Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 10 Rules For Working at the Midnight Diner | Part 1

Episode Date: June 4, 2025

At the Midnight Diner, the rules keep the chaos in check—until a new hire with a monstrous secret breaks them one bite at a time. Author: Jake Bible * * * EXPLICIT CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and graphic depictions of violence intended for adults 18 years of age or older. These stories are NOT intended for children under the age of 18. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised. #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #truescarystories #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

to nice sleep. First rule is the diner is for eating. The manager, Horton Shulkill, says to me as I try to tie my apron around my waist. When he doesn't continue, I look up and see him glaring at me. You gonna listen, kid? Are you gonna play with yourself? Um, sorry, I say, and give up on the apron. I can't seem to get it tied.

Forget about the damn apron. I don't want to get my shirt messy. Horton eyes me, then laughs. It isn't a kind laugh. It isn't meant to make me feel better. No, it's a cruel laugh. The laugh of someone who knows better. Kid, by the time your shift is over, you'll be lucky that shirt isn't covered in shit, blood, or vomit.

Are all three? This is the midnight diner. The whole city comes here, and the city brings its messes right along. Which is why we have the rules. You follow the rules, and you'll make it here just fine. You miss even one rule and... Well, it ain't gonna be pretty, I can tell you that. Right, sorry, I say.

And just let the strings of my apron fall to the side. Horton sighs, reaches out, and tries to tie my apron for me, and tries, and tries. Atticus! he shouts. making the few customers in the diner look up from their plates. Get your ass out of here now. I'm busy! A voice calls out from the kitchen.

I don't give a good goddamn. Get your ass out here now! The sound of pans being thrown and dishes breaking echoes out from the order window. Then silence. Finally, a grizzled old man who asked to be in his late 80s or close to it comes shuffling out of the kitchen's swinging door. Like Horton, Atticus is human, which isn't always the case in the city. But the guy is so shriveled and wrinkly that he looks like he could be any one of several different species.

A small troll, a large hobgoblin, an elf left too long in the sun, a hairless wendigo. Although he'd have to have antlers coming out of his head to be a wendigo. But who knows? Maybe he had them removed. What'd you do to this apron? Horton asks Atticus. His finger aiming right at my wrist. Did you hex the strings? No.

Atticus says, and turns to go back to the kitchen. Hold your horses, mister. Orton barks. Are you lying to me? Yep. Atticus says without breaking stride. He's lost to the kitchen once more. And the sounds of pots and pans banging start up again.

Give me that. Orton says, and snaps his fingers at me. Give you what? What do you think? The damn apron. Right. Sorry. I take the apron off and hand it to him. He mumbles a few words that I can't quite hear, then tosses the apron back at me.

It hits me in the face, and I fumble to keep from dropping it. Do I need to tell you what to do next? No, sir, sorry, I say, and put the apron back on. The strings tie without a problem. Well, now that we have that stupidity out of the way, Gordon says and rubs his face. Where were we? You said the first rule is that the diner is for eating. The first rule?

We're only on the first damn rule. He shakes his head and turns away from me, muttering. I'm going to burn this place down one day. Mark my words. Can I get some more coffee? A young ogre shouts from the corner booth. Coming right up! Horton says.

His voice cheery and polite, not the mean growl he's been subjecting me to. He nods. Follow me. Porton grabs the coffee pot from the machine and walks out from behind the counter. I do as he says and follow right behind. We walk past a few customers finishing their meals. None of them is who I'm looking for. How is everything?

He asks the young ogre, who is busy reading a very thick book. Good book? It's fine, the young ogre says, and pushes his coffee cup close to the edge of the table. Excellent, excellent. Horton says, pouring coffee. Are you interested in ordering some food? Or will it just be coffee this morning? Just coffee!

The ogre says in a tone that tells me he's five seconds from smashing the now full cup with his fist, or with the book. The thing is thick enough to easily crack ceramic, sure. Very well, then, Horton says, and gives a little bow. Just holler when you need more. The ogre stops reading and looks up at Horton. His eyes are the color of brushed steel.

