Into the Night
part 1 : the locked door
"Good night, and good luck"
★
Prologue
"I swear, Alex, hypothetically you're not going to last long at this new job. Night shift? What are you? Crazy?" My friend practically scolds me through the phone's speaker, I can hear the annoyance in his voice.
"It's the only place that'd take me, wyatt, I've told you this" I sigh, my eyes already starting to grow heavy.
"Well as soon as they find out you're sleeping on the job, bam! Back on the street" Wyatt clicks his tongue, as if trying to get the point across with sound.
"well–Wyatt–I won't fall asleep, that's what coffee is for, besides, I think that It'll be fun to try something like this, I can put 'staying awake all day and night' on my resume" I chuckle as Wyatt groans, "hey, you said you'd stick with me, don't go back on that now"
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Dont worry im loyal to the end" I can practically hear the smirk in his voice.
"Is that what you said to your ex?" I retorted and I caught him scoffing.
"Wow, low blow man, real low–Anyway–I have to get to My job soon, so I'll let you go, have fun night-boy" he hangs up and I let out a loud sigh that seems to echo through the room.
As I lean back, my office chair whines in protest. I also make a protestful noise, deeper than the chairs squeak creak. "God, my back is so sore" I groan and rub a knot, before yawning. I haul myself up, grabbing a nearby flashlight and waltz myself out the security room and to the employee lounge, where I know there must be a coffee pot.
The lounge is eerily quiet, not a single soul in sight. I guess it's the quiet before the storm, I think to myself, trying to be optimistic. The smell of old pizza, candy and stale coffee fills my nose and I try not to gag, making a mental note to clean this place up. As I start the ancient coffee pot, the sound of the machine jolts through the quiet lounge like a jackhammer in a library.
"Well, that's one way to wake up," I murmur to myself, looking around the room. The clock on the wall reads 11:45 PM. Only a Few more hours until the morning shift comes in, and I can hand over the baton of boredom.
The coffee brews with the same enthusiasm I'd expect from a sloth on a lazy Sunday, but I'm desperate. I grab a cup, the taste of bitter blackness coating my tongue, but the caffeine is what I need. I take a seat at the round table, surrounded by chairs that have seen better days, and pull out my phone. Maybe I can catch up on some podcasts, or read a book to pass the time. But as my eyes scan the room, something catches my eye. A door in the corner, slightly ajar, reveals a staircase leading down.
"This place has a basement floor?" I muse, this is the town arcade, but almost no one ever comes here anymore, unless it's for birthdays, this being the only place that has free eating for kids under 5 years old. I've never seen anyone use the stairs, let alone go down to the basement nor come up from it. The curiosity itches at me and I stand up, setting the coffee down. I make my way to the door, and push it open, the rusty hinges groaning like a ghost. The staircase is dimly lit, the light from the lounge barely reaching the first few steps. I shine my flashlight down, the beam cutting through the darkness like a knife. It reveals a flight of stairs that look like they haven't been used in decades, the paint peeling and the metal rail cold to the touch. The dust on the steps whispers secrets of forgotten footsteps.
"Must be the maintenance area," I murmur, swiping a cobweb out of the way with the back of my hand. The thought of encountering spiders sends a shiver down my spine, but I remind myself that I've faced worse in my life. "Just don't trip and break your neck, Alex," I mutter, taking the stairs one at a time, feeling the weight of my curiosity with each step. I point my flashlight at the ceiling, looking for the handle hanging from the lights to turn them on.
The basement is vast and open, filled with forgotten arcade machines from the '90s, their screens flickering with a ghostly glow. The air is thick with dust and a faint scent of mold. The sound of my footsteps echoes through the emptiness, each step a miniature thunderclap in the silent tomb of childhood memories. I navigate through the labyrinth of arcade cabinets, the flashlight beam playing tag with the shadows that dance around me. The place is a time capsule, a testament to a bygone era. As I walk I recognize some of the dusty game titles from when I was a kid. "Mortal Kombat 2," "Streets of Rage," "The Simpsons:arcade game", all classics, all collecting dust.
As I reach the center of the basement, something glints in the light, catching my attention. It's a padlock, rusted and hanging from the handle of a door that looks like it hasn't been opened in years. My curiosity piqued, I approached the door, the metal cold and unyielding under my hand. The lock seems ancient, but there's a key hanging from a nail just above it, as if waiting for me. With trembling hands, I lift the key, feeling its weight, and insert it into the lock. The sound of it turning is like the tick of a clock counting down to something ominous.
With the lock open, I push the door with a gentle nudge. It squeaks open, revealing a room that is a stark contrast to the dusty playground of arcade nostalgia. It's a small, well-kept office, the smell of fresh paint and new carpet filling my nostrils. A single desk sits in the middle, with a single chair behind it, facing a wall of monitors displaying various feeds from around the building. A nameplate on the desk reads "Mr. Harris." The flashlight beam dances around the room, revealing shelves lined with dusty manuals and VHS tapes titled "Security Training."
