"Memorable":
I stepped into the Olivier Cafe just past 10 PM, my usual refuge for late-night work. The small cafe in Jakarta’s bustling Grand Indonesia mall felt like a quiet island in the city’s chaos. Dim yellow lights cast a warm glow over the polished wooden tables and worn leather chairs. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingled with the faint sweetness of pastries from the counter, where a barista lazily wiped down the espresso machine. Soft jazz hummed through the speakers, low and soothing, but tonight, the air felt heavy, like the calm before something breaks. I carried my laptop to my favorite corner table, near a window overlooking the empty mall corridor, and settled in, hoping to lose myself in emails.
The cafe was nearly deserted, just how I liked it. A tired-looking man in a suit sipped espresso at the counter, flipping through a newspaper. Two women sat at a table near the back, their voices cutting through the quiet. One, dressed in a crisp white blouse and tailored pants, typed furiously on her laptop, her hair pulled into a tight bun. Her name, I’d learn later, was Mirna. The other, in a loose t-shirt and jeans, scrolled through her phone with restless fingers. That was Jessica. Their conversation wasn’t loud, but it carried a tension that made me pause. “Jessica, you need to let it go,” Mirna said, her voice steady but tinged with frustration. “Patrick’s married now. He’s moved on, and you should too.” Jessica’s head snapped up, her eyes narrowing. “You don’t understand, Mirna. He was my everything. You’re just saying this because you’ve got your perfect life now, don’t you?” Her words dripped with bitterness, sharp enough to make me shift uncomfortably in my seat. I opened my laptop, trying to focus, but their voices pulled me in like a magnet.
I glanced at them, catching Jessica’s eye for a split second. Her stare was intense, almost predatory, and it sent a shiver down my spine. Then she smiled—a small, tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach her eyes. It was the kind of smile that made you question what someone was thinking. I looked away, pretending to type, my fingers hovering over the keys. The barista brought their drinks: a tall glass of Vietnamese iced coffee for Mirna, its creamy layers swirling under the light, and a soda for Jessica, fizzing softly. I noticed Jessica watching as Mirna stirred her coffee with a metal spoon, the ice clinking against the glass. There was something in Jessica’s expression—satisfaction, maybe, or anticipation—that made my stomach twist. She leaned forward slightly, her eyes fixed on Mirna’s every move, like a cat watching its prey.
Trying to shake the unease, I forced my attention back to my screen. The cafe’s warmth, usually comforting, felt stifling now. The jazz seemed to fade, replaced by the low hum of my own heartbeat. I typed a few words, deleted them, and glanced at the women again. Mirna sipped her coffee, her face softening for a moment as she savored it. Jessica sat back, her fingers tapping her phone, but her eyes never left Mirna. “You always loved that coffee,” Jessica said, her voice oddly flat. Mirna nodded, distracted. “It’s my favorite. Reminds me of home.” The conversation shifted to small talk, but the tension lingered, like a thread pulled too tight.
About ten minutes later, Mirna’s voice broke the quiet. “Jessica, I don’t feel right,” she said, her hand pressing against her stomach. Her face paled, and she winced, setting her glass down with a shaky clink. “It’s probably nothing,” Jessica replied, her tone too calm, almost rehearsed. “Maybe you drank it too fast. Let me help you to the bathroom.” She stood, offering her arm, and Mirna, now visibly unsteady, leaned on her. They disappeared behind the bathroom door, and I tried to focus again, but my hands wouldn’t stop trembling. Something was wrong—deeply wrong.
A loud thud echoed from the bathroom, followed by a sharp scream that cut through the cafe. The man at the counter dropped his newspaper, and the barista froze mid-wipe. My heart pounded as I jumped up, my chair scraping against the floor. I ran to the bathroom, pushing the door open. Mirna was sprawled on the tiled floor, her body convulsing, her arms twitching unnaturally. Foam bubbled at her mouth, and her eyes were wide, glassy with panic. Jessica stood over her, her face pale but oddly composed, like she was watching a scene she’d already rehearsed. “What happened?” I shouted, kneeling beside Mirna. Her skin was clammy, and her breathing was ragged, like she was choking on air. “I don’t know!” Jessica said, her voice rising, but her eyes didn’t match her words—they were too steady, too cold.
