
ABBIE: I walked in the door at ten.
PROPRIETOR: Ah yes, but unfortunately, you did clock in at ten oh one.
ABBIE: There are no customers. There was no material loss of work from me in
the maybe fifteen seconds it took for me to get from the door to the
punchcard machine.
PROPRIETOR: Certainly, of course! Don’t do it again.
SOMETHING LAMINATED AND FLOPPY
IS HANDED TO ABBIE.
WAITRESS: The menu. Familiarize yourself.
TRANSITION. ABBIE’S RECORDER
TURNS ON. THEY ARE DRIVING.
ABBIE (V.O.) (A LONG BREATH OUT)
It is five thirty in the morning and I am driving
home from my first shift.
Note: if the diner is beyond the purview of the Delphic Order, does that
mean we can safely rule out any customers from membership? If we can
safely assume that eating in the diner disqualifies someone as a possible
order member, does it follow that they can also be trusted? I should keep
careful track of who comes in and out, but I can’t take extensive notes
while I’m inside.
Note: the Hunter’s Scrambled Breakfast and the Hunter’s Breakfast
Scrambler are two separate dishes. The mushroom burger is not a burger
made of mushrooms, it is a burger topped with mushrooms, because of
course it is. No substitutions on combo platters.
My feet hurt more than my feet have ever hurt in my life. You’d think deep
shag carpeting would be forgiving to walk on, but you’d be wrong. Shag
forgives nothing. Orange shag especially.
The jukebox is broken. It accepts quarters but serves no other function.
The jukebox is a large, elaborate, neon piggy bank. The other server
controls the radio. Although the DJ kept announcing different song titles
and artist names, I would swear on a stack of lawbooks that the radio
played only one track the entire night
Further observations are inconclusive so far. Unsurprising.
My next shift is in sixteen hours.
ABBIE’S RECORDER IS TURNED OFF.
AN AUDIO MONTAGE: ABBIE’S CAR
ZOOMS ON. CAR DOOR SLAMS OPEN
AND CLOSED. DOOR TO THE BOARDING
HOUSE OPENS. FOOTSTEPS UP THE
STAIRS. DOOR OPENS. CLACKING ON
KEYBOARD. ABBIE LAYS DOWN ON
THEIR BED. ALARM IMMEDIATELY GOES
OFF. FOOTSTEPS DOWN THE STAIRS.
BOARDING HOUSE DOOR OPENS AND
CLOSES. CAR DOOR OPENS AND
CLOSES. CAR ZOOM. ALL OF THIS
HAPPENS UNREALISTICALLY QUICKLY.
DINER DOOR DINGS AS ABBIE ENTERS.
MUZAK IS PLAYING. IT’S THE SAME
MUZAK AS LAST TIME. FOOTSTEPS
TOWARDS THE PUNCH CARD MACHINE.
WAITRESS: Seat yourself.
ABBIE: I work here. The nametag and polyester shirt are not for kicks.
PUNCH CARD MACHINE PUNCHES
PROPRIETOR: (CRITICIZING) One minute early.
ABBIE: Nine seconds by my watch, which is synced with the world clock.
PROPRIETOR: Don’t pad your time.
WAITRESS: What’s in a Hunter’s ham combo platter?
ABBIE: Smoked ham, cured ham, and smoked and cured ham.
WAITRESS: Sides are...?
ABBIE: Bacon or something called meat tots.
WAITRESS: And meat tots contain...?
ABBIE: That’s proprietary.
WAITRESS: (APPROVINGLY) Table two wants coffee.
ABBIE: Nobody is at table two.
WAITRESS: Table two will want coffee.
ABBIE: (RESIGNED) How many cups?
WAITRESS: (AS THOUGH IT IS VERY OBVIOUS) Two.
TRANSITION. ABBIE’S RECORDER IS
TURNED ON. ABBIE IS DRIVING HOME.
VERY QUIET MUSIC
ABBIE: Night two. Day two, whatever. The roads are empty. The traffic lights
reflect on the bare pavement as they cycle through their colors, as if
talking to themselves. When I was a kid and I was the only one in the
room, I used to play a game with myself where I would try to prove to
myself that other people existed. It’s more fun than it sounds, but--
RADIO: PLAYS ABBIE’S CELERY SODA
JINGLE
It’s just you and me, Abbie.
RECORDER IS TURNED OFF.
RECORDER IS TURNED ON.
