This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ZachariaFonzi26 on 2025-05-21 21:42:52+00:00.

There’s an IHOP off Route 47 that only seems to exist when you’re not doing well.

You won’t find it on a map. You just end up there—usually after midnight, usually after a long drive you don’t remember starting. The kind of place where the lights hum too loud, and the syrup bottle always sticks to your fingers no matter how clean your hands are.

I go every year.

Same day. Same booth. Left side, by the window. Same order: pancakes with strawberries. Bacon on the side. It was her favorite meal when she still had an appetite.

This year, I went alone.

And that’s when they started showing up.

The first one sat down across from me as I was pouring syrup.

I didn’t hear him approach—he was just there. Pale, wide-eyed, twitchy fingers pressed to the table like he was afraid it might move. He leaned forward slowly, like a broken puppet.

I blinked. “Sorry, I’m—uh—waiting for someone.”

Another person slid in beside me. Her skin was shiny and raw, like she’d just stepped out of a sunburn. She leaned in so close I could feel her cheek brush mine.

Then another. And another.

They came fast. Sliding into the booth. Onto the backs of the seats. Crouching under the table. Their limbs tangled around me like vines made of damp skin and murmuring mouths.

One man clutched a Cowboy BBQ Burger in both hands and didn’t bite it. He just sucked on it, over and over, slurping the cold meat like it held memories. Sauce dripped from his chin, warm and foul. His breath smelled like rotten onions and grief.

Another pulled out a shattered phone and shoved it inches from my face.

The screen showed something—a dog? A pile of hair? A mouth with too many teeth?

I turned away. But more were there.

One was licking a fork like it was a popsicle. Another chewed on napkins soaked in syrup, her eyes fluttering in ecstasy. One man was gnawing on the ceramic edge of a plate, blood weeping down his chin. No one stopped him.

They just watched me eat.

They didn’t blink. They didn’t move. But they were all trembling—a subtle, vibrating hunger that felt louder than any scream. Their breath was hot, sweet with rot and fryer grease, coating my skin.

Their voices overlapped, cascading, layering like insects. Not shouting. Just endless, broken conversation. Social media commentary from mouths that never logged off.

One of them reached under the table and wrapped a hand around my ankle. Gently. Almost lovingly. Like we’d known each other a long time.

I tried to scream.

Another hand slipped into my mouth and tapped my teeth, counting them.

Then one of them started giggling.

Not loudly.

Just a soft, weird little staccato noise. Then another joined in. And another. Until the entire booth was filled with breathy, broken laughter.

One person clapped.

Then all of them did.

Out of sync. Fast. Too wet. Like meat slapping meat. Like they were applauding the end of something holy.

I don’t remember leaving.

I only remember my reflection.

I caught it in the window next to the booth. I thought it was me.

But it wasn’t.

It was me, clapping. Smiling. Already watching.

I don’t eat much anymore.

I sit in cafeterias. Break rooms. Food courts. I wait for someone eating slow. Someone sad. Someone chewing just a little too loud.

When they finally look up, I smile.

I hold up my cracked phone.

I start to laugh.

Then I clap.

And they all do.

I don’t even remember what my wife looked like anymore.

But I remember them.

The faces. The voices.

The hands.

Sometimes, when I’m alone, I swear I can still feel them—breathing just behind my ears.

Waiting.

And when I hear someone chewing in the dark,

I feel my hands start to clap on their own.