The Graveyard Shift: A Horror Comedy (24/7 Demon Mart Book 1)

by D. M. Guay

  “Go on, make a plate,” Mom said.

  I did. She did. We all sat at the table together. Which is what families are supposed to do, but it was weird because we weren't that family. We rarely ate together or even at the same time, except on holidays. Or when my sister was home from college, rubbing it in my face that she was actually going to get a degree. With honors. Stupid sister.

  I took a bite of my pulled pork sandwich. So sweet, so salty, so delicious. “Mmmm.” I groaned. I couldn't help it.

  “Oh, sweetie, I'm glad you like it. I made it just for you,” Mom said. “To celebrate.”

  My gut sunk into my shoe. “Celuhbrade wha...?” My mouth was stuffed full, okay?

  “Your new job, silly,” she said. “We're very proud of you.”

  Shit. How was I gonna tell her I quit? I had a minute to think while I chewed a giant wad of sweet barbecued meat.

  “Yep. Real proud, Lloyd,” Dad said. A blob of barbecue sauce sat on his chin. “Frankly, we were worried you'd never get back out there. You haven't had a job since Simone left—”

  Mom kicked him under the table and shot him a death stare at the mention of Simone's name. Dude. They were so melodramatic. It's not like I couldn't keep a job. It hadn't been that long. I'd had plenty of gigs. Like the Subway on campus. Okay, so they fired me because I couldn't remember which meat stack went on which sandwich. I mean cold cut combo vs BMT? Next time you're in a Subway, look at the menu and see if you can keep all the damn sandwiches straight.

  Then, I had that hipster coffee shop gig. Okay. Bad example. I was canned after a single shift because my clothes weren't hip enough. Who can afford sweet duds on nine bucks an hour? Well, maybe it was because I put real milk, real sugar, and full-powered espresso in that one Lululemon MILF's sugar-free soy latte, double half-caf, no whip. She freaked. I was fired. I guess the boss didn't like it when I asked her “Why drink coffee at all if that's what you order?”

  But come on, that wasn't that long ago. Hmm. Okay, maybe it was. Simone dumped me that very same night. So yeah, it'd been a while since I'd had a job. But I wasn't so hopeless that this merited Mom making us all sit down to eat together.

  “Well, sweetie?” Mom asked.

  Crap. I'd done it again. Mom and Dad had been talking to me, but I was spacing out. “Well, what?” I asked.

  “Your new job. What is it?”

  “Oh, you know, the 24/7 Demon, uh, Dairy Mart. The place with all the slushies?”

  “Great. That's just great.” She kept a big smile plastered hard on her face, even though I knew deep down she was thinking that her son, the college dropout, worked at a corner store while all his high school friends were getting their degrees and working office jobs with benefits. Yep, I knew how to make a mom proud. “So what's it like? What sorts of things do you do there?”

  Fight snake monsters that spring from the depths of hell. “Stock beer, doughnuts. That kinda thing.”

  “And your boss. Does he seem nice?”

  Sure. If you think the devil is nice. Ugh. I had to just rip the Band-Aid off already and tell her I was quitting “Uh, I guess, but, I'm qu—”

  “I nearly forgot, call Grandma after dinner. I already told her the news. She wants details.”

  Oh, man. There was no going back now. She'd brought Grandma into this. My stomach twisted up in stress knots and suddenly my appetite disappeared.

  “The ladies at book club want to know everything, too!” She was so excited she clapped her hands.

  Dear Lord, help me. She'd told her book club. That was like writing it in concrete. It was out there forever.

  “Oh, and I nearly forgot. You definitely want to be a clean plater tonight. There's an ice cream cake in the refrigerator. Cookies and cream. Your favorite!”

  Chapter 6

  It was the ice cream cake that did me in. If I burned in hell, it was straight up my Mom's fault. Because yes. I showed up for work tonight, even though I planned to quit. Because Mom bought a fucking ice cream cake. She only busted those out for super special occasions, like birthdays and graduations. We'd sunk to the point where my getting this job apparently ranked that high on her chart of life milestones. If I quit now, I'd poop directly on the small buzz she was getting from her very low expectations of me.