ABBIE: Night three. Monday night. Business is excruciatingly slow, to the point
where you start wiping the counters for entertainment. Currently, I’m on
my smoke break. It’s probably a matter of time before they realize I don’t
smoke.
Now and then, I recognize the face of someone from that racist farce of a
town pageant last summer. My understanding was that the show was put
on by the Order. Is there something to investigate in the contradiction? A
low level rebellion by the rank and file, or is there a tiered system to who
in the Order gets what information? Maybe they’re simply not members. I
could find their names if they paid with a card, but Hunter’s is cash only.
There’s still nobody sitting at Table Two. Even when the place is
otherwise full, Table Two is a bald patch in a sea of customers.
All of the pies and cakes rotate in their tubelike cases. They look like
they’re on a spit, like gyros, although since they’re not cooking, I can’t
think of any practical reason to keep them turning. Is food considered
more appetizing when it spins? They unfailingly move clockwise. I like
imagining the day this was standardized. Was there a counterclockwise
contingent, in bitter opposition? We like to imagine that history tracks a sort
of idealized global mental evolution, that only the worthiest ideas get
passed on to the next generation, but it’s just as likely to be random
chance, which concepts succeed and which are left behind. There’s an
arrogance to overapplying cause and effect to the actions of your
predecessors, or your own.
I’m not sure what I’m doing here. I think I assumed that all of my
unresolved questions would unravel neatly into one data point, that Hazel
and Chester’s objections to the diner would tie back to the nature of
what’s going on with Wes, and the other people here who don’t seem
dead but also can’t be alive. Mount Absalom is the only town I know of
that faces either issue, ergo those issues are connected. It felt like what
Rudy would’ve incorrectly called Ockham’s Razor. But how can you
decide what’s genuinely simple and what’s only trying to appear
straightforward? Maybe there’s an arrogance there, too.
(DEEP BREATH IN, PAUSE) My hair smells like meat.
Rudy would’ve found this whole adventure thrilling. That isn’t--I don’t miss
him, that’s just--an observation.
RECORDER IS TURNED OFF.
WE’RE INSIDE HUNTER’S AGAIN. MUZAK
IS PLAYING.
WAITRESS: It is time to marry the ketchups.
ABBIE: What?
WAITRESS: Some of the table bottles are getting low. Refill them, with other ketchup.
ABBIE: That’s a strangely alloromantic term for such a prosaic task.
KETCHUP BOTTLE LIDS BEING
UNSCREWED, KETCHUP BEING
BLORPED INTO THE MOST FULL
BOTTLES.
PROPRIETOR: Hm.
ABBIE: (STARTLED SOUND)
PROPRIETOR: I can’t help but notice there’s fewer bottles than there was. Somebody’s
been filching.
ABBIE: The ketchup.
WAITRESS: It’s illegal to steal from one’s employer.
ABBIE: Are you trying to imply it was an inside job?
PROPRIETOR: It’d be a true shame if it was.
ABBIE: I’m more of a mustard person. Is it a health code violation to do this? How
do we know the ketchup on the bottom is still new enough to safely
consume?
WAITRESS: Customers prefer a full bottle.
ABBIE: Do customers prefer condiment-bourne food poisoning?
Great, I sound like Lily.
PROPRIETOR: You, breaktime. Abbie, I’ll be keeping an eye on the sauces.
PROPRIETOR’S STEPS HEAD AWAY.
WAITRESS: Back soon.
FOOTSTEPS OUT OF THE DINER. BELL
CHIMES, DOOR CLOSES.
ABBIE’S RUNNING FOOTSTEPS
TOWARDS THE RADIO. MUZAK CEASES;
RADIO TUNING. VERY BRIEFLY WE
HEAR A FEW SECONDS OF THE
UNWELL OPENING THEME BUT IT
COLLAPSES INTO STATIC.
ABBIE: Come on, any other station...
RADIO SETTLES ON BIRD CALLS.
ABBIE: You know what, I’ll take it.
TRANSITION. ABBIE’S RECORDER IS
TURNED ON. BIRD CALLS PERSIST IN
THE BACKGROUND
ABBIE: (QUIETLY) A group of maybe two dozen undergrad students just left.
There is no medium amount of busy here. Either every booth is empty, or
twenty people want onion rings, deluxe burgers, and a frankly baffling
assortment of beverages at once. It’s as if they’re bussed in from
somewhere. Is there something--opaque about that? Something
mysterious? Or is that just the nature of customer service?
