The little girl woman sobbed and sobbed until finally she took a deep breath and opened her mouth to scream: “DADDY!!”
“Daddy?” He didn’t know who Daddy was, and he definitely didn’t want to find out.
Arthur followed her eyeline. Behind him, where he’d just come from moments ago, was a towering, terrifying figure, illuminated from behind by a flickering strobe. It had to beten feet tall, whatever it was, and without any warning at all, it was coming toward him, lumbering and skittering across the floor like a giant alien spider, all gangly legs and unnatural, jerky movements.
“Nononononono.” He scrambled, losing his footing, hurrying down the hallway, wherever it led, freaky clown be damned. He had to get away from the thing. One look back and all was revealed as the creature stepped into the light: a psycho mime on stilts, holding an ax. Its eyes glowed red, fixated on him and only him.
Arthur ran. Yeah, he saw the signs:No Running. But, respectfully, fuck that.
He should have held the goddamn tarantula. He should have run the red light. Jail would be better than this.
What was he supposed to do with this mutated giraffe-like apparition bearing down on him, ready to swing his terrible ax?It’s an illusion, it’s all an act, he tried to remind himself. If the horrible mime caught up with him, the actor would let out a terrible scream to maximize the scare and then scurry away into the shadows. He couldn’t really hurt him. Could he? Arthur hadn’t really read the waiver carefully. What had he unwittingly consented to? No, this wasn’t that kind of place. He would be fine.
Except Arthur’s poor, trembling body wasn’t buying it.
Arthur ran and ran. Soon he entered a new room. Strange shadows danced along the walls, coming from slow swaying objects all over. It was a meat locker, great slabs of meat hanging from gruesome hooks. Plastic? Rubber? Surely, not real. Right? They did seem a little moist, a little too sticky. Arthur didn’t stick around to find out what the slabs were made of. He ran through the gauntlet of dead cows like the football playersrunning drills at training camp when Wren forced him to watchHard Knocks. He just had to get through to the other side and he’d be free of the creature, still shrieking out horrifying hisses and squawks in the darkness behind him.
Running full speed now, he collided with a slab of beef and fell to the floor. His hands and knees stung like fire. But something was hot on his tail, so he peeled himself back onto his feet and examined the wounds. A bright white substance, illuminated by the black light, was covering his hands. Blood. Oh God. He was bleeding. He absolutely had to get out of here. Seek medical attention before he fainted in this hideous place.
But first to find an employee. (Not the stilts mime. No, anyone but him.)
Arthur staggered forward and found himself in a new room.
“Oh good,” he said, staring into a hall of mirrors. The octagon-shaped room loomed before him, tricking his eyes almost immediately. It was impossible to see the path forward. He would have to use his hands to feel it out.
Suddenly, there was a brutalized ballerina dancing in one of the reflections. She performed perfectly haunting pirouettes, her slashed and bloodied leotard flashing across each of the mirrors.
Arthur really, really did not want to go in there.
But the only way out was through.
He followed the dancing specter. “Ma’am!” he cried. But she spun away, and he smacked his nose on one of the mirrors.
“Miss, I’m hurt,” he cried. He couldn’t see her anymore. She’d disappeared. He picked a direction and walked. BONK! That was a mirror. He tried another. BONK! His nose stung, eyes watering. In the warped reflection and the flickeringlights it was impossible to tell, but he worried it might be broken, his body bleeding in several different locations now.
Grainy music-box music played over the speakers, some haunted circus tune. He tried another path. BONK!
It was then that Arthur sat down on the ground, examined his bleeding hands one more time, stinging like fire, and curled up into the fetal position.
He suddenly found himself envious of Dorothy fromThe Wizard of Oz.There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, he repeated in his head, even clicking his heels once or twice just for good measure. But nothing happened. The chilling music didn’t stop, and he was not lucky enough to open his eyes and find himself in his own bed. He’d have even settled for a random farmhouse in Kansas.
Without warning, the ballerina was standing over him. He looked at her. She stared back, emotionless. Like a dead person. He opened his mouth to speak, ready to forfeit, but…
What was the goddamn safe word?
“Fettucine,” he said.
She blinked at him.
“Rigatoni?”
Nothing. She opened her mouth and bared her teeth, including razor-sharp fangs. She was a vampire. Of course she was.
“Spaghetti?! I don’t know, I can’t remember the safe word, I just want to get out of here!!”
She leaned in as if to bite his neck and transfer the eternal curse, when he finally remembered the safe word, coming to him as if delivered directly from the pages of an Olive Garden menu, divined by the Gods of Italian Pasta. They were here to save him.Tortellini.
But he wasn’t going to say it.
