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The Man Who Came to Crescent

 The Crescent All Night Diner glows with its familiar neon sheen, just off the highway and surrounded by thick woods. It’s raining another autumn rain, steady and chilly. Mist makes everything seem dreamy, the glittering blue lights reflected in funny ways. 


Mary is still bleary when she walks through the door, hastily stamping out a cigarette. Her boy, little Daniel, has been having nightmares. She frowns, thinking of his screaming and crying, shaking so bad that it’s hard to even hold him. Another appointment with Doctor Ash, maybe medication.. Mary grabs the hot mug of coffee left for her off the counter with one hand and quickly ties her apron with another just as Janet begins to unpack a full days worth of small town gossip into her ear. It’s funny. Janet is small, unassuming behind thick glasses and primly tied hair, a church girl completed by her Virginian drawl. But by god did that girl listen, and talk, and sabotage. Of course Mary doesn’t catch Janet’s nervousness with quick flying hands and a flushed face,  nor does she catch Mike half leaning out of the kitchen with burly arms crossed over his barrel chest. She’s already stepping out of the kitchen, throwing a hello to regulars perched in worn stools. Mary doesn’t sense their downcast gazes, doesn’t hear how loud the radio has been turned to hide an uneasy silence. 


There’s a man in the back. 


All of the words, every half-recognizable hint of disturbance suddenly appears clear as Christ in a miracle. Mary nearly spills her coffee all over Frank who recoils like a frightened dog. “Sorry”, but the apology is seemingly from far away. She can’t stop staring. 


He’s tall, Mary thinks. And she’s right. Even sitting at his booth seemingly half stooped, Mary is certain he would meet her gaze eye to eye with ease. The man is dark skinned— but not black. Tan? His face is long, too, and oddly shaped, and Mary gets an eerie feeling she’s looking at someone wearing a very lifelike mask. Bald with a bowler hat a size too small absurdly placed on his head. Even his eyebrows seem nonexistent. Hairs on Mary’s neck rise: his fingers are almost grotesquely long and thin, tapping on the table in an eerie drumming. 


Janet hisses in Mary’s ear. “He just came in a few minutes ago. Must’ve bypassed us because I didn’t even realize he was here until I was cleaning that table and then I hear him! Christ-almighty Mary, I nearly jumped out of my skin.” A rumbly voice to Mary’s right chimes in, low and watchful. “He ain’t ordered a damn thing. Not even water. Just sittin’ there. You think he’s a commie?” Mary rolls her eyes, this is the fifth time in a week that the man has accused unfamiliar faces of plotting Americas downfall. “Mike”, she says tiredly, “not everybody is out to make you into a choir boy for Marx.” And with that, she walks over to him— 


She’s met with silence. The man is even more eerie up close. Fingers drumming, he sways gentle back and forth in his seat. Humming softly. Mary clears her throat. Suddenly, the man is looking at her. It takes an effort to not take a step back. His eyes are blue— so blue they’re almost a pale, milky white. She wonders if he’s blind because for a moment more he is silent before speaking. 


The voice that greets her is reedy. Too high for a man who’s damn near seven feet tall. “Hello”, he says. Strange eyes peer back at her. Mary can feel the entire establishment at her back, starring, waiting. *Who the hell is this guy?*


“What— what can I get you?” The words come out slow and laden with an odd, sudden anxiety. This is not right. This man does not belong here. He is looking too long, too deep. He hasn’t blinked. Not once. His eyes do not deviate from her own. The menu, the dinner, all of it might as well be imaginary. He is just looking at her. Watching. Her next words feel almost involuntary. They come out in a whisper. 


”Where are you from?”


The man smiles a smile that makes Mary’s skin crawl. The animal far down within her wants to run, to hide from this man, to flee out into the rain and the cold beyond the glass. He is not right. His smile seems to widen with each heartbeat. In a slow, silent motion, he raises his hand. A single finger points skyward. 


”From up there.”

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