It’s almost uncanny, hearing diurnal bird calls when it’s this dark out. Still
an improvement, though.
We have exactly one customer. He is asleep facedown in his mashed
turkey. The other server is still gone, the proprietor is in his office, and the
cook has been staring straight ahead at the empty range for fifteen
minutes. I wouldn’t promise that he’s blinking. Time for a minor coup.
CREAK OF ABBIE SITTING IN A BOOTH.
I’m sitting down.
RADIO: That was the rose-breasted grosbeak. Next up, “Shore Leave” by 80
Foots.
ABBIE: What.
MUSIC STARTS UP.
ABBIE: (ELATED) Human music. For humans. By humans.
A PAUSE AS ABBIE TAKES REFUGE IN
THE HUMANITY OF IT ALL.
CUSTOMER: (WAKING UP) Guh? What?
ABBIE: Can I get you anything else? More mashed turkey? A napkin?
CUSTOMER: I’d take a date for this weekend.
ABBIE: Anything vaguely in the realm of attainable?
CUSTOMER: (MUTTERING) See if I tip you.
ABBIE: I don’t need your uncomfortably damp and warm singles.
CUSTOMER: Then why even work here?
ABBIE: Life is full of mysteries, huh?
CUSTOMER: Hey, I think table two wants--
ABBIE: Coffee, I know.
CUSTOMER: Table two wants to order.
ABBIE: Oh. Of course.
FOOTSTEPS.
ABBIE: Hi there, welcome to Hunter’s, what can I get you?
TIM: (AS IF SURPRISED TO BE THERE) Oh! Yeah. Uh, a burger, I guess?
ABBIE: Are you waiting on someone?
TIM: What?
ABBIE: The other coffee.
TIM: Oh! No, I guess I was just thirsty.
ABBIE: Alright, can I get you anything else? Burger, two coffees--
TIM: Fries, if it’s not too much trouble?
ABBIE: Minimal trouble. I’d rather fetch fries than keep marrying the ketchups.
TIM: How do you even know the ketchup’s straight?
ABBIE: What?
TIM: Marrying the ketchup, sorry, it’s a dumb joke--
ABBIE: Same-sex marriage has been legal on a federal level since 2015.
TIM: (GENUINELY SURPRISED) Well, for cry-eye! (LAUGHING TO
HIMSELF) What year is it...
ABBIE SETS DOWN THEIR SERVER
NOTEPAD ON THE TABLE
ABBIE: (SUDDENLY INTENT) What’s the last year you remember?
TIM: (CHEERFUL) Little rude, to ask someone how old they are.
ABBIE: (CUSTOMER SERVICE VOICE) So! Are you new to town, sir?
TIM: No no, been here a while now, at--have you heard of Fenwood house?
ABBIE: I...have. (CAREFULLY) Can you help jog my memory?
TIM: Out at the edge of town? Boarding house run by a fellow named Grant?
ABBIE: (WHEELS ARE SPINNING) Is it.
TIM: Nice place. Keeps me busy. I handle repairs when things need repairing.
ABBIE: Do you know Lily Harper?
TIM: Dottie and Dale’s little girl? (CHUCKLES) Those two have their hands full
with that one.
ABBIE: Right. Uh, will you stay right there?
TIM: (AGREEABLY) Not sure where else I’d be.
FOOTSTEPS AS ABBIE APPROACHES
THE COOK.
ABBIE: A hamburger and fries for table two.
THE COOK GRUNTS.
THE DOOR DINGS. WAITRESS’S
FOOTSTEPS.
WAITRESS: The music is wrong.
WAITRESS FOOTSTEPS TO THE RADIO.
RADIO TUNING. THE STATION RETURNS
TO MUZAK.
ABBIE: Hey, where’s--? What happened to table two?
WAITRESS: Dine and dash.
ABBIE: But the door didn’t--I only looked away for a second--what happened to
the pies?
WAITRESS: What?
ABBIE: They’re all turning in the other direction.
PROPRIETOR: His order comes out of your paycheck.
ABBIE: Okay.
ABBIE’S RECORDER IS TURNED ON.
ABBIE IS DRIVING HOME.
ABBIE: We! Have! A! lead! (Humming “Shore Leave”)
ABBIE’S RECORDER IS TURNED OFF
ABBIE’S RECORDER IS TURNED ON
LILY: What are you doing up so early? I thought you had work tonight.
ABBIE: I did. I haven’t slept.
LILY: Why the recorder?
