Free Twisted Little Things and Other Stories by Amy Cross

much.
    “Tough night?”
    Turning, she saw Clyde, one of the kitchen assistants, smiling at her as he carried an empty rack over to the pile in the corner.
    “I'm fine,” she replied, once again forcing a smile. “It's nothing. I should get back out there.”
    “I overheard that windbag screeching out there,” he continued, setting the rack down and then wiping his hands on the front of his already-stained apron. “I hate to say it, but you're gonna have to get used to people like that if you wanna work in the service industry. We get at least one full-on asshole every night, although to be fair she was kinda going overboard. Even as ass-wipes go, she seemed top-drawer.”
    “I really should get back to work,” she said again, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she turned back to the door. “I have to get back to my covers.”
    “Did no-one tell you about table nine?”
    She stopped for a moment, with her hand on the door, before glancing at him. She knew she should just keep going, but at the same time his question had stirred a few doubts in her mind. “What about it?”
    “Why it's always left empty,” he continued, still wiping his hands on his apron as he took a step closer. “I've been working here almost two years now, and I've never seen anyone sit at that table. No matter how busy the place gets, no matter how rammed we are, table nine just sits there in the corner by the window, all laid up but completely untouched.”
    Stopping next to her, he looked out through the small window in the door. Lisa quickly joined him, and they both stared for a moment at the busy restaurant. Sure enough, every other table was packed, with customers having booked weeks in advance to eat at one of the town's most popular establishments. Croussiard's was known throughout England as a high-end restaurant serving a fusion of traditional British and French cuisine, and the low-lit, sleek, dark building catered to diners who never thought twice about paying several hundred pounds for a good meal. Reservations were hard to come by, especially following a glowing review in the nationals a few weeks earlier, and the place was always busy, and yet...
    And yet in the far corner, tucked away in the shadows next to a window, table nine stood defiantly, conspicuously empty.
    “What's wrong with it?” Lisa asked, turning to Clyde.
    A faint smile crossed his lips.
    “What?” she asked, before realizing he was probably just trying to trick her on her first night. “Does it wobble or something? Ants?” She waited a moment. “Never mind, I should -”
    “It's haunted.”
    She frowned. “I'm sorry?”
    “That's what they say, anyway,” he continued, glancing at her. “The way I heard it is that a long time ago, like twenty years back or more, some woman killed herself during a busy evening, right there at table nine. Apparently she was well-known around the place, she used to come once a week with her fiance and table nine was, like, their special romantic spot, the one they always asked for. You know, all that soppy, lovey-dovey stuff.”
    He paused, grinning, before they both turned to look back out at the table.
    “And then,” he went on, with a conspiratorial tone creeping into his voice, “one night she showed up alone, asking for the same table. Wearing all black this time, they reckon, and acting just a little off. She ordered her usual, and the waitress apparently told the cops later that she could tell something wasn't quite right. Turns out she was heart-broken over being dumped. She sounds well emo, if you ask me. And then a few minutes later, according to the story, the woman took out a little bottle from her pocket and gunned down a home-brew of rat poison and bleach, right there at table nine.”
    “That...” Lisa paused for a moment, staring at the empty table. “That can't be... You're making that up.”
    “You reckon?” he asked with a faint smile. “The whole thing's easy enough to check.