Suddenly, the screens flicker to life, displaying the same static I've seen in every horror movie I've ever watched. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. A low, garbled voice starts to speak through the intercom, the words indistinct and distorted. My heart races as I try to make out the message, my hand shaking so badly that the flashlight beam bounces off the walls like a disco ball gone rogue. The voice stops, and the screens go back to showing the static. I take a deep breath, coughing as I breathe in the dust.
"it's just an old office" I tell myself, patting my chest to calm my heart, something I picked up from a medical show.
The room is eerily silent, save from the distant hum of the arcade machines above and the occasional drip from a leaky pipe. I take a step forward, the floorboards creaking beneath me. The monitors flicker back on, now displaying the arcade floor, the flashes of neon lighting up the darkness in a strobe-like pattern. I watch as a shadow flits across one of the screens, too quick to make out. I freeze, my breath held in my chest. Was that a person? Or just my imagination playing tricks on me?
I force myself to swallow the lump in my throat and move closer to the screens, my eyes scanning for any sign of movement. A cold draft brushes past me, sending a shiver down my spine. I spin around, expecting to see someone or something, but the room remains empty.
I decide to investigate further, my curiosity overpowering my fear. The office door closes behind me with a gentle click that seems deafening in the silence.
I make my way back up the stairs, my steps quick and cautious. The night shift isn't turning out to be the mind-numbing snooze fest I had anticipated. As I reach the top step, the lights in the lounge flicker and go out, plunging me into darkness. The coffee pot has stopped gurgling, leaving only the sound of my racing heart and the distant echo of my own breath in the stale air.
"Come on, Alex," I murmur, trying to calm myself. "It's probably just a power surge." I laugh at my fear. The flashlight beam pierces through the dark, revealing the outline of the door back to the main floor. I push it open, expecting to find the lights flickering back on, but instead, the arcade is bathed in a strange blue glow. The machines are all powered on, their screens displaying the same message: "Welcome to the Night Shift." A chill runs through me, and I can't shake the feeling that I'm not alone. The laughter of children, faint and distant, fills the air. I blink, rubbing my eyes. Did I just hear that? but when I open my eyes--everything is back to normal, and my coffee is there, still steaming in the cup.
"I'm just tired..." I tell myself, "it's just a trick of the mind." But as I turn to leave the lounge, I catch a glimpse of something out of place in the corner of my eye. A figure, small and quick, darts behind one of the arcade cabinets. I whip around, flashlight in hand, but there's nothing there. Just the same old dusty games. I take a sip of my coffee, trying to convince myself that it's just the caffeine messing with me. But the feeling of being watched lingers.
Just a couple of hours every night, I think to myself. Just a few hours.
Night 1
The hours crawl by, and the arcade remains eerily still. I force myself to walk around, checking the locks on the doors and making sure everything is secure. But the whispers of the games seem to follow me, their 8-bit songs echoing through the empty halls. The lights flicker again, and this time, the sounds of the machines seem to crescendo into a cacophony of digital screams. I drop my coffee cup, the shattering sound piercing the silence like a gunshot.
"damnit..!" I curse, squatting to clean up the glass, as I stand, I feel something cold brush against my ankle. I whirl around, my heart in my throat, only to find a plush toy from one of the claw machines, abandoned on the floor. I chuckle nervously, my hand shaking as I pick it up. "You're going to scare yourself to death, Alex," I murmur, tossing the toy onto the counter. It landed up, its plastic eyes staring, seeming to follow my every move, I shuddered and moved to turn its head away. "Don't look at me" I whisper at the plush bear, glancing back before picking it back up and taking it back with me to the security office.
"You'll protect me, right?" I whisper to the bear, hoping the cameras wont pick up my voice as I talk to the toy, I glance at its foot–press my tummy!—I do just that and a soft crackling noise seeps through the toy—
"I love you..!" the plush bear says, I smile softly as I place it atop my box monitor.
The rest of the night goes by without incident, the only company the occasional drunk that stumbles by, peering in the windows before moving on. As dawn approaches, the tension in my shoulders starts to ease. Maybe it was just the lack of sleep messing with me, I think, rubbing my eyes. Maybe this job isn't so bad after all. I yawn, then take a large gulp from the new–unbroken–coffee cup that's gone lukewarm.
My phone rings, jolting me out of my thoughts. The sound echoes through the empty arcade, making me almost jump out of my skin. "Hey, Alex," says the cheerful voice of my friend, Wyatt. "How's your first night?"
"It's... interesting," I reply, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. "But fuck—I'm just so tired. I keep seeing things."
"Makes sense, man, like I said you're stupid for going on a night shift. The sketchy shit always happens there, like drug lords and shit in the movies" wyatt rants, I yawn, taking the final gulp of my cold coffee.
"I'm not stupid, this is the one place that'd take me, don't be harsh" I groaned at him "It's not harsh, it's the truth"
"Well–sometimes the truth is harsh, wyatt" I grumble at him, clearly too tired to be dealing with this.