ABBIE: Lily, at what age might you have been considered a handful?
LILY: What?
ABBIE: It’s for science.
LILY: I was a fussy baby? From what I’ve heard. And contrarian as a toddler.
And then once school started, I had this need to prove myself that made
me do--some really stupid things.
ABBIE: So, basically any age between zero and--
LILY: --now, honestly? I definitely did the typical acting out stuff in middle
school, too, especially after my parents got divorced.
ABBIE: Do you, by any chance, know who handled maintenance for Fenwood in
the early nineties?
LILY: Great-Uncle Tim. We should add him to the list of possible ghosts, by the
way.
ABBIE: How did you know that?
LILY: According to my mom, he was dead back when I knew him, too.
ABBIE: Sorry, what?
LILY: He died before I was born. She said his obituary is in the library.
ABBIE: ...I’ll be right back.
RECORDER TURNED OFF.
RECORDER TURNED ON. ABBIE IS IN
THEIR ROOM.
ABBIE:
Day Four.
Tim Anderson, born in Burlington, Ohio, in 1928. Ran a small home repair
shop in the late 1950’s to mid-1960’s in Columbus, Ohio. Died of lung
cancer in Mount Absalom, Ohio, 1978. Featured in the local paper for
building the gazebo for the 1983 Celery Fest, and again in the years
following for various reasons, including an op-ed written in 1987. No
mention of him after 1996, a date which coincidentally matches up with
the obituary for his partner, Grant.
Note: the Delphic Order and their allies are attempting to leverage
Fenwood House from Dot. Tim helped maintain Fenwood House in the
early 1970’s through the mid-nineties. Tim frequents the diner. The
Delphic Order leadership is opposed to the diner.
I need one of those conspiracy walls, with push pins and string.
I need a night of sleep, probably. It’s weird watching the sun rise from the
other side.
RECORDER IS TURNED OFF.
RECORDER IS TURNED ON.
ABBIE: Project Hunter’s, day six. Bad news: day shift.
RECORDER IS TURNED OFF
RECORDER IS TURNED ON
ABBIE: If we accept that both Wes and Tim are...ghosts, and if we assume that all
ghosts follow the same rules, then it would be as likely to encounter Tim
at noon as it would to find him at midnight. But day shifts mean more
crowds and more children, and that means less time to investigate.
RECORDER TURNED OFF
RECORDER TURNED ON; ABBIE IS
DRIVING HOME IN THE DAYTIME
Today, while she was ordering, the mother of a toddler reached up and
wiped her kid’s dirty hands on my apron. The bounds of personhood are
different in customer service.
Two different birthday parties during my shift. One featured thirty
ten-year-olds.
The coffeemaker was plugged up, and I looked into the kitchen in time to
see the cook plunging it. With a plunger. From the bathroom. I was too
tired to even say anything about it.
When I close my eyes, I still see the after-image of french fries mashed
into the shag carpeting.
RECORDER TURNED OFF.
RECORDER TURNED ON. ABBIE IS
DRIVING.
ABBIE:
Project Hunter’s, day seven. Went to the library again today. I think I’ve
worked out Hazel Gibbons’s work schedule, which makes my
investigations easier. She has a fresh crop of pages working for her, and
either they don’t know my face yet, or they lack the assertiveness that the
job really demands.
Judging by the date of the first online reviews, Hunter’s Diner appears to
have materialized in late June. No mention in the local paper before then
about an upcoming business, or, say, rerouting local traffic to
accommodate construction. Prior to Hunter’s, the land had been vacant
for at least twenty-five years. Earlier maps of the town show that it was, at
various times, a saloon, a soda fountain, a cafeteria, and, in the mid
1970’s, a fast food place called the Hamboree.
The local paper ran a human interest piece when it opened. Hard to tell
with the photographic quality, but the decor bears a strong resemblance
to Hunter’s, which is a better explanation for the dark paneling and shag
than any I can find. Can buildings be ghosts, too? It would explain Wes’s
house. I’m not naive enough to ask whether places can die. I’ve studied
American small towns too long for that.
Another shift in twelve hours. I cannot tell if time passes differently inside
the diner, or if that’s just a side effect of seven and a half hours on your
feet.
ANOTHER SOUND-MONTAGE: ABBIE
ARRIVES AT THE BOARDING HOUSE,
CLIMBS THE STAIRS, SHUTS THEMSELF
IN THEIR ROOM, USES THE COMPUTER,
FLOPS ONTO THE BED, WAKES UP TO
THE ALARM, RUNS DOWN THE STAIRS,
EXITS THE BOARDING HOUSE, DRIVES.
