A Script for Grease Trap Prophecies

The diner, 'The Greasy Spoon', was an island of light in the pre-dawn dark. Its sign was missing the 'G', so it just read 'REASY SPOON', which felt more honest. Judy wiped down the counter, the damp cloth smearing grease into new patterns. Her gift—or curse, depending on the day—was tied to this place, to the ancient, dented coffee percolator that gurgled and hissed on its hot plate like a sleeping dragon. It had been here since the diner opened in the forties, and it had seen things. Sometimes, it showed them to her.

The bell over the door chimed, announcing a new customer. It was Paulie. He looked worse than usual. His eyes were shadowed, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of a jacket that was too thin for the autumn chill. He slid onto a stool at the far end of the counter, away from the other two patrons. He wasn't here for eggs.

"The usual, Judy?" he asked, but his eyes were pleading. The 'usual' was their code. It meant he was in trouble. It meant he needed a Reading.

She felt a knot of anxiety tighten in her stomach. Readings were dangerous. They took a toll, and the information they provided was often as murky as the coffee itself. Worse, her manager, Denny, was in his office, and he had a strict 'no mysticism on the clock' policy.

"Coffee's a bit strong this morning, Paulie," she warned, her voice low. It was her part of the code, her way of asking if he was sure. If he really wanted to know. "Might keep you up."

"I haven't slept in three days," he shot back, his gaze flickering towards the manager's office. "I need something to cut through the fog." That was his confirmation. He was desperate.

Damn it. She gave a curt nod and turned to the percolator. The glass bubble on top showed coffee bubbling, dark and thick as crude oil. She grabbed a heavy ceramic mug, one of the old ones with hairline fractures mapping its surface. The vessel mattered as much as the brew. With Denny's back turned, she whispered the request into the steam rising from the pot. "Show me what's hunting him. Show me the way out."

She poured the coffee, her hand steady despite the tremor she felt inside. The liquid swirled into the cup, almost black. She slid it down the counter to him. "Careful," she said. "It's hot."

He wrapped his hands around the mug, as if for warmth, but she knew he was trying to connect with the vision, to steer it. That's not how it worked. The pot showed what it wanted to show, and it usually showed it to her.

Judy busied herself by the till, pretending to count receipts, but her mind was open, waiting. It came on fast. Not a vision in her head, but a change in the world around her. The sizzle of bacon on the grill deepened into the sound of crackling fire. The smell of frying onions was replaced by the acrid scent of sulphur. Paulie, sitting at the counter, flickered. For a second, he wasn't wearing his thin jacket, but heavy, archaic robes, a strange sigil embroidered on the chest.

The vision sharpened. She saw Paulie in a dark room, standing before a stone altar. He was chanting, his voice low and powerful. He wasn't running from something. He had stolen something.

Her breath caught. That was bad enough, but then the vision shifted again. It showed her who was hunting him. Not a monster, not a demon. It was a person, their face obscured in shadow, but their hand was clear. And on that hand was a ring, a silver band with a single, unblinking obsidian eye set in it.

Judy's blood ran cold. She knew that ring.

A Familiar Shadow

The vision shattered, the diner sounds and smells rushing back in, making her dizzy. She gripped the edge of the counter. Paulie was staring at her, his face pale. "Did you see it? What did you see?"

She couldn't speak. She could only shake her head. The ring belonged to her mentor, the man who had taught her how to use the percolator, the man who had vanished five years ago without a trace. The man she had thought was dead.

"It's not what you think," she managed to whisper, her eyes wide with a fear that had nothing to do with Paulie's problem and everything to do with her own. "You didn't just take something. You took it from him."

Paulie looked confused, then terrified. "From who? Who is it?"

Before she could answer, the bell on the door chimed again. A figure stood silhouetted against the pre-dawn light. Judy didn't need to see his face. She didn't need the vision. All she could see was the glint of silver on his hand as he pushed the door closed behind him, the obsidian eye of his ring seeming to drink the diner's weak light.

He wasn't dead. And he had come for what Paulie had stolen. And, she realised with a sickening lurch, he had come for her.