Last Stop on Route 50

They’ve been driving for hours when the road changes. No announcement, no sudden turn—just one moment they’re on the highway, the next they’re not.

The lane markers blur, the blacktop roughens under the tires. Asphalt melts into gravel, gravel into cracked pavement. And then, it’s gone: no road signs, no mile markers. Just a narrow ribbon of empty black cutting through miles of shadowy woods.

The boy shifts in his seat, squints out the window. “Are we lost?”

The father glances at the dashboard screen, at the blank GPS map pulsing with static. It’s not even trying to reroute anymore.

“Guess so.”

They don’t talk after that. The headlights carve through the dark, a white beam in an ocean of black. Time drags. Maybe five minutes, maybe an hour. Just the soft hum of the engine and the weight of the trees pressing in.

Then he sees it.

A faint glow up ahead, smeared red in the distance. The shape of a low building. A flickering neon sign.

The boy leans forward, face pressed against the glass. “Is that a diner?”

The father hesitates, foot hovering over the brake. Something’s not right—he knows it, feels it, like the air’s charged with static. Like the world’s holding its breath.

But his son is staring at him, eyes wide, hopeful.

“Please, Dad?”

He should keep driving. Shouldn’t even slow down.

Instead, he pulls in.

The sign says Randy’s Diner. Red neon script, humming quietly against the dark. An old gas station squats beside it—dusty pumps and a sagging roof, the type you only see in movies. But the diner’s buzzing with light. With life.

And it’s… full.

That’s the first thing. Packed, at this hour, in the middle of nowhere. Customers crammed into booths, waitresses in starched white aprons. Everyone talking, laughing, like it’s the dinner rush.

They step inside, and the father’s struck by how warm it is. The smell of coffee and fried onions, the chatter of voices, all wrapped in the tinny sound of a jukebox playing something low and sweet. Elvis, maybe. Or Sinatra.

The boy tugs at his sleeve. “I’m starving.”

“Right.” He nods slowly. Tries to swallow the unease tightening his chest. “Okay.”

They slide into an empty booth. Red leather, stiff with age. A waitress sidles up, all big hair and brighter eyes. Her nametag reads Gladys. She smiles, and it’s so warm it almost seems real.

The menu’s laminated, thick with grease stains. The father flips through it absently. Burgers, fries, milkshakes—nothing modern. Nothing fancy.

“What can I get ya, hon?”

“Coffee,” the father says before he can think.

“Make that two!” the boy adds with a grin.

The waitress—Gladys—chuckles. “Sure thing, sugar.” She winks at the boy, who blushes.

The father frowns. “He’s eleven.”

“No harm in a little coffee,” she drawls, still grinning. “Keeps a young man spry.”

The father opens his mouth, then closes it. Because what can you even say to that?

“And, uh, pancakes?” the boy adds hesitantly.

“Of course, sugar.” She winks, and he flushes pink.

The father stares at her for a second too long. The uniform, the curled hair, the perfect lipstick.

“Where—” He clears his throat, tries to keep his voice steady. “Where are we, exactly?”

Her smile widens, too many teeth. “Why, you’re at Randy’s,” she says brightly. “Best diner on Route 50!”

His frown deepens. “But we’re not—”

“Coffee’ll be right up.” She cuts him off, gliding back behind the counter.

The boy’s already grinning, eyes wide. “This place is awesome.”

The father forces a smile. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Awesome.”

The coffee arrives, steam curling from two porcelain mugs. The father wraps his hands around his cup, half-hoping for the familiar burn against his palms.

It’s lukewarm.

“Good?” the boy asks, sipping cautiously.

“Yeah.” His throat is dry. “It’s fine.”

The kid’s already digging into a plate of pancakes, syrup dripping in thick, glossy ribbons. He swallows a mouthful, cheeks bulging, grins.

“Best pancakes ever.”

Gladys appears again, quiet as a ghost. “Glad you like ‘em, sweetie.” Her eyes flick to the father. “Sure you don’t want something more?”

He shakes his head. “We—uh, we should probably—”

“Stay awhile,” she says softly.

He blinks. Her smile is gone, replaced by something empty. Her face, inches from his. “No need to rush off.”

A bell dings. The jukebox hums louder. And suddenly, the place erupts—people laughing, chatting. But it’s wrong. Stilted. Staged. Like they’re going through the motions, trying too hard to look normal.

And the father realizes—no one’s eating. Plates of untouched food. Full milkshakes sweating in the heat. Just smiling faces. Empty eyes.

“We really should get going,” he says, louder this time. Stands too quickly, the booth’s vinyl seat squealing.

“Dad?” The boy looks up, confused. Syrup on his chin.

“We’re leaving.” He grabs his son’s arm, yanks him up. “Now.”

And the whole diner stills.

The voices hush. The clinking of dishes stops. The customers—all those blank, mannequin faces—turn, all at once, staring. Just… staring.

The boy stumbles after him, glancing back over his shoulder.

“But Dad—”

“Now.”

They push through the door, out into the night, the sudden chill biting his skin. The car’s waiting, headlights cutting across the empty lot. He shoves his son inside, heart hammering, fingers fumbling for the keys.

The engine sputters. Catches. The father slams on the gas, gravel spitting under the tires.

In the rearview mirror, the diner shrinks, red neon glowing in the dark.

They drive in silence, breath misting in the cold.

The father risks one glance at his son. “You okay?”

The boy nods slowly. Then, softer, “What was that place?”

The father shakes his head. No words.

Then, the boy shifts.

“My bag.”

The father blinks. “What?”

“My bag,” the boy repeats, voice small. “I left it. In the diner.”

He glances in the mirror.

There’s no glow behind them. No diner. Just trees, shadows. No Randy’s.

“Are you sure?” he whispers.

The boy frowns, staring out the back window. “But… we were just there.”

The father grips the wheel, knuckles white.

There’s nothing in the mirror now. Nothing but the dark. Like the diner never existed. Like it vanished into thin air.

And maybe, he thinks, maybe it did.