Decaf for the Banshee

The thing about the Hex and Bean is that the espresso machine is haunted and the customers are worse, and Wendy gets paid the same as a barista at a normal cafe, which is to say, not enough. It was eleven minutes to close when the banshee came in. Wendy knew she was a banshee because she always ordered decaf and then cried, quietly, into it, and because once she had screamed and a man two tables over had immediately remembered an urgent appointment with his own death. "Decaf, oat, the usual," Wendy said, already reaching for the cup. "You doing okay tonight, Moira?" Moira sniffed. "Someone I love is going to die before sunrise." "Right. Anyone I know?" "You," said Moira, and blew her nose. Wendy did not stop frothing the oat milk. You did not, in this job, let the customers see you flinch. But she did make a mental note to take the well-lit route to the bus stop, and to maybe, finally, learn what the panic button under the till actually did.