Chapter 1: The Quiet Before the Stitch

Chapter 1: The Quiet Before the Stitch

The fluorescent lights of Smiley’s hummed a monotonous, sickly tune, a sound that vibrated deep in Andrew Carter’s bones. It was a noise he’d come to associate with the scent of stale grease, industrial-strength bleach, and a specific kind of dread that only bloomed after midnight. The restaurant’s decor—a riot of cheerful, fading yellows and manic reds—was meant to be welcoming, but under the sterile glow of the humming tubes, it looked like the set of a children’s show gone horribly wrong. The smiling mascot painted on the wall, with its wide, unblinking eyes and too-many-teeth grin, seemed less like an invitation and more like a warning.

It was 2:17 AM. The silence was the first thing that was wrong.

Usually, the night shift at Smiley’s was a cacophony of the bizarre. There was the low groaning from the walk-in freezer (Rule #12: Ignore it. Never open the freezer to ‘check the source.’ The temperature gauge works fine.), or the wet, slapping sound that sometimes echoed from the men’s restroom (Rule #23: Mop it up with the designated ‘Biohazard’ bucket. Do not make eye contact with your reflection in the puddle.). Andrew had grown accustomed to the unsettling soundtrack. He preferred it. Noise, even horrifying noise, was a known quantity.

But tonight, there was nothing. No distant wail of sirens on the interstate. No chorus of crickets from the overgrown lot behind the restaurant. The world outside the plate-glass windows was a vacuum, a black, soundless void. This quiet was a heavy blanket, pressing in on him, suffocating the air. It felt predatory.

Andrew’s hands, slick with sweat, gripped the worn leather cover of the employee handbook. It wasn’t a handbook, not really. He called it the Codex. A thick, dog-eared pamphlet bound in cracking faux leather with a single, golden Smiley’s logo embossed on the front. It was his bible, his shield, his only defense against the clientele that came calling when the rest of the world was asleep.

He ran a thumb over the frayed edge, his gaze drifting to the framed photo he kept tucked inside his locker: a picture of his sister, Lily, smiling a genuine, gap-toothed smile from before the illness had taken root. Before the hushed doctor’s visits and the mounting, astronomical bills from the long-term care facility. That photo was the reason he was here. The pay at Smiley’s was unnaturally, absurdly good. It was the kind of money that bought top-tier care, private rooms, and experimental treatments. It was the kind of money you didn’t ask questions about. You just took it, clocked in, and prayed you’d be sane enough to clock out.

“Come on, just give me a Giggler,” he muttered to the empty kitchen, his voice sounding small and thin in the oppressive silence. “Or a Tall Man. I can handle a Tall Man.”

The Tall Man was easy. Rule #7: He will always order a vanilla milkshake. Use the extra-long straws. Do not comment on his height, even when he has to crouch to fit through the doorway. The Gigglers were messier, their high-pitched tittering grating on the nerves, but their rules were simple too. Rule #19: They pay in mismatched buttons and smooth river stones. Accept it as legal tender.

This silence, though… there was no rule for the silence.

He wiped down the stainless-steel counter for the fourth time, the squeak of the damp rag unnaturally loud. His nerves were shot. Every shadow seemed to lengthen and twist in his periphery. The smiling face on a forgotten Happy Meal box looked like it was sneering at him. He was a bundle of raw anxiety wrapped in a grease-stained polyester uniform. This job was eroding him, chipping away at his sanity night after night, but Lily’s smile in that photo was the glue that held him together. For her, he could endure anything.

Ding-dong.

The sound of the drive-thru sensor ripped through the silence like a gunshot. Andrew jumped, his heart hammering against his ribs. He sucked in a ragged breath, the smell of old fryer oil filling his lungs. For a single, insane moment, he felt a wave of relief. The silence was broken.

Then he looked at the monitor.

The black-and-white security feed showed the drive-thru lane, stark and empty under the sickly orange security light. There was no car. No rumbling engine, no headlights cutting through the dark. There was only a figure. It was standing right where a driver’s-side window would be, unnaturally still. The camera’s poor resolution turned it into a grainy, indistinct silhouette, but Andrew could tell it was humanoid.

His blood ran cold. He snatched the Codex from the counter, his fingers fumbling as he flipped through the laminated pages. Figure at the window, no vehicle. Humanoid, non-vehicular approach. His eyes scanned the index, searching for a protocol, a precedent, anything. There was nothing. Every entry assumed a customer, however strange, would at least be in a car.

He leaned closer to the monitor, squinting. The figure was… waving? No, not waving. It was a gesture. Slow, deliberate. A single finger, beckoning him. An invitation.

A chill, entirely separate from the overactive air conditioning, crawled up his spine. His training, the dozens of rules he had memorized until they were etched onto his soul, screamed at him. Unlisted event. Non-standard entity. Call the manager.

He reached for the wall-mounted phone, his hand shaking so badly he could barely jab the single speed-dial button marked ‘STERLING.’ The line began to ring, each pulse echoing the frantic beat of his own heart. He kept his eyes locked on the monitor, on the silent, beckoning figure. He couldn’t look away.

And then, as the third ring sounded in his ear, the figure did something else. It slowly lowered its beckoning hand. It then raised its other hand, palm open, and made a clear, unmistakable turning motion. The way one might turn a key in a lock.

From across the restaurant, from the front lobby that Andrew had personally locked and bolted two hours ago, came a sound that made every hair on his body stand on end.

Click-clack.

It was the crisp, clean sound of a deadbolt disengaging.

The phone in his ear was still ringing, a pointless, unanswered plea. The figure on the screen remained perfectly still. The lobby was dark and, for now, empty.

But the door was unlocked.

And something was being invited inside.