Work Text:
The Nightmare Cafe was a place where things that had already happened sometimes hadn't happened yet, and the clock struck as often as it liked. What did 'opening hours' mean, in a place like that? Bertha couldn't remember ever locking or unlocking the door in all her years of service. When the customers arrived, the cafe was there.
Sometimes it was sizzling bacon and morning sunlight slanting in through wooden blinds. Sometimes it was hard hats lined up along the counter while the blue-collar men laughed over burgers and thick-cut fries. Sometimes it was a lone traveller seeking refuge from the dark with nothing but a cup of coffee to keep them warm. Bertha served them all as they deserved.
When she grew tired, she hung up her apron and walked out through the kitchen and into a memory of the last place that had ever felt like home. Not the most recent efficiency, but the little house on Gregson, the one with a tiny porch and a lopsided tree in the front yard, where the refrigerator buzzed and the nights were always a bit too warm. Bertha would undress, lie down, and wait for the darkness to claim her. She could never remember waking up. When she came back to herself, she would be in the cafe, already in uniform with coffeepot in hand.
You didn't get lazy mornings when you were dead, only restless nights and replayed regrets.
Bertha poured her coffee and leaned heavily on the counter, taking stock of when and where the cafe might be now. Mid-morning, most likely. No one was here except for Blackie, the cafe's owner - more or less. If anyone owned it, he did. He took on all the duties around the place that she did not. He'd been here before she arrived, shown her the ropes, taught her the rules, but he insisted that he was not her boss and her decisions were her own free choice.
At the moment, he appeared to be an elderly gentleman in a thick-knit business suit and tie, entirely staid and proper except for the fact that his feet, clad only in fire-truck-red socks, were propped up on the seat across from him while he read his newspaper.
Bertha poured another coffee and brought it over to him. "Morning," she grunted.
"An excellent morning to you as well. Perhaps even a lucky day," he grinned. "Wulota.... taulow... aha! 'Outlaw.'" He filled in the squares on the Jumble puzzle.
"You expecting a bank robber?"
"Oh, better than that, I hope. But you never know. People can surprise you."
Bertha shrugged. Not much seemed surprising to her anymore.
Blackie tapped his uncapped pen against his chin, leaving tiny spots of red ink against his beard. "You know, I've been thinking. We could use a few new records in the jukebox. What do you think about Connie Francis?"
"'Who's Sorry Now'? I suppose that's fitting." A lot of people were very sorry after eating at this little diner. Particularly if the day's special was meatloaf.
"I had hopes for 'Stupid Cupid'."
Bertha rolled her head around her neck, listening to the crackles. Funny how that still worked. "Setting someone free from bad love? I could work with it."
That was the trick of it. Bertha Matthews was dead, but not quite gone. She lingered in a shadow existence as the Nightmare Cafe's waitress, cashier, short order cook, judge, jury, and executioner.
In her mortal life, she'd been a lunch lady at a cash-strapped school. The administration had slashed the budget and the quality standards for ingredient sourcing behind her back. After the resulting salmonella outbreak put fifty kids in the hospital, they'd thrown together a press conference to publicly pin the blame on her and fire her without notice, even though the damn bugs had come from their cheap pre-packaged sauce and not her cooking. She'd fled to a little hole-in-the-wall diner to drown her sorrows in blueberry pie, only to see her own face plastered all over the local news on the diner's television, setting her up as a hatesink and obvious target for outraged parents. She paid her tab and tried to make a quiet exit, but one of those parents cornered her in the parking lot and punched her in the face, breaking her nose.
Not knowing what else to do, she'd driven herself to the hospital, where instead of sending her home, the reception nurse had told her to take a seat and wait to be seen, and then not bothered to enter her name on the list. She'd dozed off, forgotten, and only stumbled blearily to her feet again once the shouting began. Which was how, quite by accident, she'd ended up between a crazed abuser and his target. She was murdered by a man who didn't even see her as a person, just an obstacle in his way. A final stab of injustice on the world's shittiest day.
Bertha had strong opinions about justice.
Somehow, she'd found herself once again walking and breathing, serving as the newest human hands of that same little 'diner' which was a lot more than it seemed. Anything could happen here, including a second chance, a chance for her to do something about the injustices of the world. People came in, mostly but not entirely people who were still alive. They had problems, they had questions, they had guilt on their souls. Bertha teased out their stories and put in the orders for whatever they had coming. Sometimes a good scare was enough: a monster to chase them through the halls, a door that opened into the void and let them fall, screaming, for a full minute before they crash-landed. Sometimes the message needed a little emphasis: a table pinning someone in place and forcing them to watch the consequences of their own actions play out until it either broke them or it became clear that nothing would. Sometimes all Bertha could do was make sure that a patron consumed the meal that she served them.