  It wasn't quite eleven, and I was standing behind the counter. I scooped the last puddle of cherry slushy out of my Colossal Super Slurp cup as I stared at the neon sign through the window. It was definitely not the same sign customers saw. I was damn sure about that. The blue and pink neon I used to see wasn't there. Instead, the letters glowed red, spelling out 24/7 Demon Mart. The movable letters that normally announced hot dog and beer specials said “Gate 23, this way.” The neon arrow pointed directly into the store. “Open from witching to dawn. Hours and standard gate rules strictly enforced. Please have your documentation in order.”

  Welp. There you have it. Dairy Mart was officially Demon Mart. And, thanks to Mom's special dinner/ice cream cake/called Grandma guiltfest, my soul had been gift-wrapped and delivered straight to the devil. Yep. No way around it. An ice cream cake had doomed me to hell forever.

  Fine. Whatever. I know you're thinking it, and I couldn't quit, all right? I absolutely couldn't, because if I did, I'd stomp on Mom's happiness. And worse, she'd give me The Look. You know the one. The Look that said abject disappointment and broken dreams. The Look that said all she wanted was to be proud of you. Just. One. Time. The Look that said “Please do something right so I can say nice things about you at book club. All the other ladies gush about how awesome their overachieving kids are, so why can't you give me One. Nice. Thing. to say about you?”

  Gah. All people with mothers—no matter how old they are—are powerless against that. It wasn't just me. So I showed up tonight. I'd spent the last hour terrified, doing whatever DeeDee told me to, but jumping at the smallest noise or shadow for fear another nefarious hell beast was about to attack. And all this while trying to figure out how I could quit and still make my Mom proud.

  I nearly had it worked out. I'd work here, but not one second longer than I had to. I figured at sixty-six bucks an hour, I'd need to work full time for about a month and a half to pay back all the money I owed. I could be debt-free by Thanksgiving. The student loans, the exterminator, Simone, all of it. That would impress Mom and show Simone I wasn't a deadbeat. I'd have a clean slate. I could get a safer job somewhere else. Gulp. If I survived until then. These hell monsters, they couldn't kill us, could they?

  I hadn't quite worked out how to save my soul. I didn't know if it was already too late. Honestly, I had to throw my hands up at this one, because I didn't know how any of this heaven stuff worked. My family wasn't exactly churchy. Mom only sent me to Vacation Bible School because it was free. Well, and because I nearly burned the house down one time when she left me home alone so she could go get groceries. Long story. So yeah. I figured it was a safe bet to start at Christian 101 and full-on obey some commandments. I'd have to work on the Jesus-approved clothes, though. I looked down at my “I'm the Worst” T-shirt. It was the only clean one left in the drawer.

  Jesus, is it hot in here? A thin film of sweat covered me. My heart was beating so fast I felt like I'd actually jogged. I'm guessing because I'd only ever jogged from my bedroom to the fridge. Oh, wait. This feeling wasn't exercise, it was full-on fear. Because I was butt clenched-tighter-than-a-pickle-jar-lid scared, wondering how many snake and tentacle dudes I'd have to fight before my debt was repaid. The ice-cold slippery slope to doom grew steeper by the second.

  “New man, you have my payment.” A deep voice boomed in my ear. “Give it to me quickly.”

  I jumped. Jesus! The voice belonged to a tall, very ripped black man standing at the register. His payment? Give it to me? Wait. Was I being robbed, but eloquently? It was hard to tell. He didn't have a gun or anything. He just stood there, silent, serious, with his muscled, Schwarzenegger-in-Predator-sized arms crossed. Seriously. He was so buff, his arms loo
ked like tree trunks made of meat. He wore black head to toe and looked like he'd never smiled once in his whole life. Yep, a robber in the perfect all-black slip-into-the-shadows-like-a-ninja outfit.

  “Make haste. I need my payment now, or there will be hell to pay.” He had an accent, something vaguely Caribbean. “I cannot be away for long. Give me what I came for. Now, if you please.”

  Welp. Here it is. My first robbery. I pressed 'No Sale' on the register and the drawer slid open. The man eyed me, puzzled. Or angry. I couldn't tell. All I knew was his eyebrows furrowed so hard he went from two down to one.

  “What are you doing, new man?” he asked.

