There's something terrifying going on in the restaurant downtown.

I could give you the address. I could tell you the exact location could give you turn by turn directions and how to get there.

But I won't.

I'll describe how it looks so you can turn away if you ever stumble on it by accident,

but that's all I'll do.

I'd rather not have any of you trying to find the place. The restaurant I'm talking about is in a

rundown part of my hometown. It's the kind of neighborhood that consists mainly of closed

up shops, the dusty windows blocked over with

older newspaper and cardboard.

There are only two kinds of businesses that seem to survive in that place.

There are filthy bars lined with slot machines on one hand, and on the other are the sort of secondhand electronic stores that seem to only exist so pig pockets can get rid of stolen cell phones.

I used to take a shortcut through this district on my way home from my part-time job.

Normally there was little to see, or rather what there was to see, was either gross or concerning, if not both.

So, you were better off not paying any tension in the first place.

On this particular day several months ago, however, an illuminated window caught my eye.

A simple tablecloth behind a dirty window. It was the bright color that did the trick. Nothing really special, you may think, and you'll be right. But its pristine conditions stood out in a place like this,

where an all-encompassing patina of filth was an expected part of any decor.

A window belonged to a two-story house wedged in between some taller buildings.

Graffiti covered its walls to an extent that rendered it barely recognizable as a restaurant.

Once its name must have been painted onto the wall above the window.

Now only a few letters remained legible.

Da. E. Stroh.

...