The Nightmare Cafe had an excellent supply of arsenic, and bodies dragged into the cooler would magically vanish once the door was shut. Everything worked out nicely.
Even after all her time there, Bertha could not say that she understood exactly how the cafe functioned, but she did feel that they'd reached some sort of understanding. She had a rough idea of what tools were available to her, and they generally showed up when she wanted them. As Blackie said, it was entirely her choice. He might tease a bit about the value of mercy or present some bit of evidence she'd overlooked, but he never forced her to doom or spare anyone in particular. Whatever actions she took, he simply seemed interested and a bit amused.
Turning back to Blackie in the booth where he sat, she asked, "Are you going out to buy those Connie Francis records?"
"Oh, my dear, I never buy anything," he twinkled. "Don't you know what they say? Money is the root of all evil."
Her reply was cut off by the jangling of a bell. Someone was pushing open the front door. Bertha looked up and then down again - someone short. A child, a boy, maybe ten years old with fluffy red hair and wearing a green shirt and a light blue jacket. He looked hesitant, a little lost, but not panicked, not someone desperately seeking a place to hide from worse trouble following. So, probably a troublemaker himself then.
"Seat yourself, I'll be with you in a minute," Bertha called out, and turned away to let him enter without being watched. New patrons were often on the nervous side, and her face had never been one to set anyone at ease, especially children. Nasty little school brats used to call her the cafeteria troll and make piggy noises behind her back. She wasn't a monster, she'd just been overworked and underpaid and tired of it all. Fair or not, she didn't want this child to look at her and spook. The game was no good if they ran out before they ever came in. Once they were inside, though, she had them.
She walked to the counter to pick up a menu and to be sure the glass dome over the pastries was showing them off to best effect. Doughnuts covered with pink icing and sprinkles, what brat could resist? She didn't remember making them in the cafe's kitchen (they did own a deep fryer, it was a possibility) but that didn't really matter. Anything she'd seen in the past or would see in the future was fair game for the cafe to pluck from her mind and set out onto a plate. She could try her hand at doughnuts later, whip up a fresh batch then to be here now. It would keep her busy. But was it worth the effort?
Bertha marched back to the kid's booth, casting a thick paper menu down across the table. "There you go. What's your name, hon?"
The kid looked up at her, all pale face and lying-wide blue eyes. "K-kenny."
"What can I get you, Kenny?"
He stared at her, then back down at the menu. Of course, he didn't know what he wanted, and she deliberately wasn't giving him time to think. Easier to push them when they were distracted.
Bertha squinted out the front window at the sun. Definitely mid-morning, and if the kid was wearing a jacket, it probably wasn't summer. Could be a weekend, how the hell would she know? But he was here for a reason, and he was alone. "Shouldn't you be in school?"
"Uhhhhhhhh...." Kenny tried, blinking. "I'm out sick?"
She'd heard far better lies over the cafeteria counter. Dumb kid didn't even know how to play hooky right. "Well, take your time. Oh, and if you need it -" She jerked a thumb over her shoulder and mentally gave the cafe a little nudge. "Bathroom's that way."
The kid's face turned a satisfying shade of chartreuse. The second she stepped away, he bolted for the swinging doors.
Bertha chuckled and found a stool to perch on, taking the weight off her feet. They never stopped being tired, no matter what time it was or wasn't.
"Now, was that very nice?" Blackie tsked at her, folding up his paper. "You didn't even let the boy order."
"He said he was sick. I'm just keeping him honest." Bertha looked in the direction of the bathrooms, but thankfully couldn't hear anything from here. "Maybe now he'll head home, keep his nose clean."
"Or maybe you should talk to him."
Bertha sighed. "Hey, Blackie? You ever get, you know, tired of it all? Tired of all the lies and the ways people screw up, over and over and over again?"
"No." A gust of hot wind blew across Bertha's legs, and suddenly Blackie was standing in front of her, his eyes dark and deep. "I never get tired of it. And you'd better be grateful that I never get tired of it, because if I did, you wouldn't be here anymore."
His eyes...
It was like staring down the barrel of a howitzer. An infinite blackness you could fall inside, a distant glimmer of half-imagined light, and the penetrating certainty that if it ever blossomed, you would have only a moment to regret...
"Ma'am?"