"Whatever, see ya later, don't get fired for sleeping on the job," he says before hanging up.The final hour of my shift stretches out before me like a deserted highway. I lean back in my chair, the plush bear watching over me like a silent sentinel. The sun starts to peek through the boarded-up windows of the arcade, casting a weak light across the dusty floor. As I pack up my things, the lights above me flicker again, but I ignore them, the adrenaline from the night's oddities wearing off. I've got to get home, shower, and maybe catch a few hours of sleep before my next shift starts tonight.
—----------------------------------
The drive home is a blur, the early morning light not quite banishing the shadows from my thoughts. The car's engine purrs a lullaby, and I have to fight to keep my eyes open. The quiet streets seem eerie, almost as if the town is holding its breath, waiting for the next strange occurrence to unfold. The radio is my only companion, playing a loop of the same five songs it's played every night for the past decade. As soon as I open the apartment door and kick off my shoes I flop on the couch. My apartment is a mess, a testament to the chaos of unemployment and job hunting. Dirty dishes are piled up in the sink, and laundry is scattered across the floor like a forgotten jigsaw puzzle. But the bed, oh sweet bed, calls to me like a siren's song. I answer, collapsing into its warm embrace and letting the darkness claim me, and I fall asleep without even taking my dirty uniform off–But sleep is a fickle beast, and my slumber is filled with dreams of arcade machines coming to life, their neon lights piercing the gloom. I wake with a start, the digital screams of the games still echoing in my ears. I check the time. It's already noon, and I've only got a few hours before I have to go back to the arcade for my second shift. I drag myself to the shower, the hot water doing little to wash away the fatigue that clings to me like a second skin. I yawn through lunch and struggle to keep my eyes open while watching a rerun of a sitcom that hasn't been funny since the '90s. The TV's laugh track feels like it's mocking me.
My phone buzzes with a text from my boss. "Hey Alex, we need you to cover an extra shift tonight. One of the guys called in sick. Can you handle it?" I stare at the screen, feeling a mix of dread and determination. I know I should say no, that I need the rest, but the promise of overtime pay is too tempting to resist. "Yeah, I'll do it," I reply, resigning myself to another night of caffeine and shadows.
Night 2
The sun sets, and the arcade's neon lights flicker to life, casting a garish glow across the town's deserted streets. I pull into the parking lot, the same feeling of unease settling into my bones. As I walk towards the entrance, the door creaks open, as if it's been waiting for me. I shake off the sensation, reminding myself that I'm just tired, that the job isn't supposed to be glamorous or exciting. But as I enter the arcade, the whispers of the machines seem to be louder, more insistent. this place is dirty as hell, so tonight, I'll clean this place up. I don't have to, but something about the dust and filth itches at me. I go to the basement again, looking for cleaning supplies. The door to the maintenance room is open wider than before, almost inviting. I hesitate, but the promise of a clean arcade is too tempting.
As I scrub the floors and wipe down the machines, the whispers of the arcade seem to fade away. The plush bear sits in the corner, watching me with a slightly dampened eye after I accidentally splashed it with a cleaning solution. The monotony of the work is almost soothing, a stark contrast to the chaotic jumble of my thoughts. The hours tick by, each minute feeling like an eternity. I start to wonder if I'm losing my mind. Maybe the lack of sleep is turning me paranoid, or perhaps the old building is just playing tricks on me.
The night drags on, and the arcade remains eerily quiet. The only sounds are the occasional beep of a machine and the rhythmic swish of the mop against the tiles. My mind starts to wander, and I find myself imagining the kids who once filled this place with laughter and screams of excitement. Their ghosts seem to linger, their energy trapped within the confines of the arcade cabinets. It's a sad thought, but it keeps me company as I work. The clock hits 3:00 AM, the witching hour, and something seems to change in the air. The whispers that I've been hearing all night grow louder, almost as if the machines are speaking to each other, sharing secrets that I'm not meant to hear. I finally finish cleaning the main area and I flop to the ground, wiping the sweat from my brow as I lean against the wall.
My eyes start to close, the siren's call of sleep growing stronger with each passing second. But then I remember the promise I made to myself. I'm not going to fall asleep on the job, not when I've got bills to pay. With a groan, I force myself to my feet and head back to the security room, the plush bear in hand. It feels comforting, a small piece of childhood in this strange, twisted adult world. As I sit down, the screens flicker to life again, displaying the feeds from around the building. The blue glow of the monitors casts a surreal light on the room, turning it into something out of a sci-fi movie. I lean back in my chair, the plush bear watching the screens with me. I yawn and spin a few times in my chair, before slamming my foot down, halting the spinning, I look into the reflection of the monitor and I see what looks like a body, laying on the door, slouched over. I whip my head around and see the body, I stand uncertainty and slowly shuffle over to it.
"H-hello?" I croak, grabbing my flashlight and pointing it at the body, it slumps over more, I get closer and crouch in front of it, "are you okay?" I ask, placing my hand on its shoulder–cold–my hand shoots away, I look at my own hand, then the body, its grey. When I look back up to its head it's looking at me. I scream, falling back as the body–the dead man–grabs my wrist, I fall farther back, my erratic breathing and heart the only thing I can hear. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray that it's not real. Not real, not real! I stay like this for maybe a good minute, then slowly I force my eyes open. Nothing there. I look around the room, the plush bear looking at the wall from its monitor throne. I let out a sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose.