TRANSITION.
BIRD CALLS. DINER BELL CHIMES AS
THE DOOR SWINGS SHUT. RECORDER
TURNS ON.
ABBIE: Project Hunter’s, day nine. Twelve fifty-eight PM. The last of the midnight
rush just departed. (PAUSE) Being alone in the middle of the night in a
dining room lined by severed animal heads doesn’t bother me, except
morally and aesthetically. It’s a minor inconvenience, reminding your one
AM brain that even when something stirs the hairs on the back of your
neck, taxidermied animals can’t breathe.
I only wish the output from the air conditioning unit wasn’t so warm, or
damp.
RECORDER TURNS OFF.
RADIO: That was a white-capped chickodee. And next, we have Tusong Sammy
with “Geordie”
HUMAN MUSIC PLAYS FROM THE
RADIO.
ABBIE: ...The pies are spinning counterclockwise again.
Hello, Tim.
TIM: Evening.
ABBIE: Burger and fries?
TIM: Why not?
ABBIE: I’ll be right back.
FOOTSTEPS ON SHAG CARPETING. THE
SHAG IS A LITTLE STICKY.
ABBIE: Burger and fries for table two!
MORE STICKY SHAG CARPETING
FOOTSTEPS. SORRY, LISTENERS!
SORRY, SOUND DESIGNER!
ABBIE: Can I get you a warmer on your coffee?
TIM: That would be great, thanks.
ABBIE: And on the other coffee?
TIM: Not sure if I’m waiting on someone or not. Would you like to sit down?
ABBIE: I would. So.
TIM: Mm?
ABBIE: How do you like Mount Absalom?
TIM: Oh, it’s a breath of fresh air. I always preferred small towns over cities.
ABBIE: I visited a friend once who did her master’s at OSU. Columbus itself was
fine, but the campus is uniquely charmless.
TIM: Not like Mount A.
ABBIE: You never miss the Book Loft?
TIM: The what?
ABBIE: The Book Loft? In German Village? They converted a 32-room mansion
into a bookstore, it’s memorable.
TIM: Sounds like it.
ABBIE: Except you don’t remember.
TIM: What’s German Village?
ABBIE: You lived in Columbus for over a decade and you don’t know German
Village?
TIM: Seems like I don’t. (PAUSE) Where’s Columbus?
ABBIE: Where did you live before you lived here?
TIM: Well, let’s see, I came in--must’ve been, summer of ‘71? (CHUCKLES)
Just in time for Celery Fest, as it happened.
ABBIE: ...that’s not what I asked, Tim.
TIM: (TAKES A SIP OF COFFEE. TIM IS NOT ALARMED ABOUT THIS, BUT
MAYBE SOMEWHAT EMBARRASSED) It’s all a little--hazy, before then.
Like developing film, before the picture comes in focus?
ABBIE: I have literally only ever used digital cameras.
TIM: Kids and your gadgets!
ABBIE: Tim, have you ever been to Julian?
TIM: Where?
ABBIE: Could you leave Mount Absalom if you wanted to?
TIM: Why would I want to? I’ve got everything I need, right here. (CHUCKLES)
Well, not in the diner, but you know. You should’ve seen Fenwood House
when I first moved in. Raccoons in the attic, possums in the
basement--Grant has a lot of good qualities, but home maintenance isn’t
one of them. And the radiator, Jesus! Hissing and clanging like Jacob
Marley’s ghost.
ABBIE: Wait, that’s fixable?
TIM: Yeah, you just shim up the low end to make sure you don’t get condensed
water trapped in there. It’s the water that causes the problem. Loose
steam, you know? You listen hard, and nine times outta ten, an old
house’ll tell you what it needs.
ABBIE: Houses having their own will, you sound like Rudy.
TIM: Rudy...Should I know Rudy?
ABBIE: No. Rudy is--was--a friend. Now he’s--this person I live with.
TIM: Sorry.
ABBIE: You don’t have to be. He made his choices.
TIM: Sometimes the full impact of a choice isn’t clear, when you’re making it.
ABBIE: We’re getting off track. The radiator steam. Did it ever...sound like voices?
TIM: Sure. Like I said, it’s a matter of listening. One way or another.
ABBIE: And the house tells you what it needs. What does Fenwood need?
TIM: To stay open. To stay full of people. To stay in the right hands.