“Call an ambulance!” I yelled to the barista, who was already fumbling with his phone. The man in the suit ran over, loosening Mirna’s blouse, trying to help, but her convulsions grew weaker. Her eyes locked onto mine for a moment, pleading, before they rolled back. The bathroom’s fluorescent light flickered, casting shadows that made the scene feel like a nightmare. The barista shouted into his phone, giving the cafe’s address, his voice shaking. Jessica stepped back, her hands clasped tightly, watching as if detached. “She just collapsed,” she murmured, almost to herself. But I couldn’t shake the image of her earlier smile, the way she’d watched Mirna drink.
The ambulance arrived in what felt like forever but was probably only minutes. Paramedics rushed in, their boots squeaking on the floor, and pushed us aside. They worked on Mirna, checking her pulse, shouting instructions, but her body was still now, too still. They loaded her onto a stretcher, her glass of coffee still sitting on the table, half-empty, the ice melted into a murky pool. Jessica followed them out, her face a mask of shock, but I noticed her hands—steady, not shaking like mine.
Later, at the hospital, the news came: Mirna was dead. Poisoned, they said, with cyanide in her coffee. The police took Jessica in for questioning, and the story unraveled. She’d been driven by jealousy, obsessed with a man they both knew, Patrick, who’d chosen someone else. Mirna had urged her to move on, and that advice, meant to help, had sparked a quiet, deadly rage. Jessica had slipped the cyanide into the coffee, unnoticed in the cafe’s late-night calm, and watched her friend die.
I couldn’t go back to the Olivier Cafe after that. The memory of that night clung to me like damp air. I kept seeing Jessica’s smile, the way her eyes followed Mirna’s every sip, knowing what was coming. I’d lie awake at night, replaying the thud, the scream, the foam at Mirna’s mouth. The horror wasn’t in some monster or ghost—it was in the betrayal, the calculation, the way evil could hide in a familiar face, in a place I’d once called safe. I’d sit in my apartment, staring at my laptop, unable to work, haunted by the thought that I’d witnessed a murder unfold, one quiet sip at a time.
"The Last Cup":
I’ve been working the late shift at the cafe for three years, and I know every creak of the old wooden floor, every hum of the coffee machine, every flicker of the neon “Open” sign that buzzes outside. The cafe is small, tucked on a quiet street corner, with five wobbly tables, a scratched-up counter, and a back room crammed with supplies. The front windows are big, showing the empty street outside, where streetlights cast pale circles on the pavement. It’s 10:30 PM, and I’m counting down to closing at 11. I’m alone tonight, wiping down counters with a damp rag that smells faintly of bleach, the air heavy with the scent of coffee grounds and burnt toast.
The bell above the door jingles, sharp and sudden. I look up, and it’s him—the man who’s been coming in every night this week. He’s tall, too thin, his gray hoodie pulled up so the shadows hide most of his face. A jagged scar runs down his left cheek, puckered and white, catching the dim light. His hands are bony, knuckles sharp under pale skin, and he always smells faintly of cigarette smoke. I force a smile, my stomach tightening. “Hi, welcome back. Black coffee, no sugar?”
He nods, barely looking at me. “Yeah.” His voice is low, rough, like he’s gargling gravel. I turn to the coffee machine, my hands moving on autopilot as I pour the steaming liquid into a chipped white mug. The machine hisses, and I slide the cup across the counter. He hands me crumpled dollar bills, his fingers brushing mine for a split second—cold, like he’s been standing in a freezer. He takes the coffee and shuffles to the corner table, the one farthest from the door, where the light barely reaches. He sits, hunched, staring into the cup like it holds secrets.
I go back to cleaning, scrubbing the counter harder than I need to. The clock ticks louder, or maybe it’s just my nerves. It’s 10:45 now, and I want him gone. Most customers leave by now, but he’s still here, sipping so slowly the coffee must be cold. I feel his eyes on me, heavy, like a weight pressing into my back. I glance over, and he’s staring—not at the cup anymore, but at me. His eyes are deep-set, dark, unblinking. My heart skips, and I look away, pretending to rearrange the sugar packets.
At 10:55, I can’t stall anymore. I walk to his table, clutching the rag like it’s a lifeline. “Sorry, sir, we’re closing in five minutes. Need anything else before I start locking up?” My voice is steady, but my pulse hammers in my ears.
He tilts his head, the hood shifting to show more of his scar. “What if I don’t want to leave?” His words are slow, deliberate, and a chill crawls up my spine. I laugh, trying to keep it light, but it comes out shaky. “Well, I gotta close up. Boss’s rules, you know?”