Or you can do your job and keep my cup full without me having to ask. Can you do that old man? Can you? Orton swallows, and the sound echoes throughout the diner. Then he widens his smile and does the same small bow again. Of course. He turns to leave and almost crashes into me. I have to scramble to get out of his way. I glance at the young ogre, but he's back to reading his book,

as if none of that had just happened. If I was my regular self, I'd show him some manners, but I can't crack now. This is a long game. When we're back behind the counter, I ask Corton. Is one of the rules that we have to kiss rude customers' asses? You ever see what an ogre can do to a man's head with just one hand? Corton asks, setting the coffee pot back in the machine.

Um, no, I lie. Then shut your trap about rude customers. Unless they start to get violent, they can be as rude as they want to be. He fixes his eyes on me and grins. It's a genuine grin. As long as they can pay. Is that a rule? What?

That they pay? No, no, that's commerce. That's the law. Right. Of course. Sorry. Stop saying sorry. Or I'll give you something to be sorry about.

My dad used to say that. Wise man. He was eaten by a... griffin over near stalkers park when I was eight stalkers park what was he doing over there stalking walked into that one horton mutters we stand there for a second me anxious that have already blown the job before I've even taken my first order and horton probably wondering whether he's made a huge mistake in hiring me I can't blow this job I put in a lot of work to get it why is the first rule the diner is for eating. What does that even mean?

Horton takes a deep breath to get himself back on track. It means this diner is for eating, not for fighting, not for working, not for hunting, not for nothing except for sitting down, ordering some food and eating it. Or drinking. What? Or drinking. Like the ogre in the corner. He's just drinking. Horton blinks, then shakes his head. Yeah, and for drinking too. But that's a lot of sort of implied in the eating. I start to argue the point, since drinking isn't the same as eating, but the look on Horton's face makes my words die before they can pass my lips.

The front door chimes, and three women of indiscriminate age walk in, their heads close together as they whisper to each other. I say indiscriminate age, because their features continually shift from young to old to middle age over and over and over. Is it anywhere you'd like, ladies? Orton calls out. The three look up and stare at us. Their faces solidify into three young women, and they each give us huge smiles.

Thank you, kind sir, one of them says, ushering her friends to the closest table. They plopped down and lean close again. Their whispers, like a cold draft warming its way through a crack in an old window pane. Orton grabs three menus and then nods at me to follow. Ladies, he says, setting a menu in front of each of them. Something to drink to start. Black tea, one says. Same.

The second says. I like the fruit smoothie, but instead of strawberries, can you add frog livers? The third asks. No, I am sorry, but we cannot do substitutions. Cannot? Oh, I'm sure you can figure out. a way to make the switch." The woman says, adding her eyes at Horton.

Unfortunately, no. Horton says. Then he turns to me. That is the second rule. No substitutions. Why? Yeah, we'd like to know why, too. The third woman says.

My apologies, ladies. Horton says. I am training this young man. It is his first day. He clears his throat. The reason for the second rule is that we have a set menu and only one cook. Substitutions tend to create hiccups in our efficient flow, and orders become backed up, hurting all customers.

That's it, the first woman asks. You don't want to be inconvenienced? That, and we also do not want any inadvertent hexes to be created. Orton continues. You'd be surprised how a tweak here and a tweak there can change an ordinary dish like a tuna melt into a nightmare of a sentient sandwich that tries to eat all of the customers. Oh, crap. Has that happened? I asked.

It was an example only, Orton says. Then focuses on the third woman. Would you still care for the smoothie as is, ma'am? Yeah, sure. I don't care, the woman says with a shrug. I just like the taste of liver. But strawberries are good, too. Excellent. Two black teas and a smoothie coming right up. I'll have the teas out right away. The smoothie will just be a minute. He leaves the table, and I follow.