ABBIE: Do you know of a group called the Delphic Order?
TIM: They run Bingo at the community center.
ABBIE: In your knowledge, have they ever tried to get control of the house
before?
TIM: Sure. Back in...would’ve been ‘78. The year I died.
ABBIE: (DIGESTING) You...know that you’re dead.
TIM: Lung cancer. Don’t smoke.
ABBIE: How did you figure out--?
TIM: Grant told me, when I came back. I mean, it came up.
ABBIE: Look, I have a lot of questions for you. Do you mind if I record our
conversation?
TIM: Go ahead. You want some coffee?
ABBIE: That would be great.
RECORDER TURNED ON
ABBIE: First of all--
THE DINER DOOR DINGS. IT DINGS A
LOT. A CROWD OF PEOPLE SWARM
INTO THE DINER.
ASSORTED CUSTOMERS: Oh thank god this place is still open!
I need a milkshake yesterday.
--so then Dianne said--
Whoa, check out that deer head!
Fries or onion rings, do you think?
I know this makes no sense, but I’m so hungry--
Was that an owl?
TIM: You should take care of that.
ABBIE: Where do they come from?
TIM: Customer service jobs, I tell ya.
Hey, for what it’s worth? About your friend. People leave. They leave
even when they’re not planning on it. If someone’s still around and the
wound’s not too deep, I’d say you might wanna your peace while you can,
Abbie. Life’s full of difficulties, and many hands make light work.
ABBIE: How...did you know my name?
TIM: It’s on your nametag.
ABBIE: Ha. Right.
TIM: Thanks for the coffee.
ABBIE: Tim, I will be right back--
(CUSTOMER SERVICE VOICE) Hi there, my name is Abbie, they/them
pronouns, and I’ll be your gender-neutral server today. Can I get anyone
menus?
TRANSITION. NO MORE CUSTOMER
VOICES. VACCUUM CLEANER IN THE
BACKGROUND.
ABBIE: Goddamn carpet.
VACCUUM CLEANER DIES DOWN.
VOICE RECORDER TURNED ON.
ABBIE: Tim is gone. I think I knew he would be. On the whole, though, this is a
positive development. Now I have time to research and devise a solid list
of questions, and with any luck, I’ll get another night shift soon. Finally,
payoff for this job.
Other than the literal pay I receive for this job, which is $4.15 plus tips.
VOICE RECORDER TURNED OFF.
SOUND MONTAGE: ABBIE CLOCKS OUT,
DRIVES HOME, OPENS THE BOARDING
HOUSE DOOR, UP THE STAIRS, CLOSES
THE DOOR, FLOPS INTO BED, ALARM
RINGS, DOWN THE STAIRS.
ABBIE: Good morning, Lily.
LILY: Uh, Abbie...
ABBIE: Or, good afternoon, technically. But morning is half a state of mind.
(PAUSE) Why are you reading the paper? I didn’t think we even got the
paper.
LILY: We don’t. That’s why. (SIGHS) This was on our doorstep when I came
back from picking up groceries. Abbie, I’m sorry.
ABBIE: (READS) “Local Diner Temporarily Closed”
LILY: The, uh, health inspector said they had twenty-seven different violations.
ABBIE: Lily?
LILY: Yeah?
ABBIE: The health inspector wouldn’t happen to be--
LILY: Chester Warren?
ABBIE SITS DOWN.
ABBIE: Shit. (SIGHS)
RECORDER IS TURNED ON.
ABBIE: Project Hunter’s, day--something. If we accept that both Tim and Wes are
ghosts, and if we assume that all ghosts follow the same rules, we have
no reason to believe that ghosts are bound to any particular location
within Mount Absalom.
RECORDER IS TURNED OFF
LILY: Abbie?
ABBIE: Is there any coffee?
LILY: What? There’s a little left in the pot, I think? It’s cold, though.
ABBIE: Not a problem, I’ll make more.
RECORDER IS TURNED ON
Tim Anderson, if you can hear this, there’s a cup of coffee at Fenwood
House with your name on it. We’ll keep it ready for you.
RECORDER IS TURNED OFF
ABBIE LETS OUT A LONG SIGH.
THE CLOCK TICKS, STUTTERS.
MUSIC
CREDITS.
POST-CREDITS- THE DOOR TO THE DINER SWINGS OPEN. WE HEAR GROWLING, FIGHTING OVER FOOD OF TWO ANIMALS- OR PEOPLE?