He doesn’t smile. Just leans back, his fingers tracing the rim of the mug. “Rules,” he says, like he’s mocking the word. “You always follow rules?” His voice has an edge now, sharp enough to make me step back. I force a nod, muttering something about finishing up, and head to the register. My hands tremble as I count the cash, the coins clinking too loudly in the quiet.
A loud crash echoes from the back room, like something heavy hitting the floor. I freeze, the rag slipping from my hand. It sounded like boxes falling, maybe the stack of coffee bean bags I restocked yesterday. I glance at the man, but he’s still at his table, staring at his coffee, unmoving. My mouth goes dry. “Stay here,” I say, more to myself than to him, and grab the broom leaning against the counter. It’s flimsy, the handle worn smooth, but it’s all I’ve got.
The back room is through a narrow doorway, past the counter. The single bulb inside flickers, casting jagged shadows on the walls lined with shelves. I step in, broom raised, my breath shallow. The air smells of dust and stale coffee. There, on the floor, a stack of bags has toppled, spilling beans across the tiles. I nudge them with the broom, my heart pounding. Did they fall on their own? The shelves look steady, nothing else out of place. I scan the corners, half-expecting someone to step out from behind the boxes. Nothing. Just silence, broken by the bulb’s faint buzz.
I head back to the front, my legs shaky. The man’s gone. His mug sits empty on the table, steam still curling faintly from the rim. The chair is pushed in, neat, like he planned his exit. The bell didn’t ring. I didn’t hear the door. My stomach lurches. I rush to the front door—still locked, the “Closed” sign facing out. My breath catches. How did he leave? The windows are sealed shut, the kind that don’t even open. I spin around, scanning the cafe. The tables are empty, the shadows still.
Then I hear it—a soft, deliberate scrape, like metal dragging on wood, coming from the back room. My blood runs cold. I grip the broom tighter, my knuckles aching. “Hello?” I call, my voice barely a whisper. No answer. Just that scrape, slow, rhythmic, like someone’s testing me. I should run. I should unlock the door, sprint to the street, and call for help. But my bag, my keys, my phone—they’re all in the back room, on a shelf by the door. I can’t leave without them.
I creep toward the doorway, the broom shaking in my hands. The cafe feels smaller, the walls closer, the lights dimmer. My sneakers squeak on the floor, too loud in the quiet. The scrape stops, and the silence is worse. I reach the doorway and peer inside. The bulb flickers again, throwing the room into half-darkness. I see him—the man—standing by the shelves, his back to me. He’s holding a knife, small but sharp, the blade catching the light as he runs it along a wooden crate. The scrape matches his movements.
He turns, slow, and his eyes lock on mine. His hood is down now, his face fully visible—gaunt, pale, with that scar twisting like a snake across his cheek. “You’re scared,” he says, his voice calm, almost soft. “You’re scared of me, aren’t you?” He steps forward, the knife loose in his hand, like he’s holding it just to show he can.
I can’t move. My throat’s so tight I can barely breathe. “What do you want?” I choke out, my voice cracking. The broom feels useless, but I grip it anyway, holding it between us.
He smiles, a thin, crooked thing that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just wanted to talk. You’re always so busy, rushing around.” He takes another step, his boots heavy on the tiles. “Never time to sit, to listen.” The knife twirls in his fingers, casual, like he’s done this before.
“Please,” I say, my voice shaking. “Just leave. I won’t tell anyone. I promise.” I hate how desperate I sound, how small.
He tilts his head, like he’s considering it. “You won’t tell?” he says, mocking again. “Good girl.” He steps closer, and I back up, my shoulder hitting the doorframe. The open window behind him is my only shot—a small square high on the wall, barely big enough for me to fit through. I’d have to climb the crates, and he’s too close.
I swing the broom, aiming for his arm. It connects with a dull thud, but he barely flinches, just grabs the handle and yanks it from my hands. It clatters to the floor, rolling under a shelf. “Don’t do that,” he says, his voice sharp now, all pretense gone. He steps closer, the knife raised slightly, not pointing at me yet, but close enough to make my skin crawl.
I bolt for the window, scrambling onto a crate, my hands slipping on the dusty wood. I hear his boots behind me, quick, heavy. “Don’t!” he snaps, and I feel his hand graze my ankle as I pull myself up. I shove my shoulders through the window, the frame scraping my arms, and tumble into the alley outside. The pavement is cold, rough, and I scrape my palms as I catch myself. My phone’s in my pocket—I must’ve grabbed it from the counter without thinking. I fumble it out, dial 911, and run toward the street.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator’s voice crackles.
