When Kyle took the night shift at the Burger King off Route 9, he expected boredom, maybe the occasional drunk customer, and an overused fry machine. He didn’t expect blood under the fryer. He didn’t expect the whispers in the walk-in freezer. And he definitely didn’t expect to never leave.
The restaurant sat near the edge of a dying town called Ashbrook. Most of the buildings on that stretch of road had closed years ago—gas stations boarded up, diners forgotten, a motel with broken neon letters that just read “OTEL” blinking endlessly in the fog. But the Burger King remained. Always open. Always hiring.
Kyle was twenty-one and broke. College hadn’t worked out. His car was one payment away from being repossessed, and this place paid $17.50 an hour. It was night shift only, 11 PM to 7 AM. The manager, a gaunt, quiet man named Pete, didn’t ask many questions.
“There’s just two rules,” Pete had said at orientation, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t let anyone in after 2:03 AM. And don’t go into the play area. Ever.”
Kyle had laughed at that last part. The Burger King hadn’t had a functional play area since the early 2000s. Now it was just an empty, walled-off room with stained windows and a rotting slide no kid had touched in years.
His first week was uneventful. He worked with a quiet woman named Gina who mostly stayed in the back doing prep. Customers were few—truckers, stoners, weird loners who ordered ten cheeseburgers at once. But nothing unmanageable.
Then came Thursday night.
1:47 AM.
The restaurant was silent. Kyle leaned against the counter, scrolling through his phone, when the door chime dinged. A man stepped in. Pale. Dressed in a tattered trench coat soaked from the rain. His eyes were wide, unblinking.
Kyle put on his fake smile. “Welcome to Burger King. Can I take your order?”
The man stared at the menu like it was written in another language. Then he said, “Do you have the Hollow King Combo?”
Kyle blinked. “Uh… I don’t think we carry that one.”
The man frowned. “You used to.”
A heavy silence fell. Then, without another word, the man turned and walked back out into the rain.
Kyle turned to Gina. “What the hell was that?”
She didn’t answer. She was staring at the play area. Her face was pale.
Kyle followed her gaze. Through the dirty glass, he could see movement. Just a flash—like something crawling up the old slide.
“There’s nothing in there,” he said, trying to laugh it off.
But the next night, things got worse.
2:02 AM.
Kyle was wiping down tables when he saw it again—movement behind the play area glass. This time, it wasn’t fast. It was deliberate. A small figure stood there, facing the glass from inside. A child.
Kyle’s blood ran cold.
The child didn’t move. Just stood, hands pressed to the glass, face obscured in shadow. Kyle called out.
“Hey! You okay in there?”
The child didn’t respond.
He turned to Gina, but she was gone. Her apron was on the floor.
Kyle moved slowly to the locked door of the play area. It hadn’t been used in years. There was no way someone could’ve gotten inside.
The door creaked open on its own.
Inside, the room stank of mold and plastic. The ball pit was dry and filled with dust. The slide was cracked. And the child was gone.
Kyle turned back to the door. It had slammed shut.
Panic rose in his chest. He grabbed the knob. Locked.
He pounded on the door. “Gina! Pete! Anyone?!”
Then he heard it.
The soft, unmistakable sound of laughter.
Not joyful, but raspy. Wrong.
It echoed through the play structure like something slithering through a pipe.
Kyle turned slowly toward the sound.
From the mouth of the slide, a figure emerged.
It wasn’t a child.
It was too long. Its limbs were bent in unnatural angles, like it had been broken and put back together by someone who didn’t understand human anatomy. It had a crown—plastic and melted—fused into its scalp. Its face was covered in grease and ketchup, stretched in a grotesque smile far too wide.
“Kiiiing…” it hissed.
Kyle screamed.
He didn’t remember how he got out of the play area. He only remembered Pete shaking him awake in the mop closet hours later.
“You opened the door, didn’t you?” Pete asked.
Kyle stammered. “I—I saw a kid. I thought—”
Pete didn’t answer. He just handed Kyle a slip of paper. It was a schedule. Kyle’s name was still there. Still night shift. Still the same hours.
Gina’s name was gone.
“What happened to her?” Kyle asked.
“She broke the second rule.”
Kyle quit that night. Or he tried to.
When he got to his car, it wouldn’t start. When he called for an Uber, none were available. When he walked home, the road stretched for miles longer than it should have. Every street led back to the Burger King.
At 11:00 PM the next night, he was back behind the counter. Pete gave him a new uniform.
“You don’t leave until the King says you can,” Pete said.
Kyle didn’t ask what that meant.
Night after night, the play area whispered to him. Sometimes he saw Gina crawling through the tunnels, her eyes black, her skin covered in sauce. Sometimes he saw other employees—names he didn’t recognize—but always wearing the uniform. Always grinning.
He stopped eating the food. It tasted like rot. Like something had died in the fryer oil and no one cleaned it out. The customers started changing too. Faces too pale. Eyes too wide. They ordered things that weren’t on the menu.
“The Crowned Meal.”
“Blood Fries.”
“Extra scream in the shake.”
Pete never questioned it. He just filled the orders.
One night, a woman came in with a child. She was shaking, eyes darting around.
“Please,” she begged Kyle. “Don’t let him in. He’s not mine. I found him outside. He followed me here.”
The child smiled. Its mouth opened too wide.
“I like it here,” it whispered.
The woman screamed. The lights went out. When they came back on, she was gone. Only the child remained, holding a Burger King crown soaked in something dark.
Kyle tried to call the police.
The phone never worked.
He emailed corporate.
No response.
He tried to leave again.
This time, the parking lot stretched forever, looping back to the front doors no matter which way he ran.
Eventually, Kyle stopped trying.
One night, a customer came in who looked familiar. Young, maybe fifteen. Nervous. Just like Kyle had been when he started.
He walked up to the counter and said, “I’m here for the night shift interview.”
Pete appeared behind him and smiled. “Perfect timing.”
Kyle handed the kid a uniform.
“Welcome,” he said. “Just remember the rules.”
The kid blinked. “What rules?”
Kyle smiled.
“Don’t let anyone in after 2:03. And don’t go in the play area.”
And in the glass of the play area, something grinned back.
Waiting.
Hungry.
Eternal.
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