Bertha squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head to try and clear it. When she opened them again, Blackie was nowhere to be seen, but the kid - Kenny - had emerged from the bathrooms, looking even paler than he had when he entered. Which, for a redhead, was quite a trick. "What?" she grunted.
"Can... can I have some ginger ale? And toast?"
Still wasn't feeling good, was he? Bertha stroked her fingers along the rim of her seat, coaxing the cafe to ease up on any leftover effects. "Sure I can't get you something else? Pancakes? Scrambled eggs?"
Kenny didn't look like he was about to run for the toilets again, but his expression was still miserable. "No thanks."
Hmm. "Coming right up." Maybe there was more to this story after all.
Stepping into the kitchen, Bertha selected two thick pieces of white bread and dropped them into the slots of the old chrome Sunbeam toaster, where they began to automatically descend into heating position. While that took care of itself, she hunted for a can of Canada Dry to pour into a glass for the kid. Tray, glass, plate, toast, silverware, pat of butter, grape jam on the side: done.
The cafe was oddly silent. Blackie was still off wherever he'd gone to. No new customers had come in. No mysterious radio broadcasts or television screens had kicked in. Even the jukebox was witholding its opinion. There was only Kenny, one little kid huddled up in a booth with his head hanging down and his hands rubbing restlessly over each other.
Carefully, she set the tray down on the end of the table. "Here you go."
"Thank you." He didn't look up.
Well, he had something resembling manners. He hadn't tried any horrible pranks so far. He hadn't even stared at her the way that children usually did before they dismissed her as ugly and worthless, something to laugh at. Why was this kid skipping school? "You okay, hon?"
Now he looked at her. "I'm fine!" And he grabbed a slice of dry toast and shoved it into his mouth, apparently hoping this would cut off conversation.
He was out of luck. It wasn't like she had anything better to do. "Where are your parents?" She waited patiently for him to chew and swallow.
"... Busy," he said at last.
"That why you ran away from school? Your parents don't pay attention to you?"
"No!" he protested, apparently offended on their behalf. "My parents are great."
"Uh-huh. So what's on your mind?"
He shrank back further into the booth, but he wouldn't find any method of escape that way. In a small voice he asked, "Do - do you believe bad people go to hell when they die?"
"I hope so," said Bertha. "I'm pretty sure they get there." She'd done her best to send a few that direction.
For some reason, this statement of divine justice didn't appear to make him any happier. "Right," was all he said.
What was up with this kid? Guilty conscience about something, for certain. "So, you gonna pay for this?" If he'd come here just to scam free food, he'd made a pretty pathetic order.
"Uh..." Kenny fished in his pocket and pulled out a folded-over ten-dollar-bill, nearly new.
"Ten dollars? Whoa, high roller," Bertha joked. "You earn that delivering papers?" Maybe he'd stolen it from his mother's purse.
"It was my birthday money," he said. "I don't... really need it anymore."
Oh. Not playing hooky after all.
Quieter now, Bertha slid herself into the booth across from the boy. "You're dead, aren't you?" His eyes widened. "Don't worry, it's okay. I am too. This is a lot of people's last stop before the Big Sleep, or whatever."
Kenny gulped. Reluctantly, he made a little nod, then began trying to butter his remaining toast. "... You stay here?" he asked without looking up.
"I have a job here, so yeah. I stay."
He munched on the toast and swallowed the crumbs. "Could I work here? I - I could clean."
"You're a little too young for it, and we don't need that much help." She pondered. "Sure you don't want some pancakes or something? Ten dollars covers a lot. And you can't leave until you've finished your food."
"Right. Okay." He looked at the menu again. "Pancakes and scrambled eggs. No sausage."
"Coming right up." It was safe enough to leave him alone at the booth for a while now. Kenny wasn't going anywhere. He seemed to understand that it was all over for him once he left the cafe.
Bertha puttered around in the kitchen. She was in no hurry, but eggs and pancakes didn't take long to make. So what was the kid doing here, anyway? Most problems she handled involved the living. Ghosts were infrequent customers, and usually only those with intense regrets, tasks left undone or questions that needed answering before they could move on. How much could a ten-year-old regret? Missing a baseball game? Letting down a friend? And how had he ended up dead at his age?
If he turned out to have died of leukemia, she was going to feel a bit bad for sending him running to the toilets earlier.
But Bertha was no angel and heaven had another highway. Simple tragedy didn't come in for nightmares. No, there was a guilty party somewhere. She just had to find them.
She brought the new plate of food over and set it down for the kid, but he looked in no hurry to dig in, so she sat herself down again. Might as well get to the point. "Who killed you?"
Kenny nearly choked on his water. "It was an accident!" he managed at last.