"Okay, Alex, you need to get it together, this is just a job," I tell myself sternly. I look back up at the monitors, the blue glow seems colder now, more sinister. I swallow hard, and pick myself up, walking over to the screens.
"I have a damn job to finish, and I plan on doing it..." I growl, I don't know to who, but if there's someone--or something--listening, I hope they get the message. I sit back down in the chair, the coldness of the metal seeping through my pants. The screens flicker again, the images of the arcade floor swirling into a vortex of static before snapping back to reality. My eyes burn with fatigue, but I can't afford to close them. Not again. As the night wears on, the whispers from the machines become a dull roar, a constant background noise that I can't ignore. It's like they're alive, plotting something. I try to focus on the monitors, but my eyes keep drifting to the door, expecting it to burst open at any moment. The plush bear is no help, its eyes seemingly glued to the screens, not offering any comfort. I decided to check the arcade floor one last time before the morning shift arrives. The cold air from the vent hits me like a slap in the face as I step out of the security room. The machines look back at me, their screens flashing in the dim light. I swear one of the cabinets winks, but I shake my head. It's just exhaustion.
As I make my final rounds, I notice something new. The floor is clean, not just clean, but spotless. I look around in astonishment, the dust and grime of decades gone. It's like the ghosts of the arcade had come out to help me, to thank me for keeping their vigil. I can't help but smile, feeling a strange kinship with these forgotten relics. But as I turn back to the security room, I see the plush bear sitting on the chair, the screens all displaying the same message: "Thank you for playing, please come again." I freeze, my heart thumping in my chest. The message flickers away, replaced by the static, and then the screens go black. The silence is deafening. I need to call my boss, see if I can take a few days off.
"you want to know what's going on?" My boss chuckles on the phone.
"Yes! why do I feel like I'm being watched!" I ask, desperate for answers I know I wont get.
"It's all in your head, Alex. The night shift does that to you, gets you seeing things, makes you feel like you're going nuts" he says, his voice a blend of amusement and condescension.
"But the lights, the whispers, the figure I saw!" I protest, feeling the need to defend my sanity.
"Look, if you can't handle it, maybe the night shift isn't for you," he says, the line going quiet before he adds, "but if you can stick it out, it'll be worth it. Just remember, you're not alone in there--oh! and don't forget, you signed a contract, follow it. you wouldn't want anything to happen."
The call ends, and I'm left with a feeling of dread, like I've been thrown into the deep end without knowing how to swim. *not alone? yeah, I think I know that--I feel like there is always something watching!* I tap my foot on the floor, anxiety flooded in my bones. the contract? I don't remember any papers, other than the safety conduct. I open my desk drawers, looking for the safety conduct, when I find it I flip through every page, looking for a signature.
then I see it. Page 16, on the bottom there are bullet points--the contract--and a signature line with my name already scribbled. I don't remember signing anything, but it looks like my signature. I glance back at the rule points, the rules I've seemingly agreed to—
1: Always keep the arcade clean, especially the floor.
2: Check on the machines every hour.
3: No sleeping on the job.
4: No leaving before sunrise.
5: Don't touch the padlock in the basement.
"Well shit–" I quickly go and re-lock the padlock, hoping that it wasn't a big deal that I had unlocked it. I sit back down in the chair, my hand shaking. The whispers of the machines seem to have quieted, as if they're watching me, waiting to see what I'll do next. I decide to make another round, checking on the machines as per the contract, hoping that my boss isn't watching through the cameras.
As I make my way through the arcade, the coldness of the floor seeps through my socks, the silence pressing down on me like a heavy blanket. The machines look back at me, their screens flickering in the dark like a hundred unblinking eyes. I can't shake the feeling that I've disturbed something, that I've crossed a line that I wasn't meant to cross. The whispers are gone, replaced by a tense stillness that seems to stretch on forever. Each step echoes through the empty space, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for something to happen. But nothing does. The machines remain silent, their secrets hidden behind a veil of pixels and plastic.
The rest of the shift is a blur of paranoia and exhaustion. Every creak and groan of the old arcade sounds like a warning, every shadow a potential threat. Yet, as the first light of dawn seeps in through the boarded windows, there's an odd sense of accomplishment. I survived the night, and the place is cleaner than it's been in years. Maybe there's something to this whole "night shift" gig after all.
As the final minutes tick away, I sit in the security office, the plush bear still watching over me. I'm too wired to even think about sleep. The whispers have stopped, but the silence feels almost more unsettling. It's like the arcade is holding its breath, waiting for something. But what? I can't shake the feeling that the machines are alive in some way, that they're watching me, waiting for me to break another rule. I won't, not again. I look over the rules one last time before locking up, then I finally see the fine print. There is no quitting once you start.
Night 3
Yawning, I unlock the front door stepping into the hell that I've signed up for. I couldn't sleep at all when I'd gotten home, the image of the contract still tattooed in my mind like an unyielding vice. Squeezing my eyes shut, rubbing them off the sleep they've wished to collect. I wobble into the night-office, stopping to stare at a once kind and soothing looking teddy bear, but now it just seems evil and mocking. My eye twitches. I walk to the monitor and grab the bear, squeezing it with a fervor I didn't know I had, its speaker lets out its haunting voice. "I love you!..." It crackles as I strangle its body with my hand.
