Chapter 2: Soup, Shadows, and Storms

By ten o’clock that night, Grandpa was reaching for the lock when a man limped in, filthy and splattered with yellow mud—as if he’d crawled straight out of a ditch.

The bell clanged loud. Rain hammered the awning, and the man’s entrance swept in a gust of damp, chill air. The fluorescent lights flickered, glinting off muddy streaks on his jeans and caked boots. The sharp scent of wet earth and sweat filled the shop as he hobbled forward, wincing with each step.

For a split second, Grandpa’s hand hovered over the lock. He remembered nights when strangers meant trouble, but the old man’s warning echoed in his mind. He forced a smile. "Hey there, sorry, but we’re just about to close."

He straightened behind the counter, wiping his hands on a dish towel. His voice sounded friendly enough, but his eyes kept darting to the clock, counting down the minutes until closing.

The man looked surprised. "Sir, why’re you closing up so early?"

He tried to pat down his hair, but it stuck up in muddy spikes. He scanned the store—warm lights, shelves of canned soup, the humming soda cooler. His accent was hard to pin down: a little Midwest, a little Southern, worn thin by the road.

Grandpa replied, "An old homeless guy came by this morning. Said at midnight a vengeful ghost would show up and told me to close up early."

He chuckled, trying to sound light, but his voice wavered. His hand hovered near the key in the lock, just in case.

The man grinned. "Sir, what year is this? You still believe in that stuff?"

His teeth flashed white against his muddy face, but there was something odd about his smile. He glanced around like the place triggered a memory he couldn’t quite catch.

Grandpa shrugged. "Can’t help it, I’m a bit of a scaredy-cat."

He rubbed the back of his neck, sneaking a look at Grandma. In our family, superstition was like a recipe—never written down, but never forgotten.

The man brushed dirt from his jeans and asked, "Sir, I’m from out of town. Came back for Memorial Day to visit my wife’s grave. Haven’t eaten all day. It’s only 10:20—still early. Any chance you could make me a bowl of soup or something? I gotta drive back tonight."

He sounded worn down, hungry—the kind of tired you see on folks living out of their cars. Memorial Day always brought folks back to town—flags and plastic flowers lining the cemetery fence, the smell of cut grass and old grief in the air. I pictured the wind-whipped cemetery on the hill, flags flapping between the rows of weathered stones.

The man’s face was broad and open—not the sort to spin a lie.

His voice was steady, meeting Grandpa’s gaze straight on. There was a sadness and a roughness to him—calloused hands, a scar at his jaw, a faded wedding ring. He shifted his weight, shoulders hunched against the world.

Grandpa frowned, glancing at Grandma.

She bit her lip, giving him that look—wanting him to do the right thing, but too proud to say it. I could see the tug-of-war between fear and kindness in her eyes.

Grandma asked, "Young man, where’s your wife? Why’s she not with you?"

She stepped from behind the counter, voice gentle but edged with suspicion. The old clock on the wall ticked through the silence, counting the seconds.

He replied, "She’s still up at the cemetery. Grew up here—wanted a minute alone at her dad’s grave, so she told me to come down first."

His voice softened, eyes flicking to the rain-blurred window. It sounded honest, and the tension in the room loosened just a notch.

He grinned. "Maybe when my wife comes, you’ll recognize her."

He looked around, almost wistful. Rain drummed overhead, steady and comforting. He shoved his hands in his pockets, mud streaking the floor tiles.

It wasn’t unusual for girls from Maple Heights to move away after marrying. Folks hardly even talked about it anymore.

I remembered Grandma used to shake her head about it, but now it was just part of life. The old wedding photos on the wall showed brides who’d left for Cleveland or Cincinnati, chasing something bigger. The store felt emptier with them gone.

Grandpa nodded. "Alright, making some soup won’t take long."

He rolled up his sleeves, ready for work, even if he’d made soup a thousand times. The familiar clatter of pots and pans from the back was oddly comforting.

"Sir, how much for a bowl?" the man asked, fishing a battered wallet from his pocket, holding it like it might fall apart.

"Two bucks," Grandpa replied.

He shrugged, but I knew every dollar mattered. Still, no one went hungry on Grandpa’s watch.

"I’ll take two bowls. My wife’ll be here soon."

He set two crumpled bills on the counter, hands trembling from cold or hunger—it was hard to say. He kept glancing at the door, waiting for his wife.

Grandpa nodded. "Alright."

He moved quick, the way he did for anyone hungry. Steam began to curl from the kitchen, the smell of chicken noodle soup wrapping around us like a blanket. Almost made me forget the muddy footprints on the floor.

He brought out two steaming bowls and set them on the counter, the scent of carrots and broth filling the room. For a second, everything felt almost normal.

The man perked up and dug in, slurping soup in big spoonfuls.

He hunched over, hands shaking as he ate, like someone who hadn’t had a decent meal in days. He didn’t look up—just focused on the warmth in the bowl.

Grandma kept glancing at the clock and whispered, "It’s already 10:35. We have to close before eleven."

She leaned in close, voice barely a breath. Her fingers tapped the counter, eyes darting to the black windows as if expecting something to peer in.

Grandpa nodded. "We’ll definitely close early tonight."

He wiped his brow, glancing from the door to the stranger. His voice trembled. He’d never been one for ghost stories, but tonight, he seemed to believe every word.

Suddenly, a loud thunderclap rattled the windows.

The whole shop shook, the glass humming in its frame. Lightning split the sky, lighting Main Street for a blink. Even the hanging plants in the window trembled. I pressed closer to Grandma, the storm buzzing in my bones.

Thunder rolled, clouds pressing low and heavy. It looked like a downpour was coming.

The parking lot shimmered with puddles, streetlights reflected in the water. The storm made the night thick and strange, every shape outside warped by rain. The wind howled through the window gaps, and I shivered, wishing we’d closed up sooner.