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and their shop pay button. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify. dot com slash d ns go to shopify.com slash dns that's shopify.com slash dns witches he says under his breath as he grabs two cups for the tea and puts in the order for the smoothie they are one of the main reasons we don't do substitutions them i ask looking over at the women stop staring fool sorry you see kid witches will substitute ingredients all day long until the next thing you know, you've brewed up some elixir for them that not only cost ten times what the original dish would have cost, but can also turn you into a dog or tree or shoe salesman. I don't want to be any of those things. No one does, kid. No one does. He pours hot water

over the tea bags, then picks up the cups and starts to walk away. I begin to follow, but he shakes his head. Go check on the ogre and see how his coffee is, Orton says. Also, see if he wants is check. The lunch rush will be soon, and we'll need the table. Lunch rush? It's two in the morning. Not everyone eats lunch in the middle of the day, kid. Oh, right. Sorry. I'll ask. I look around, basically turning in a circle like a moron, then stop, take a breath, grab the coffee pot, and head over to the corner booth. Gotta play the part. Got to play the part. Got to play the part. Want a fill up? I asked the young ogre.

No. Um, would you like the check? No. Oh. I just sort of stand in place. He shut me down on the two things I was supposed to accomplish, so I'm not quite sure where to go from here. You need something? The ogre asks, without looking up from his book.

I, um, well, we sort of will need the table in a bit, I say. The lunch rush is coming. And that's my problem? Somehow. Oh, it's not. It's not. Then why are you still standing here bothering me? Smoothie up. Atticus shouts from the order window. I, uh, well, um...

I stammer as I try to figure out how to get myself out of this customer service debacle have gotten myself into. What's the name of the book? What? The book you're reading. What's the name? He rolls his eyes, then flips the book over. How to make enemies and disembowl people. I say, reading the cover out loud. So it's self-help?

It helps someone. The young ogre says, then goes back to reading. Right, great. I'll come back soon and check on your coffee. Good idea. I hurry back behind the counter and set the coffee pot into the machine. My hands are shaking so hard I thought I was going to drop the pot. Don't worry, ogre's bites are worse than their barks,

Atticus says from the order window. Don't you mean they're going to? their barks are worse than their bites? Did I say that? No. Then you figure it out, genius. I nod an apology and narrow my eyes. Is this the smoothie for the table with the three ladies?

I ask, seeing that the smoothie hasn't been picked up and delivered yet. I look about the diner. Where's Horton? No clue, genius, Atticus says. Then moves away from the order window and out of sight. Then there's more crashing of pots and pants. I grabbed the smoothie and deliver it to the table. Straw? I ask.

No thanks, the third woman says as she proceeds to gulp down the smoothie. The other two just watch me closely, their eyes twinkling like they have a secret. If they're witches like Horton said, then they probably have all kinds of secrets. But something in the way they keep shifting in their seats tells me that this secret is relevant to the diner. Um, not to be a bother, but have you seen the manager? I ask. We have. The first woman replies.

Oh, good. I say with audible relief. Um, did you happen to see where he went? Lost track of the boss, did you? The second woman asks. The third woman is busy smacking her lips, having finished her smoothie. I try to think of something to say that doesn't sound stupid. When nothing comes to mind, I just nod.

Have you looked for him? The second woman asks. Like, really looked for him? The first woman adds. Not yet, no, I say. And I'm about to continue when something catches my eye. Horton is inside the salt shaker and pounding his little tiny fists against the glass as he screams and screams and screams. I point.

Did you do that? Who? Us? The first woman asks with fake innocence. Do we look like we could shriems? drink a man and put him inside a salt shaker? The second woman asks. I'm ready to order. Are you guys ready to order?

The third woman says. Totally. The first woman says. You okay, kid? The second woman asks me. You look like you're going to be sick. My eyes never leave the salt shaker. It's, you know, my first day, and now my boss is in a salt shaker,

and the lunch rush is coming, and I haven't even learned the third rule for the midnight diner. I say, all in a rush. Lunch rush? It's 2.30 in the morning. The second woman says. I think I'll have the Monte Cristo sandwich. The third woman says. But I don't know.

Rules? The first woman asks and leans toward me. Tell us about these rules. Um, the diner is for eating and no substitutions. I say in shrug. That's all I've learned. The first woman frowns. That's so sad.

Maybe I'll have the sloppy Joe instead. The third woman muses and looks at me. How much real Joe is there in the sandwich? An arm, a leg, a torso? Are we talking the whole Joe here? I'd have to ask the cook. Look at that sad face, the first woman says. He's really bumming me out.