"Why the hell are you here…? Why are you doing this to me?!" my hands shake with the force behind them, for a moment it looks like it's smiling at me. I throw it against the wall, making sad, sputtering voice-box noises as it comes to a halt on the ground. That's when I realize how heavily I'm breathing. I take a deep breath, swallowing hard as I rub the back of my neck, goosebumps moving into their newly found home. fuck…Im going mental…I grind my teeth and sit in the old office chair, leaning forward, head in my hands then I chuckle. My chuckle turns into a laugh, and the laugh into a shallow cackle. When I look up I see my face in the dead monitor screen, my eyes deep and sunken, looking as if I had awakened from an open casket. Dead. the image of the man—-that creature—from the night before. The presence is still there, lingering in the smell of the dust, it's overwhelming. I sit up in my chair and turn the monitors on, viewing the old, worn down cameras around the building. I stare at the footage, my chair creaking with every slight shift I make. Minutes turn to hours as I continue staring into the monitor. The time passed so quickly as I looked at camera feed after camera feed. All the images looked blurry and grainy, and my eyes hurt.
I was so intent on trying to reassure myself that there was nothing to be afraid of, that it was just in my mind. But I couldn't manage to convince myself. No matter what camera I looked at, no matter what hallway I studied, all I saw was quiet, dust, and the strange flickering light from a fluorescent lamp. Then I heard a door creak open at the building entrance, and then it slowly closed shut again. There’s nothing there, I thought to myself. Then I heard footsteps creaking toward the control room. They were slow, deliberate. Maybe someone was walking to the building entrance to clock in, or maybe it was just the building settling. I squinted at the cameras that faced the hallway toward the entrance. After about five seconds of nothing, I thought I could make out the faintest glimmer in the dimness as if someone had turned on a flashlight, and then turned it off again. I thought that was kind of odd. Did someone come to the building, get cold feet, then leave?
I decided to check the hallway using one of the security cameras that I could control from where I was sitting. I focused in, using the zoom function to see if I could see who was coming. No one. I let out a sigh and leaned back in my chair, frustrated. I didn’t want to admit it, but my paranoia was winning. I probably just heard the creaking sounds the building makes when it settles in a certain way. I probably imagined seeing something glimmer in the distance. But that just might be my mind trying to rationalize this.
I decided to check the hallway using one of the security cameras that I could control from where I was sitting. I focused in, using the zoom function to see if I could see who was coming. No one. I let out a sigh and leaned back in my chair, frustrated. I didn’t want to admit it, but my paranoia was winning. I probably just heard the creaking sounds the building makes when it settles in a certain way. I probably imagined seeing something glimmer in the distance. But that just might be my mind trying to rationalize this.
In my moment of distraction, the lights flickered. I’d been staring at the monitor so intently that I barely had time to register the change in light before it was over, but it was unmistakable. It felt like a flicker in my head, something more than a mere electrical hiccup. There was no telling whether the lights flickered in a different location, or if the outage was only confined to this spot. I turned off the monitor and got to my feet, ready to grab a flashlight and search the room. If there was nothing there, it could be the lights were messing with me.
But then I saw it, a dark figure darting through the hallway. It moved far too quickly to be someone dressed in regular clothes. And it moved too silently, like a ghost.
I froze, heart pounding, as it continued its swift passage into the depths of the darkened building. It seemed to be heading straight for the security office, where I had been sitting. My eyes followed it in horror as it disappeared around a corner, then I saw something else, something even more terrifying: The dark figure was clearly not human. I can't explain how I knew this, or even why I was so certain, but I was. The creature, or whatever it was, was unlike anything I had ever seen before. It wasn't that it was a hideous or monstrous figure, because I could not actually see its features. But there was something about its movements and the darkness that enveloped it that made it instantly clear that it was not something born of this world, nor was it something from the mortal realm.
—And it was headed straight for me.
If it wasn't for my deep-rooted fear of horror movies and the characters who were always doomed from the get-go, I'd have probably tried to run away to escape whatever was on the way. As it was, however, I was too paralyzed to move. My feet were rooted firmly to the floor, and my heart was pounding so loudly it was surprising I wasn't actually drowning in the sound in my ears. My lungs felt like they were about to explode, and all I could do was stare straight at the doorway in silent terror.
And wait.
In the darkness beyond, I could just make out the faint outline of something moving. The vague shape of it, combined with whatever made up my fear in the first place, made it appear as though whatever this was had come straight out of a nightmare; But no matter how much I tried to convince myself that it wasn't, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was going to die. I fell to the ground and squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for what was to come...but nothing did. I open my eyes, body shaking to see nothing but the ray of light from my flashlight and dust particles from my stumble.