  DeeDee ran up to me and slammed the register drawer shut with my fingers still in it. Ow! I screamed, pulled my fingers out, and sucked on the tips. I didn't know why that made them hurt less. It just did.

  “Forgive him, Doc. He's new. Very new,” she said to the man. “I've got it here. Made just for you, as usual. I hid it from him, because I was afraid he'd eat it.”

  She reached below the counter and pulled out a small pink box with Dolly's Divine Delicacies embossed in gold across the top. It contained a single glazed doughnut with pink frosting and rainbow sprinkles. The box was tied shut with a gold ribbon. It was Bob the Doughnut Guy's special order.

  The man's eyes lit up when he saw it, like a little kid on Christmas morning. Wow. This dude seriously loved a pink doughnut. We're talking Barbie pink, too. Only a real man would be caught dead eating that in public. But Mr. Meat Muscle Ninja Arms here could eat a giant cream puff and no one would dare question his masculinity.

  “Thank you, Ms. DeeDee.” He took the box. “Godspeed.”

  The large black man left, completely disappearing into the shadows the second he stepped off the curb. See, I was right! Ninja!

  DeeDee put her hands on her hips. “Why did you open the register? Did you think he was robbing you?”

  Uh oh. I could tell I was in trouble.

  “Let me guess. A black guy comes in here, so he must be a robber,” she said. “Are you a racist shit bag?”

  Oh, my God. No! No! No! Oh man. I'm not that guy. I swear. “But... I...He said...I didn't know—” The more I talked the worst I sounded. Great. I was one smartphone video away from becoming the next Permit Patty.

  She glared at me. “I'll let it slide one time only because you're new. But if you are a racist, cut it out. We live in Ohio. We're the Union, the North. We won the Civil War, freed the slaves and all that, so fucking act like it.”

  “Okay. Okay!”

  “Good,” she said. “Now that we're straight. That's Doc. He manages the Go Away charm on the store. We pay him in doughnuts.”

  “The...what?”

  “The Go Away charm. It flips on at midnight every night.”

  I waited for her to elaborate because normal people usually throw in some details without prompting when they drop a WTF bomb that big, but she didn't. “He owns the pawnshop across the street. He's a regular.”

  “Uh. Okay.” I knew the place. It didn't have a name. It was a two-story brick building directly across the street from here. It had huge glass display windows full of used stuff and a light-up sign that only said 'Pawn'. I didn't think it had an actual name. “I've never been in there. I'll have to go check it out sometime.”

  She grabbed my arm and squeezed. “Don't do that. Don't ever buy anything from there. Never. Never ever. Got it?”

  “Why not? Overpriced?”

  “Let's just say you never get what you're expecting,” she said.

  So, was she saying the big guy was a rip-off artist? Her expression was hard to read. “So why do we give him the doughnuts again?”

  “I don't know.” She shrugged. “That's always been the deal. I guess he likes them.”

  I glanced at the doughnut case. Empty. All crumbs. Except for another completely untouched row of pink-frosted ones. “They do look delicious. Maybe I'll try one.”

  DeeDee stepped between me and the case. “Nope. No doughnuts for us. That's the deal.”

  “Why not? What's so bad about eating a doughnut?”

  “They make you fat,” she said. “Did you restock all the cigarette racks?”

  “Um. Yeah.” Visions of doughnuts dancing in my head turned to the sad reality of Pyramids, Eagle 20s, and off-brand cheap smokes. They sat on carousel racks on the counter, like candy for all the broke-ass people who still smoked and hadn't yet realized vaping was the new hotness.

  “Great. Oh, and you should start reading that tonight.” She pointed at the giant black book on the wood stand.

  Read? Not really my thing. Headache pending just thinking about it.

  “Remember that TV slogan? The more you know? It definitely applies here, new guy.” She smiled at me, and for a split second my knees got a little noodly.

  At least DeeDee was talking to me. Maybe this job wasn't all bad. Of course, she couldn't be any more beautiful. The diamond on her septum piercing glittered under the fluorescent lights. Her outfit, as usual, was all black and showed off her curves in a badass, goth Tomb Raider way. I was debating either falling at her feet and telling her I loved her or asking her if our souls were really doomed to hell when the door opened and in walked Caroline Ford Vanderbilt.

