I reach the front door and cautiously push through, my weapon now raised as I swivel my attention from side to side. On my right is a gift shop, and stretching to my left is the diner with its rows and rows of red vinyl booths. What’s left of the fluorescent bulbs hum gently above me, somehow amplifying the tension that’s been draped over everything like a suffocating blanket.
Because my view into the diner is so clear and empty, I opt to investigate the gift shop first. Slowly, I creep from the lobby into a strange maze of empty shelving, crouching down as I move through this haphazard arrangement. Most of the goods either were carted away when the restaurant closed or have slowly been pilfered over time by urban explorers. The bags of snacks that once covered the displays are long gone, although a small half-empty case of bottled water lies upside down in the corner.
Still, not every remnant of the Tropitopia’s former glory has vanished.
At the front counter, where the cash register likely once rested, a small metal stand offers an assortment of Tropitopia key chains for sale. A few branded T-shirts, sunglasses, and mugs lie scattered about.
A sudden, squealing eruption of feedback over the building’s PA system causes me to jump in alarm, my eyes darting up to an old speaker embedded within the ceiling. I whip my head around, hunting for movement in the stillness as my skin tingles with anticipation.
The feedback settles.
“Show’s about to begin,” comes a deep voice. “Take a seat in the dining room.”
My first reaction is, of course, to do anythingotherthan taking a seat in the dining room. I crouch even lower, tucking myself behind one of the empty shelves and peering out, checking the various sight lines and how they relate to the diner portion of this structure.
Why is this person trying to get me into the diner? What advantage does it serve? What’s the ultimate goal?
Unfortunately, this analysis also works to escalate my looming dread, a distinct helplessness making itself known. If I don’t follow these instructions, then what?
This mysterious guest has my keys, and it’s more than likely he’s got a valuable celebrity corpse to go with them.
“Fuck off with the games!” I shout, my voice reverberating through the gift shop and out into the empty restaurant. “What do you want?”
Another crackle as the PA system springs to life for a second time.
“I want you to enjoy the show,” the voice says flatly, followed by a long pause. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! Don’t be so chickenshit about it.”
There’s a notable shift in tone, much less menacing than I’d originally thought. The moment is still tense, but I can’t deny the bizarre playfulness I’m picking up on.
“I’m not going to kill you,” the mysterious voice informs me.
“Why would you even say that?” I shout. “That freaks me out even more!”
A long pause, then the voice lets out a defeated sigh. “Do you understand I’m trying to create amomenthere? Just go to the fucking dining room.”
The PA system clicks off, plunging my surroundings back into the quiet drone of fluorescent lighting.
The only way out is through. I creep out of the gift shop, making my way back into the diner section of the restaurant.
“Who are you?” I boom. I reconfirm my grip on the gun, fingers tense with anticipation.
The dining area stretches toward a jukebox against the far wall, booths running down the entire length on either side. To the right, beyond these seats, is a countertop bar that’s parallel to the booths, and behind that is the kitchen. The room takes a sharp right turn once it reaches the far wall, heading off into a part of the restaurant that is currently obstructed from view.
It’s only now that I notice a distinct scent wafting across my nostrils, a familiar aroma that would probably fillme with a sense of blissful nostalgia if not for the utterly bizarre timing. It smells like popcorn, as if a gentle breeze just swept through the lobby of a movie theater.
The scent is recognizable, but not entirely pure. There’s something else lurking within those notes, the faintest sour tang hidden just below the surface.
Suddenly, movement. I flinch slightly, shifting the barrel of my weapon toward the jukebox. A selection was made just moments before I entered, and the machine’s mechanical arm is now reaching out and extracting a vinyl record from its enormous catalog. It’s the real deal—a legitimate, old-school turntable and not some digital approximation.
A faint, almost imperceptible hum of auditory warmth fills the air as the needle touches down, then moments later a twinkling cascade of piano notes tumbles from the speakers.
“A Star Like Me” by Eddie Michaels begins to play.
This song is my anthem, a rallying cry that never fails to pick me up and carry me onward, no matter how exhausted I get. I’ve listened to it so many times that it feels like a living, breathing friend, like someone who stands proudly next to me and faces down my demons.
Right now, however, this legendary tune just makes me feel uneasy. All the right notes are there, but the story behind them has been twisted around in some strange, otherworldly way.
I step cautiously forward, lights flickering above me as the power falters, yet somehow the electrical currentmanages to keep pumping through this old, dilapidated shell of a building. The vinyl record slows at random intervals, its pitch bent awkwardly as a single piano note transitions into chords.