"I….I-I love you-u!" I snap my head to the side, to see the teddy bear still on the ground, sitting up, but this time his head is gone, the stuffing has fallen around its body, that is standing alone. I stare at it as it seems to die, its body going slump on the ground. I can still hear my heart, pounding hard in my chest and ears. Then I look at the analog clock on the wall, 7:23am. My shift is already over? How? It was just midnight not too long ago, wasn't it?
"What…the fuck…" I croak, "why–what is happening?" I tremble as I crawl to my flashlight, then to my desk, groping around for my keys. When I find them I check out and slowly walk out the door and to my car, face blank and zoned. Then I drove home.
—----------------------------------------------
I open the apartment door and set my stuff down, still shook from what happened–so bad I almost ran into another car–I untie my shoes and slide them off, then I wobble to the couch where I'd like to sleep, but i'm way to paranoid and wired to do anything of that nature. I sit staring at the blank TV screen for a good 10 or so minutes before standing and walking to my room, grabbing some clothes, then heading to the bathroom to wash away the creepy feeling that lingers all over me. I find a safe haven inside the warm shower, the water feeling as if holding me in a tight embrace. For a while I just stand there with the feeling of wanting to cry, but I can't, my body wont let me, whatevers haunting my mind won't let me–so I just stand and stare at the water that swirls down the drain. I stand under the warm, soothing shower spray. Letting it wash over me as I stand there motionless. I can't think, I can't feel, I can't move. Just stand there in the shower, wanting, so badly, to just cry.
My body is thin and not very muscular. My arms are skinny and pale, I don't like how my veins show through my skin so much. I find it disgusting. My legs are the same way, skinny and almost translucent. I have dark hair, that's usually in my face or all over the place, but not really styled. I wish my skin wasn't so pale. I wish it was a little more tanned, so I wouldn't look so sickly. I really hate my appearance. As the hot water pounds against me, I look down at my skinny body. I hate how there are bones visible. My arms and legs are the same way. There are too many ribs showing, and they look so unhealthy. There is a small dark hair patch on my lower navel. I watch as the soap suds spin down the drain, before my eyes widen and my body starts to shake. Red. I take my hands from my head and look at them, also covered in a wet, red mixture. My eyes darted back to the drain, the suds now stained and dark. Blood. Am I bleeding? I quickly get out of the shower and wrap a towel around my waist before wiping the steam that clung to the mirror to look at myself. My face is dripping with blood and water, I suppress a yelp as I jump back, bumping against the wall, but when I look again, there am–normal and unskathed—No blood to be found, but the small bubbles in the tub.
I look at my trembling hands and clench my teeth before opening the bathroom door and leaving. I hold my towel in place as I walk to my half of the apartment, grabbing clothes and putting them over my head. I stare back at my hands and sigh leaving to the kitchen, where I can't find anything that sounds good or somewhat calming to eat. I lean on the island counter before looking at the cabinet above the sink, a bottle of unopened Vodka that seems to call my name, promising me the relief I want so badly.
I don't know why, but the mere sight of the bottle sets me at ease, and I take it down with a vengeance. I rip the cap off and drink the whole thing without breaking stride. I swallow a lot of air with it, and a moment later, I'm doubled over and coughing my guts out. My stomach feels like it's about to explode, and I don't think I've been this nauseated ever before in my life.
I think that something may be wrong with me. I feel really dizzy and unsteady on my feet. I stumble a bit, and I almost trip and fall into the counter. I can't see straight anymore either. Everything looks blurred. It's like I have cotton in my ears and in my eyes as well. I'm sure something is wrong. I'm sure it's the alcohol, but I don't know what's actually wrong with me. It's hard to think straight. I have no idea what just happened. I know what I did, but I feel as though I'm going to pass out.
I don't know why, but I think that the walls just started talking. I think they are talking to me. I don't know what they're saying, though. I know that I drank a whole bottle of vodka, and I know that it's not good to drink that much straight vodka. Why are the walls talking? I swear they were just talking to me. I don't think I am thinking straight, though.
I'm thinking that maybe the walls are talking to me because I drank an entire bottle of vodka. That does seem logical. I think that's what's going on. That doesn't mean I like it, though. I don't like being talked at by the walls, whether it's alcohol-induced hallucination or not. They do seem pretty friendly, though. What's the big deal? Who can I turn to, anyway? I really do need someone to talk to, though. The walls aren't exactly able to keep a conversation going, It's just the eyes that are looking at me that makes it seem that way.
What am I saying? Of course, the walls aren't talking and of course they don't have eyes. I should probably go to sleep. I'm clearly not in the right state of mind. I'm just getting really dizzy. I'm probably going to throw up too. What should I do? I'm going to see if I can find my way upstairs to my bed. Hopefully, the alcohol will make me tired enough to fall asleep. Then maybe the walls will stop talking to me, maybe they'll stop looking at me.
"Don't look at me" I slur out as I stumble closer to the wall, glaring at it. I can hear laughter in the back of my head. My heart starts to hammer in my chest like an air hammer. Why do I feel so sick? My stomach clenches, and I immediately start to feel hot and cold at the same time. Suddenly, my knees buckle, and I fall. I'm going to be sick. My hand shoots out in a desperate attempt to catch myself, but it passes right through the wall. My hand comes out through the other side, which appears to be just an extension of the same room, like two connected spaces. There's nothing there, so my hand falls to the floor.