"Was it your parents?"
"No!"
Well, that one he was angry about, but that didn't prove anything. Victims sometimes defended those who'd abused them. "So what happened?"
He shook his head, then squinted at her. "What happened to you?"
She let out a harsh laugh. "I got played, that's what. I was set up. I got blamed for things I didn't do and killed by mistake. The trigger guy, he went to jail, but the people who really did me over? As far as the world was concerned, they did nothing wrong. They started it, they set off the chain of events, they were responsible, but not legally responsible. So I had some unfinished business." She cracked her knuckles. "Looks like you do, too."
"No."
"You've got a score to settle, don't you? That's why you're here. To find the 'bad people'."
"You don't understand!"
Bertha shrugged. "So tell me. How'd you die?"
Kenny squeezed his lips together, stubbornly silent.
There was a loud crackling sound, and the television screen on the back wall switched itself on. At first there was nothing but gray snow, but the image soon resolved itself into a local news report.
"- plea for witnesses to come forward in a case of suspected arson that claimed the life of a young boy -"
There it was. The badly-burned house, the memorial photo, the grieving parents, the reports of teenage vandalism in the community. The cause of the blaze was still officially undetermined, but the family was desperate to track down the culprits, even if it required someone to betray a confidence.
Message delivered, the TV returned to black silence.
"So," Bertha said. "A fire, huh."
Kenny said nothing.
"Do you know who did it?"
No answer.
"You don't need to be afraid anymore, Kenny. No one else can hurt you now. All I want is to be sure that whoever's really responsible faces their punishment."
Kenny burst into tears.
Bertha tugged at her hair in frustration. Didn't he get it? "I'm trying to help you! I don't want to hurt anyone who doesn't deserve -"
"I deserve it!" he sobbed. "It was me! I was bad, and now I'm going to hell!"
She sat back in her seat. "You started the fire."
He nodded, still crying. His pancakes were getting soggy.
"Was it on purpose?"
He shook his head. "Of course not, it was st-st-stupid, I was just... Didn't mean to! But it was me. It was me and I'm bad and I - I can't, I'm sorry..." Anything else he might have said was lost in the tears.
An accident, that's what he'd said. But he was clearly the person responsible, the original cause. He'd burned down a house. He'd killed a child, even if the child was himself. He'd crushed his parents' hearts. If some teenager suffered from the accusations, that was on his head too. He was guilty and deserved to be punished. That was justice.
Wasn't it?
Maybe, after all this time, she was getting just a bit tired of justice.
So... what the hell. Why not.
Bertha pushed herself up from the booth. Held out a hand. "Come here, kid. Stop crying. We've got a job to do."
"Wha?" Kenny dragged a jacket sleeve across his face. "A job here?"
She shook her head. "We're going to go visit your parents and tell them to stop searching for vandals who don't exist."
"But... but how can we visit them? I'm - You're - "
"Even the dead can walk in dreams," Bertha said. "When we go through the door, that's where we'll go."
Hesitant, Kenny stood. He reached out. His face was still wet, but his hands were dry. "What happens after that?"
"I don't know," Bertha said. "We'll find out."
When Blackie next appeared in the All-Night Cafe, the lights were out and the kitchen was empty. A half-eaten meal was still spread uncleared across a booth, pancakes and scrambled eggs nearly untouched.
"Will you look at that?" he tsked. "It's so hard to find good help these days."
He picked up a tray and swept all the leftovers and crumbs together, then hurled the entire thing as one mass over the counter and into the large sink, where it disappeared in a flash of light.
"And I had those new records all ready to go, too." He shook his head. "I suppose we'll just have to hang out the 'Help Wanted' sign again."
From down in the foundation, a faint vibration rose up, causing the cafe as a whole to tremble. Silverware rattled in its containers. The blinds slid and whispered over the windows. The pink frosted doughnuts spun in place, shrinking down into nothing. The coffeepots burbled, and metal ladles frantically circled the soup pots as if caught in whirlpools.
Behind the counter, as if it had always been there, lay a neatly-folded pink waitress's uniform, no longer in Bertha's size.
"What's that?" Blackie tilted his head as if listening to something. "Two strangers, dying on the same night in the same body of water, both tricked by the same man in different ways, both full of regrets, and neither of them knows anything about the other? Well. I'm willing to bet they might have some interesting thoughts to share. Let's see what our drowned rats might do with a second chance."
And as he walked into the back, still smiling, the jukebox began to play a mournful tune:
There's nothing left for me
Of days that used to be
They're just a memory
Among my souvenirs