Dark Chicago    The City    Neighborhoods    New City      Debi's Diner

“Don’t sit in Booth 12 unless you wanna hear ‘Earth Angel’ on repeat and feel a heartache that ain’t yours.”

Description - Exterior

Debi’s Diner sits low and chrome at the corner of 49th and Ashland, just a block from the old packing sheds. It’s a classic postwar prefab: brushed steel siding, red neon script over the doorway, and a row of tall windows always fogged with grease and steam. The sign reads “DEBI’S” in looping cursive, though the “E” flickers like it’s got a secret. Trucks rumble past. Locals linger on the stoop. The smell of frying bacon and cigarette smoke never quite leaves the sidewalk.

Description - Interior

Inside, the diner hums with energy and age. Red vinyl booths line the windows, linoleum floors checker the path between tables, and the jukebox at every booth is wired to the big Wurlitzer by the counter. Coffee flows nonstop. The pie case spins slow. Regulars know where to sit—and where not to. Booth 12 is set just like the rest, but no one ever sits there twice. At least, not willingly. When *“Earth Angel”* starts playing by itself, the staff just keep working. Nobody makes eye contact with the jukebox.

History

Opened in 1946 by Debi Novak, a Polish-Mexican widow whose husband died in the final weeks of the war. She built the place from war widow payments and a veteran’s discount on prefab parts. In 1951, a teenage couple on their way home from the Sapphire Room died in a wreck—witnesses say they were last seen slow-dancing in Booth 12, song playing, hands clasped. Since then, that booth’s had a life of its own.

What's Really Going On

Booth 12 is locked in a residual Veil echo—a trauma loop so strong it bleeds through static and chrome. The couple’s final moments replay in gestures, shadows, smells. No full apparitions, but enough to unsettle. Some sensitive folks feel sorrow just walking past. Others claim they see hands clasped across the table in the corner of their eye. The jukebox at Booth 12 only plays one song, and only at the wrong times.

Owned By

Debi Novak – Early 40s, tough as nails in a floral apron. She doesn’t believe in ghosts, but keeps Booth 12 set for two—sugar poured, napkins folded, candle fresh.

Employees

• Manny – Line cook, gruff WWII vet. Has a scar and a superstition about jukeboxes.
• Gina – Waitress, Catholic, and mouthy. Carries a Saint Benedict medal in her apron pocket.
• Carmen – Dish boy, only 17, says the girl ghost hums when no one’s looking.
• Lou – Busboy, part-time jazz drummer. Swears Booth 12 changes temperature.
• Mrs. Kravitz – Janitor. Doesn’t speak. Cleans the booth with holy water once a week.

Regulars

• Waltz – Coffee addict, older than he looks, never sits near Booth 12.
• Skips – Talks too fast, sits too long, says the ghosts “ain’t done dancin’ yet.”
• Reggie – Swings by for corned beef and whispers. Never faces the jukebox.
• Tommy McGregor – Takes his coffee to go. Always glances at Booth 12 on the way out.
• Father Brannigan – Takes his lunch in silence. Blesses the booth with salt when no one’s watching.
• Viv Gallo – Drops in after late sets. Leaves lipstick-stained tips and never sits in the same booth twice.

Notes

• Booth 12 is always clean. No one remembers who cleaned it.
• The jukebox lights up at 10:12 p.m. every Friday night. Nobody touches it.
• There’s a grease pencil drawing under the booth dated 1951—two names, half-faded, with a heart.
• The CPD Arcane Division filed a report about the booth in ‘52. The paper’s since gone missing.
• A player character may feel sudden sadness or déjà vu just entering the diner.
• Someone from the Sapphire Room wants Booth 12 cleansed—but not destroyed. The Veil echo might be useful.