The floor is soft. I should have known. I fall onto the carpet, and I start gagging. Oh god, is this a dream? No, I can feel it. The texture of the carpet is rough, kind of scratchy. I hope I’m not in my bed.
I'm not sure what to do, how to react, how to feel. This is just some other thing on top of everything else. Then something new, something unexpected comes into my head.
I don’t think I want to live.
How did I go wrong? How did I get here? Did I fall? Did someone push me? Is anyone out there? Who are you? I'm scared. I'm scared. What did I do to make you hate me so much? How is it fair that I get punished like this? Why should my heart beat? Why am I breathing? I have nothing left in me, I am empty. There is no point in going on like this. Why do I have to keep going? What is the point of my existence?
My head starts to feel foggy, but I can still hear. I think I heard a door open. The sound of keys, then the front door creaking open. Could it be a nightmare? Wait, no. I must be awake. But this is all so real. Or am I? Or maybe this IS a nightmare, and I haven't died. I can hear more footsteps now, coming up the stairs. The steps are quick and heavy. They are getting closer. Someone is coming into my room. I hear the doorknob turn and hear the clicking of the lock. The door opens.
"Dude, what the hell?" it's Wyatt, he must be off his shift. He has an expression of shock and concern on his face.
Wyatt looks around the room, probably looking for the source of the sound until his eyes fall onto mine. What if he thinks I'm crazy? I can't let anyone think I'm crazy. I'm not crazy. Wyatt's jaw is locked. He picks up the empty bottle beside me and stares at it.
"Alex! This was for the party next week!" Wyatt groans, then he sees my face, pale and sweaty, "you didn't drink this all at once did you?" his face grows concerned.
"I'm sorry, I don't know what—" I tried to sputter out before everything escaped. Literally. Lurched forward; bial, stomach acid and vodka pouring out of me, burning my throat. I cough as the last wave of vomit leaves me, Wyatt stares at me, concern and a hint of annoyance plastered on his face.
"You're cleaning that" he points to the puddle. Under his breath he adds "Nasty" I watch him walk away then return with a glass of water, he squats beside me and hands it to me.
"The fucks gotten into you? You know you have a shit tolerance" he scolds me as I shakily take a sip of the cold water which feels amazing on my throat.
"I…don't know, this gig is getting in my head I guess" I look into the cup.
"The arcade? It's just a arcade," he holds up the bottle again, "not something to chug vodka over"
"It's…Wyatt—that's the thing—I don't think it's just an arcade, I don't know why but I swear…" I look up "there's something wrong with that place" I shudder just thinking about the things I've seen.
"Alex, you're still drunk. You're not gonna be thinking straight, you'll be mixing things up in your head, making things seem true, I've been stoned enough to know" he huffs with a chuckle in his throat, then stands back up, stretching. "Now, please clean your fluids up, it smells like death and ass in here"
Night 4
My head is killing me, but my boss is a pushover and wouldn't let me off.
"You want a day or two off?" He had mocked me, "and for what a headache? It'll go away inna' hour or two," then he ordered me to get ready for my shift.
I should have begged for a day off, and this is where I am now. On the night shift at the only place that would take me. And I swear, the only thing that’s going to explode here is my head.
What did I do? I can't remember anymore. I'm sitting at the night shift desk, it feels like ages ago, I can't recall how I got here. How did I get to this place? I think I drove, but I can't be sure, and all I know is my head is killing me.
This is where I'm supposed to sit until I punch out. Where I'm supposed to wait for the sun to rise. I should be out walking the aisles of the Arcade every hour, keeping an eye on the machines, yet my headache is making it hard to think, so I'm pretty sure I'm just supposed to sit here and pretend that I am. And even that feels like a lot, sitting here in this cold room. It's not much. I mean, I've always been a night person. That's not the problem. I've worked a few night shifts in my life, and I've always enjoyed it. I was a barista for six months, and the place was practically in a deserted spot on the edge of town. There was no one else out there, and I was sitting there at a little table at 2am for half of my life. I'm sure you've seen a lot of weirdos when you're in my position. The problem is that this is a place where the only other life forms are the ghosts and goblins that come out at night. I'm the only one in the building. There are no workers, just me, the walls, and the flickering fluorescent lights.
Now, there are only three things I don't like: people who chew with their mouths open, spiders that make their webs on the top of the toilet, and being left alone with my thoughts at night.
There's nothing to do other than listen to the static of the machines, I have nothing but my own thoughts. they’re telling me that there’s something wrong with this place, that I don't deserve to be here, that maybe I'd uncovered something I wasn't supposed to, all of which are probably true. What else is there to think about at night?
Well, at least I have the shadows. They’re good company, aren't they? But they move. Randomly from the corner of my eyes I'll see them shift, move even. I rub my temples and groan, my heads not getting any better and the dust that, no matter how much you clean it won't go away, doesn't help either. Opening the drawer above my files I rummage around for something to do, a book maybe, my hand hits something cylinder and i pull it out. Tylenol. Thank god, I opened the bottle and took two.