“There’s a man in my cafe with a knife!” I gasp, rattling off the address. My voice shakes, but I keep running, my sneakers pounding the pavement. The alley smells of garbage and damp brick. I reach the street, the streetlights bright after the dark. Headlights flash ahead—my friend’s car, right on time to pick me up. I wave my arms, nearly tripping, and the car screeches to a stop.
“You okay?” my friend yells, jumping out. His face is pale, eyes wide as he sees me shaking.
“No! He’s inside!” I point at the cafe, my hands trembling so hard I nearly drop the phone. I tell him everything—the man, the knife, the window—in broken sentences. Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder. Two police cars pull up minutes later, lights flashing red and blue. The officers move fast, one talking to me while the others go inside, guns drawn.
I wait, leaning against my friend’s car, my breath ragged. The officer comes back after what feels like hours. “He’s gone,” he says, his face grim. “Found the knife on the floor in the back room. Looks like he climbed out the same window you did. Any idea who he was?”
I shake my head, my stomach churning. They search the alley, the street, but find nothing. Later, at the station, they show me a photo. It’s him—same scar, same hollow eyes. They say he’s a known thief, in and out of jail, suspected in a string of small robberies. They think he was casing the cafe, maybe planning to take the register or worse. They don’t say it, but I know what “worse” means.
I don’t sleep for days. Every sound makes me jump—the creak of my apartment floor, the hum of the fridge. I see his face when I close my eyes, that scar, that smile. I quit the cafe a week later. I couldn’t walk back into that back room, couldn’t stand under that flickering bulb. Even now, when I pass a cafe at night, I check the windows, my heart racing, half-expecting to see him there, sipping black coffee, waiting.
"The Last Light in Trémolat":
I’m sitting at a small wooden table in the Café Village, the old stone building in Trémolat with its low wooden beams and cozy nooks that smell faintly of coffee and fresh bread. My coffee’s gone cold, the mug heavy in my hands, but I don’t mind. It’s late, well past 10 p.m., and the café is almost empty now, just me and a couple of locals nursing their drinks in the corner. Karen, my friend who works here part-time, is behind the counter, wiping it down with a rag, her movements slow, almost mechanical. The warm glow of the hanging lights casts long shadows on the walls, flickering every time someone passes the window outside. Something feels wrong tonight, like the air’s too thick, the silence too heavy.
Karen’s been off for weeks. I’ve known her since she moved here from England over a decade ago, her laugh always filling this place, her dark hair tied back in a messy bun as she chatted with customers, pouring wine or sliding plates of croissants across the counter. She’s the kind of person who makes you feel at home, always asking about your day, remembering little details like how you take your coffee. But tonight, her eyes are distant, darting to the door every few minutes, and her hands tremble slightly as she stacks glasses. I lean forward, my elbows sticking to the table’s worn surface. “Hey, Karen, everything okay?” I ask, keeping my voice low, like I’m afraid to break the quiet.
She freezes for a second, the rag still in her hand, and looks at me. Her face softens, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “It’s nothing, really. Just... life, you know?” Her voice is tight, like she’s swallowing something she can’t say. I nod, but my stomach twists. I’ve heard the whispers around the village—gossip about her and Jean-François, the retired businessman who owns this café. People say they’ve been spending too much time together, their conversations too hushed, their glances too long. They say her husband, who’s always been quiet, doesn’t know. I push the thought away, but it sticks, like a splinter under my skin.
The door chimes, sharp and sudden, making me jump. Jean-François walks in, his gray hair neatly combed, his suit crisp despite the late hour. He’s tall, with a kind of quiet confidence that fills the room. He nods at me, his eyes lingering a moment too long, then turns to Karen. “Everything set for tonight?” he asks, his voice low, almost a whisper. She nods, quick and nervous, her fingers twisting the rag. “Yeah, just a few locals coming. Should be fine.” Her words are clipped, and she doesn’t look at him. He mentions a wine tasting at his house later, something small, and she murmurs agreement, her eyes flicking to the floor. I watch them, my skin prickling, like I’m seeing something I shouldn’t.
