The Last Customer at The Old North
He came every night at 2:13 AM. I never saw him leave.
I started working the night shift at the 24-hour diner on High Street in Old North Columbus because the rent was cheap and I needed quiet to write.
The diner had been there since 1962. Vinyl booths cracked with age, a neon sign that buzzed louder than the fridge and a regular crowd of OSU students pulling all-nighters. My manager, Mr. Lee, gave me one rule on my first day.
"Don't serve Table 6 after 2
AM."
I thought he was joking. Table 6 was
in the back corner, under the only flickering light we never fixed. It was
always empty.
"Why?" I asked.
He just said, "You’ll
know."
For three weeks, nothing happened.
The shift was 10 PM to 6 AM. Drunken students, tired nurses from Wexner Medical
Center, Uber drivers. At 2 AM, the diner was always dead.
Until Thursday.
At 2:13 AM, the bell above the door
jingled. I looked up from my notebook. A man stood there, soaked. It was
raining outside, but not that hard. His coat was dripping, forming a puddle.
He was old, maybe 70s, wearing a
gray flat cap and a wool coat that looked too heavy for September.
He didn't look at me. He walked
straight to Table 6 and sat down.
My blood went cold. Mr. Lee's rule
flashed in my head.
I walked over, nervous. "Sir,
we're... that table is closed for cleaning."
He slowly looked up. His eyes
were... wrong. Too dark. No reflection from the fluorescent light.
"Black coffee. Two sugars. And
the apple pie. Warm," he said, his voice like wet newspaper.
I swallowed and went to get it. When
I brought it back, he was staring at the empty booth across from him, smiling
faintly, like someone was there.
"She always liked the
rain," he whispered.
I left him alone.
At 2:37 AM, I went to check on him.
The plate was empty. The coffee cup was empty. And he was gone.
The bell never jingled. The front
door was locked from inside.
And on the table, where the plate
had been, there was a wet circle of water that was shaped like two handprints.
Small ones. Like a child's.
I told Mr. Lee the next morning. He
went pale.
"Fifty years ago, there was a
man. Mr. Henderson. He lived two blocks from here. Every Thursday night, he
brought his granddaughter here after her piano lessons. Apple pie. Same order.
1978, rainy night, car accident right on High Street. Both died. The girl was
7."
I didn't work Thursday for a month.
I switched shifts.
Last week, Mr. Lee quit. He moved
back to Korea. He said he was tired. He left me the keys to close.
So I had to work Thursday.
2:13 AM. Bell jingled.
Same man. Same coat. Same Table 6.
But this time, he wasn't alone.
They both looked at me.
"Two apple pies this
time," the old man said. "She's hungry."
I made the pies with shaking hands.
My feet felt cemented to the floor. When I placed them down, the girl looked up
at me and smiled. Her teeth were stained black.
"Thank you for waiting with
Grandpa," she said. "He gets so lonely when you don't serve
him."
She reached out. Her cold, wet hand
touched mine.
I ran to the counter and didn't look
back until 3 AM. When I did, Table 6 was empty. But there were two empty
plates. And two wet handprints now. One big, one small.
And a teddy bear, left on the seat,
still dripping.
It's still on the counter next to me
as I write this. I hear the bell is going to jingle again in 10 minutes. It's
2:03 AM on Thursday.
If you are ever on High Street in Old
North Columbus after 2 AM, don't go to the diner with the buzzing neon sign.
And if you do, never sit at Table 6.
Because they are still waiting for
someone to finish the pie with them.
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