"Now that, that should help" I mutter under my breath, secretly cursing my boss for being so rude.
—--------------------------------------------------------------
A few hours into the shift I call Wyatt. The phone had rung 3 times before he answered.
"Hello, this is Wyatt speaking" he states.
"Hey" despite being with him all the time, it's comforting to hear him.
"Oh, Hey dude, how's your hangover?" he chuckles "quite bad, I expect"
I roll my eyes, "yeah, its killing, but I found some Tylenol earlier, that's helped a bit" I rub the back of my neck as I set my phone down, putting him on speaker.
"Well there's a good thing" he laughs " haven't seen any ghosts, have you?"
Ghosts… everything that's happened here seems like a ghost's doing, despite not existing. Ghosts don't exist, and I know that.
"Wyatt, don't be a douche" I lean back in my chair, resting my feet on the desk as I listen to Wyatt laugh and keep my eyes on the screens. "It's most likely a racoon or something. Chewing on the wires above, making the damn lights flicker"
"Maybe, If it is you should tell that boss of your's, get him to call someone to handle it"
"Yeah, good idea…" I trail off, my hair standing on end as I feel something airy and cold on my neck.
"Alex? You good over there, man?" he asks, hearing me go silent, I don't answer right away.
I can feel something like a cold breath on my neck, making me shiver. My eyes dart to a dead monitor screen, what I see is my face, caked in fear. I slowly look to the side of the screen, where I can feel the cold air. I freeze as I see a small kid's sad, smiling face, I whip my head around but once I do, there's no one there. The speed of the turn-around causes my chair to shake and tip, I fall to the ground with a loud, thud.
"Alex?" I hear Wyatt ask again from the phone "what's going on?"
I rub my back, where I had taken the impact the most. "Nothing, just lost my balance"
"Lost your balance? Jesus, Alex Wyatt grumbles.
"Oh fuck off, like you've never fallen out of a chair" I laugh shallowly, still on the kid that I swear I had seen just moments before.
"Well, knowing you, I know you're not telling me the full damn truth, what happened alex?"
"I thought I'd saw something, its nothing"
"Jesus, alex! Not this shit again" he groans, I can hear him shifting in bed, or the couch, "you know what? I'm heading over there, right now."
"What? Wyatt, I don't need you too–"
"Sure you don't, but what you do need is someone to wack you over your damn head and make you see sense! Now, I'll be over in maybe 20–25 minutes"
"Wyatt, No. if my boss finds out he'll have me fired!" I pick my phone back up, holding it close to my mouth, "Do. Not. Come!" but he's already hung up on me. "Fuck.."
I place my hands over my face, groaning loudly. "My boss is going to fucking kill me…I swear to god…" I huff then stare at my phone, then I text Wyatt–hoping he hasn't left, at least not yet.
At least bring me a chapter book or two. And energy drinks.
Night 5
As stated, about 25 minutes later, there was a loud rattling at the front door.
"Wyatt, I swear to god" I grumble as I open the entrance "what about your job?"
"forget that, I called in sick" he smirks as he steps in beside me. His hands fall onto his hips "so, this is the Haunted Mansion?" Wyatt muses. Wyatt isn't much shorter than me, if anything he looks taller next to me. The way he holds himself is confident and outgoing, unlike me with my lazy posture and shy demeanor. He could be considered my opposite in more than one way. His hair is darker than mine and kinda falls to the right, his eyes are dark green but seem to always be bright with adventure, intrigue, but also sharp with a bad intuition. I smile slightly at him— mostly uncomfortable, but also slightly happy to have the company—just enough to show my dimples. My mother loved my dimples, so much so that she'd poke my cheeks when talking to me. It was annoying, but now I just miss it. She died when I was 19 to a fentanyl overdose. I never really got to know if it was an addiction or an accident. Maybe that's why I hate smiling so much, or maybe I just don't have much to smile for.
"Alex" Wyatt waves his hand over my face, I hadn't realized that I was zoned out until that point.
"Sorry, just thinking." I slowly lower his hand from my face, then gesture to the whole lobby in front of us. "Welcome to my hell" Wyatt laughs, the sound echoing, somehow making me jump. I'm skittish as hell. I watch as Wyatt drops his stuff right beside him, then starts to walk the perimeter. I just watch silently.
“Hey, what's up with you? You seem like you’re back in your shell, the way you used to be in junior high,” Wyatt asks, his voice tinged with concern, he must sense my mood, because he just shrugs, as if saying, "Whatever," before opening the vending machine. He pulls out a water bottle and throws it at my head.
"Hey!" I yelp, just barely catching the bottle. I glare at him, he just laughs. He looks down at my hands that are just barely holding the water bottle. He starts to reach for it, and I throw it, not sure where I'm throwing it. He throws his head back and laughs. I just glare, walking slowly over to a small table and taking a seat.
"Oh, come on Alex, loosen up a bit!" Wyatt places his hand on my shoulder, shaking me lightly, in response I wriggle him off, grunting softly. Wyatt rolls his eyes at me, taking a seat adjacent to my chair.