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- Herausgeber: Crescent Moon Studios, Inc.
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
Long cold nights working at a trucker’s diner makes sassy waitress Misty pine for something more. She gets her wish when rumors spread about strange creatures seen in the night, and one of the regular diners tells her a haunting story.
Misty offers to help him, and before she knows it one trouble leads to another and she’s entwined in a web of death and undeath. The undeath is a handsome and mysterious stranger, and the death might be her own. She’ll have to use all her wits to get her out of this mess, and with most of her blood intact.
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Midnight Customer
Vampire Soul, Book One
Mac Flynn
Copyright © 2019 by Mac Flynn
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Continue the adventure
Other series by Mac Flynn
1
Fate is kind and cruel, and sometimes I wonder if it doesn’t have a sick sense of humor, too.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not the usual kind to go wearing black and brooding. Life wasn’t great, but it wasn’t too bad. I was still on the good side of thirty, but my job as waitress at the local diner wasn’t exactly a future with bright prospects. It was a dingy place off one of the main state highways. A small, cracked-pavement parking lot stood in front of the long, low, rectangular building. There was the usual long counter with its row of hard, plush red, round seats, worn through by the countless heavy tushes of truckers long past. The floor tiles were cracked, the tables along the windows were etched with the names of men and sweethearts alike, and the whole place stank of grease, the house’s special ingredient.
To make matters worse I was the head, and only, waitress for the midnight shift. That was the shift that catered to all the truckers who craved our famous four-apple pie at four in the morning. The only other person who didn’t smell like diesel was the owner and cook, a cantankerous old man named Ralph who cooked up food that tasted like his name and swore like the old hand he was. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but the noise from the kitchen drowned out the quiet at the front.
It was on one of those long shifts that I had my fateful adventure. The night was dark, the weather was drizzly, and my long brown hair was frazzled beyond the abilities of a comb to tame. I ran a little late trying to tame the mane and got to the diner a half hour after my shift started. There was a half dozen trucks outside when I pulled my own beat-up pickup into the parking lot. The hour was half-past five and the day-waitress, Candy, was tapping her foot and serving patrons at the same time. She saw me rush through the doors and nearly dropped her full tray of burgers and fries on my head. The only reason she didn’t was because Ralph would’ve docked her pay for it, labor laws or no labor laws.
“Where have you been?” she hissed.
“My truck had to swim part of the way here,” I replied. That was almost true. The drizzle was aspiring to be a regular downpour, and that promised flooding along the local roads and bridges.
“Well, get to work serving these guys so I can go home,” she replied.
“Yes, ma’am,” I agreed.
I got to work serving the burly but high-tipper clientele, and my coworker hurried out like the place was on fire. The men were a gabby bunch, and I heard the full reports of the local counties.
“That County 12 road is getting worse. I swear my truck almost got swallowed by some of those potholes,” one of the men grumbled.
“What do you expect with everybody fighting over money? They’re all too cheap to spend it on something useful,” another told him.
I noticed one of the regulars munching slowly on his sandwich at his usual booth. His name was Charlie, and you couldn’t find a kinder, gentler giant. He stood six feet six inches tall and had the biggest smile that side of the Mississippi. Right then, however, he had a contemplative expression on his face and only half-listened to the conversation of his fellow truckers. I walked over and refilled his cup of coffee.
“You’re awful quiet tonight,” I commented.
He shrugged and kept munching. “Guess I don’t feel like talking,” he replied.
I raised an eyebrow. This wasn’t like him at all. He was one of the gabbiest people I knew. I sat down opposite him and stared him in the eye. “All right, Charlie, ‘fess up. What’s happened?” I asked him.
“It’s probably those sightings that’s got him scared,” one of the other patrons, a rough man by the name of Ned, suggested. He was my least favorite regular patron because of his harassing attitude toward me and the other truckers. They tolerated him only because he had some good stories.
“Sightings?” I repeated.
“Just some gossip the old women are spreading around. They say there’s a shadow wandering around the farmhouses and scratching at the windows,” Ned explained. Supernatural tales always piqued the interest of the truckers, and this was no exception.
“What’d the thing look like?” another trucker asked him.
Ned smirked, sucked in his ample gut, and basked in the attention. He could only hold the landmass for a few seconds before it spilled back over the waist of his pants. “Well, I heard it’s the shadow of a monster. It sneaks across the walls of the house knocking and scratching at the doors and windows.”
“Has anyone let it in?” the same man wondered.
Ned rubbed his chin and his eyes flitted about the small audience. “I heard there was a family who did in Clark County, and they were found the next day dead.”
I snorted. “How could anyone know they let it in if they were all dead?” I pointed out.
“Well-I-uh-that’s because-um,” Ned stuttered.
“Uh-huh, that’s because no family in Clark County or any other county’s been hit with this shadow thing. I doubt it’s even real,” I argued as I stood. “Now does anyone want anything else? There’s a few slices of pie left,” I offered.
There were a few calls from the truckers, but Charlie still sat there sullen and silent. He dawdled until long after the others had left. Then he strode over to the cash register on the counter, but rather than paying and leaving he sat down on the closest stool.
“Do you really think it’s not real?” he wondered.