  Fuck. If guts could actually sink into shoes, mine would be piled high in my Pumas. Caroline Ford Vanderbilt was the richest lady in our suburb, or at least she wanted everyone to think she was. She was so upper crust that one last name wasn't good enough. Oh no, she and her two snooty children introduced themselves as Ford Vanderbilt, not just Vanderbilt. She was the mother of Madison Ford Vanderbilt (See? She'd given her daughter a third snooty last name as a first name!), the insufferable valedictorian of my high school graduating class. The girl that drove a BMW, but referred to it as “this old thing” and had her name on every damned trophy in the display case by the principal's office. If you think money doesn't buy opportunity, show me one instance where Mean Girl Madison Ford Vanderbilt had to bootstrap for anything.

  “Why, I don't believe my eyes. Is that you Lloyd Wallace?” Caroline feigned surprise. Her voice was sing-song high. “I heard a little rumor you were working here. That's so wonderful. I had heard you got yourself a little job. Bless your sweet little heart.”

  Jesus, Mom's book club hens had a well-rooted grapevine. Caroline's auburn bob brushed the collar of her black fur coat, which was an odd contrast to the crisp white tennis skirt and polo she wore underneath. It was a look that screamed Great Gatsby. Caroline Ford Vanderbilt had mastered the fake sweet smile, and she was pouring it over me like corn syrup. Her mauve lips curled up tight at the ends, showing just enough shark-white teeth to remind you how hard she could bite.

  She rounded the corner. “Why Lloyd, don't you look healthy,” she eyed me, shoes to hair then down again. Chomp.

  “I think she just called you fat,” DeeDee whispered.

  I tried to get her to shut up by swatting her under the counter so Caroline didn't see, but DeeDee didn't take the hint. I forced a polite smile so hard it hurt. “How are you, Mrs. Vanderbilt?”

  “That's Mrs. Ford Vanderbilt,” she corrected.

  DeeDee dug her fingers into my forearm and squeezed so hard I could almost feel her eyes roll.

  “What a delightful surprise to see you, Lloyd. I popped in to get some...” she looked around, frowning at the low status of her surroundings. “Dish soap. Yes. Dish soap. I was on my way home from the Country Club. Did you know our family have been members since 1903? Gracious. Can you imagine? Anyhoo, I had just finished a doubles tennis match and a much-needed cocktail hour with the top-rated neurosurgeon in the city and his wife—you wouldn't know them—when the maid called to say we needed dish soap. Naturally, I didn't want to send her home. She simply has to wash up. This was the only place that wasn't out of the way, although I admit I rarely visit this part of town.”

  She looked around again, barely disguising her disgust. I didn't have to be a mind reader t
o know she was lying. She only came here because I worked here. She came for details, so she could embellish the gossip she was going to spread about me. Poor Mom. She was in for it now. Her loser son, the hot topic of the day.

  “Oh goodness, look at the time.” She glanced at her watch. A gold thing, with some sort of diamond crust around the face, all real, most likely. “I have to get home tout de suite. The maid can't possibly risk falling behind. We're having a party this weekend. Madison will be home for the first time since she started Yale Law last month. I'm sure you heard. Madison aced her LSATs. Harvard and Yale were practically fist fighting over her. Well, we decided to go with Yale, because why settle for second best? Oh, dear sweet, Lloyd. I see you haven't changed a bit. How's your mother holding up? She's so brave. I've heard it's so hard to have a special-needs child.”

  Oh. My. God. Did she just call me “special needs?'” DeeDee's fingernails dug even deeper into my arm. Caroline shook her head and gave me her most faux-sincere pity eyes.

  “Wow,” DeeDee whispered. “She's actually shit-talking about you in front of your face.”

  “What's that, dear?” Caroline pursed her Botoxed lips and raised an eyebrow at DeeDee.

  “The dish soap is in aisle five,” DeeDee said in a voice as sweet and thick as buttercream icing.

  “Thank you...Miss?” Caroline evaluated DeeDee, but with a blank expression. She looked like a computer with an error code like she didn't exactly know how to categorize DeeDee or where she fit in the pecking order. Caroline didn't care enough to figure it out and pranced off like a show horse, her tennis skirt swishing under the hem of her fur jacket.