Halloween Serie V

Israel Centeno

Coco’s

I write this with trembling hands, unsure if I will live to see the dawn.

It started with a letter—an old, yellowing envelope left on my doorstep just before dusk. No sender, no name. Only an invitation, written in the most elegant cursive, inviting me to a place in the heart of downtown Pittsburgh: Coco’s Corner, deep within what locals call Coco’s Triangle. The place had long been the subject of strange rumors, whispers of vanishings and inexplicable phenomena. Though the letter promised nothing more than a “gathering,” I should have known better. But curiosity got the better of me.

The moment I crossed into the triangle, I felt something… wrong. The streets were unnaturally quiet, like the whole city had been swallowed by a void. The buildings—ones I knew well—seemed taller, darker, as though they were leaning in. And then I saw it: Coco’s Corner, an old, decrepit café that had been abandoned for decades. The windows were dusty, the door slightly ajar. The flickering neon sign still hung above, buzzing faintly, though no power should have reached this part of town.

I should have turned back. But I didn’t.

Inside, the café was worse than I imagined. Dust covered every surface, and the air was thick, stale, but there was something else, too. A rancid smell that clung to the walls. The lights flickered dimly, casting long shadows that danced across the room. I called out, but no one answered. Still, I could feel eyes on me. Watching.

And then I heard it: a whisper. Soft at first, but growing louder, like a thousand voices echoing from the depths of the café. They weren’t speaking words I could understand, but they were speaking to me. I turned to leave, but the door—God help me—the door was gone. Only a solid brick wall remained.

Panic gripped me, and I ran deeper into the café. The hallway stretched out impossibly long, twisting and bending in ways that defied reality. Every corner I turned, I found myself back in the same room: the dining area of Coco’s Corner. And seated at the tables were people—no, not people. Figures, pale and thin, their faces hidden behind cracked, porcelain masks. Their hollow eyes seemed to follow my every move, but none of them spoke. One of them, taller than the rest, stood up and gestured to an empty chair.

It was waiting for me.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Time doesn’t feel the same anymore. The whispers are louder now, sharper. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but I know they’re speaking my name. They want me to stay. They want me to sit in that chair and join them.

I’m not sure how much longer I can resist.

If anyone finds this diary, heed my warning: don’t come to Coco’s Corner. Don’t enter the triangle. There’s something ancient here, something wrong. Leave it to the shadows, and don’t listen to the whispers.

If you do… pray you find your way out before it’s too late.