You want to set the prick free from the shaker, don't you? The second woman responds to the first. For the kids' sake. Seriously? Look at him. They do, and I shrink a little. not literally. I don't think I could shrink any more than I have, but I give the appearance of collapsing in on myself. Honestly, I'm surprised they haven't sniffed me out.

Chris cringle on a cracker. Yeah, he does look sad. The second woman says with a laugh, just pitiful. Hey, can I get some more coffee? The young ogre shouts. Be right there, sir. Sir? The second woman says, looking over her shoulder. Did you just call an ogre, sir? It's the polite thing to do.

Is that one of the rules? The first woman asks. I don't know. I reply. Maybe. I haven't heard all the rules. We know. The first woman interrupts. The black-eyed peas.

The third woman says, tapping the menu. How exactly do they get the black eyes? Do you punch the peas yourselves? Do they already come pre-beaten? Hey man, my man. coffee? Be right there, sir. I sigh and try to steady my voice. May I please ask you ladies to release the manager so I can continue training? Only because you said please. The first woman says and grabs the salt shaker. She tosses it to me and I barely catch it after

bobbling it a bit. Take that behind your counter and dump it on the floor. He'll be good as new. Just dump it out? I ask, holding the salt shaker like it's a precious behind the counter. It won't work unless you're behind the counter. Oh, okay, thanks. I hurried to the counter, trying to look at the corner booth along the way. I'll get that coffee for you now. Behind the counter, I crouched down and unscrew the shaker's lid. Then I turned it upside down and let the contents, which include Horton, dump out onto the rubber runner. Before I can even move, Horton is growing full size, the top of his head clipping my chin and making me bite my tongue.

Damn, witches! Horton exclaims under his breath as he brushes salt from his clothes. Always with the little tricks, he frowns. What's wrong with you, kid? Bit my tongue. Coffee! The young ogre roars. I'm stuck inside a salt shaker for a few minutes,

and you've already forgotten how to do your job, Horton says, exasperated. I was setting you free. I protest as I grabbed the coffee pot. I'm on it, I'm on it. My stomach growls. Uh-oh. No breaks and no meals until after your shift, Orton says.

What? I ask, halfway around the counter. You will have to ignore your stomach, kid. You work until the work is done. I stare at him for a moment as my stomach growls again. He thinks he knows why. He's wrong. Go on.

He snaps. Get the ogre's coffee. I nod and hurry off. Took you long enough. The young ogre says, I reach his table and fill his cup. I'll take that stupid check now. Oh, great, I say.

I'll be right back. Great? What does that mean? You want to get rid of me. Is that it? What? No, no. It's just the booth will be free for the rush, that's all. I didn't mean anything by it. Better not have. I'm sweating like a cursed pig when I get back behind the counter

and start looking for the ogre's check. Orton hands it to me. Cash only. He says. Good to know. I say and start to walk off. He grabs my arm. No, that's the third rule. Cash only. We don't take jewels, gold, weapons of any kind, cursed or not. And certainly no cursed feathers, rocks, beans, definitely no magic beans. Firstborns, wishes, promises, goose eggs, golden or otherwise, spun straw or frogs. And no personal checks or credit cards. So just cash. Just cash. I nod and hustle back to the ogre. His check pinched between my fingers. Here you go.

I say and set the check down by his coffee cup. You pay at the register. He just rolls his eyes. When I return to the counter, the ogre is heading toward the restrooms. The door chime dings, and about a dozen wraiths come shuffling into the diner, each with a stack of delivery bags in their arms. They hiss and grunt from inside their dark hoods. and I watch their short bodies move toward the center.

Be nice to the wraiths, Horton whispers to me as he bends over the counter to look at the short creatures. Each wraith's head barely clears the top of the counter. That's the fourth rule. Oh, I'm always nice to wraiths. It's just a good general rule to have. Be nice to the wraiths. They handle all food deliveries in the city. And if you piss even one of them off, then word spreads.

And soon you're getting three-day-old pass. had dye delivered to you instead of fresh lobster rolls. Yeah, being nice to the wraiths is always a good idea. Plus, I want to stay off their radar. If anything can sniff me out, it's a wraith. Atticus! Horton shouts. What?