Jean-François leaves, the door swinging shut with a soft thud, and the café feels emptier without him. I sip my cold coffee, the bitterness sharp on my tongue. “You going to that wine tasting?” I ask, trying to sound casual, but my voice betrays me, a little too eager. Karen shrugs, stacking glasses with a clink. “Maybe. Jean-François says it’s no big deal, just some wine and talk.” She’s avoiding my eyes again, her hands moving faster now, like she’s trying to keep them busy. I want to ask more, to push her to tell me what’s wrong, but the café’s silence feels like a warning, the shadows on the walls stretching longer.
By 11, the last customers leave, their chairs scraping against the wooden floor. The locals in the corner, two older men with weathered faces, nod at Karen as they go, muttering about the wine tasting. I linger, my coat draped over the chair, watching her clean. The café’s cozy vibe is gone now, replaced by something heavy, like the air before a fight. I stand, my chair creaking. “I can stay and help close up,” I offer. “Or walk you home.” Her house is just a few streets away, a short walk through the village’s narrow, cobblestone lanes, but the thought of her alone tonight makes my chest tight.
She shakes her head, forcing a smile that looks more like a grimace. “I’m fine. It’s not far. You go on.” Her voice is firm, but her eyes are wide, almost pleading. I hesitate, my hand on the back of the chair, wanting to argue, to tell her I’ve got a bad feeling. But she turns away, busying herself with the cash register, and I feel like an intruder. “Alright,” I say, pulling on my coat. “Just... be careful, okay?” She nods, not looking at me, and I step outside, the cool air sharp against my face.
The village is dark, the streetlights dim, casting pools of light that don’t reach the shadows. My footsteps echo as I walk home, the café’s glowing windows fading behind me. I glance back once, seeing Karen through the glass, locking the door, her face pale, her movements hurried. She waves, a small, quick gesture, and I wave back, but my stomach churns. I should’ve stayed.
At home, I can’t sleep. My small house is too quiet, the creaks of the old wood too loud. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying Karen’s nervous glances, the way Jean-François’s voice dropped when he spoke to her. The village has always been close-knit, but lately, it’s felt different—whispers about Karen, about her life, about secrets she might’ve kept. I think about the wine tasting, picturing her there, surrounded by people but still alone somehow.
Around midnight, a scream rips through the silence. It’s sharp, raw, cutting straight to my bones. It’s coming from the direction of Karen’s house. My heart slams against my ribs, and I’m out of bed, pulling on shoes, my hands shaking so bad I can barely tie the laces. I grab my phone and run, the village a blur of dark houses and empty streets. The scream echoes in my head, loud and desperate, like someone fighting for their life.
When I reach Karen’s street, my legs nearly give out. She’s there, crumpled on the ground outside her gate, her white blouse soaked with blood, dark and spreading. I drop to my knees beside her, my breath catching. “Karen!” I choke out, touching her arm. It’s cold, too cold. Her eyes are open, staring at the sky, lifeless, and there are wounds—deep, jagged cuts on her chest, her arms, her legs, her groin. Blood pools beneath her, glistening under the streetlight. I count eight wounds before I can’t look anymore, my stomach turning.
I fumble for my phone, my fingers slick with sweat, and dial for help. “Please, someone’s hurt, she’s—Karen’s hurt, please hurry!” I stammer, my voice breaking. I look around, the darkness pressing in, every shadow a threat. I hear footsteps, quick and heavy, somewhere down the street, fading fast. My skin crawls, and I grip my phone tighter, my eyes scanning the empty road. Whoever did this is still out there, maybe watching.
The police arrive, their lights flashing red and blue, cutting through the dark. They ask me questions—when I saw her last, what she said, who was at the café. I tell them everything: her nervous glances, Jean-François’s low voice, the wine tasting. An officer writes it all down, his face grim. They cover Karen’s body, but I can still see her in my mind, her blood on the cobblestones, her eyes empty. They say it was a frenzied attack, like someone hated her with everything they had.
Days later, the village is a ghost of itself. The café reopens, but I can’t go back. The cozy nooks feel like traps now, the wooden beams looming like they’re hiding something. People whisper about Karen, about Jean-François, about a neighbor they questioned and let go. They talk about her husband, about secrets, about grudges. The police still don’t know who did it, and that’s the worst part. Every night, I lock my doors, check my windows, and listen for those footsteps I heard fading into the dark. Sometimes, I think I hear them again, just outside, waiting, and I wonder if I’ll ever feel safe in this village again.
Tags:
Story