Atticus asks, after he appears in the order window. Then he looks past us at the tops of hoods at the counter. Oh, right. Send him back. Atticus has your orders ready in the kitchen. Horton says. to the wraiths. The wraiths shuffled past the counter and through the kitchen door. The sound of pots and pans being banged around increases a hundredfold, and I swear someone is screaming too. But then the kitchen door swings open, and the wraiths walk out with their delivery

bags full, all headed for the front door. What happened back there? I asked Gordon. What do you mean? The wraiths picked up their orders. That's what happened back there. Yeah, but it sounded like... It sounded like work is what it sounded like. You know work, right kid? I get the hint and let the subject drop. Um, what's the fifth rule? Always ask about allergens or dietary needs, he says.

Speaking of, have you taken the witch's orders yet? Oh, no. I was busy getting you out of the salt shaker. Well, you still have to do your job. Right. I was going to go back to them after. after filling the ogre's coffee, but then you... You're blaming me for your laziness?

What? No, I'm not blaming you for anything. I was just... So you take responsibility for your own laziness. That's how it should be. I wasn't being... Go take their order. Okay, sure. And I'll remember the fifth rule.

You'll remember all the rules. But I've only learned... Go! I scrambled out from behind the counter and over to the witches. Have you decided? decided? Going with the Monte Cristo, the third woman says. It's not made from real count, is it? My system can't do too much aristocracy. Tears me up inside. It's not pretty. It's not, the second woman says. And I'll have the vegetable

soup, but instead of green beans, I'd like newt legs. Thanks. No substitution, sorry. How about I substitute your head for a donkey's ass? I bet you'll be real sorry then. Calm down. The first woman says to the second. The kid is only doing his job. Whatever. The second woman replies. She looks me up and down.

Kid. Right. Would you still like the soup? I ask, ignoring her scrutiny. She may suspect, but she doesn't know. If she did, they'd let me know. Fine. I'll have the soup with the green beans.

She finally says. We could get fried newtlegs on the side. The third woman suggests. Do that, the second says to me. Fried meat legs on the side. Got it, I say, and look at the first woman. And for you? You never answered me about the amount of count in the Monte Cristo.

The third woman says. None as far as I know. I say, my focus still on the first woman. Ma'am, the garden salad with blue cheese dressing. Extra onions, please. Great, I'll get your order in right away. Thank you, ladies, I say and rushed back to the counter, excited to put in my first order. Did you ask about allergens? Horton asks me.

Crap! No, I forgot. I'll go ask now. Yes, you will. Do you know what would happen if a minor demon were to come in here and there was salt in its food? Um, no. Well, it's not good. They swell up and then explode, and it can take weeks to find all the pieces. Demons have a way of detonating in the most annoying of ways. I didn't know that. Or if you were to serve a cupcake to a werewolf?

What if the decorations have silver in them? Sometimes Atticus gets a little crazy with the edible glitter. It gives the food pizzazz! Atticus shouts from the kitchen. I don't want any werewolves or minor demons to get hurt, I say. No, no, you do not. Gordon responds and snaps his fingers. Go ask them!

I go and ask the witches if they have any food allergies or special dietary needs. The third woman wonders about the amount of count and the Monte Cristo again. I rush back to Horton, who tells me that it is a ridiculous question, and to stop letting the witches waste my time. No count! I call over to the witches. Thanks, doll! The third woman replies.

Here. The young ogre says, setting his check on the counter along with a $10 bill. Keep the change. Oh, thanks, I say, and grab the check and money, then walk to the register. Have a great day. It's night. Oh, right, sorry. Have a great night.

I entered the check and break the tent from the register's till. I'm about to put the tip in my pocket when Horton grabs my hand. I took his order when he got here. That's my tip, he snarls. Little flecks of spit catching at the corners of his mouth. I open my hand, and he snatches the money out of it. in a blink. I barely see him move before my palm is empty. You'll make plenty during the rush, he says, and then glances at the clock on the wall above the order window.

Speaking of, it should start right about now.