Darkness. The kind of pitch black that makes you question if your eyeballs even work. Seriously, I couldn't see two inches in front of my face. Was I blind? Nope. Just stuck in the world's worst escape room.
It had been, what, two minutes since they threw me in here? Six hours since I arrived in this lovely nightmare resort. Plenty of time to bond with the creeping dread. At first, survival instincts kicked in—run, hide, panic, repeat. But now? Now it was time for the real fun: a full-blown existential crisis.
Who am I? No, really—who? Did I sign up for this madness? Was I kidnapped? Do I have a family? Probably not. People like me—disposable types—don't usually come with a search party. It's like a VIP pass for the "welcome to your doom" club.
But why me? Was I a bad person? Did I cut someone off in traffic one too many times? Or worse—what if I deserved this? Maybe I was a terrible human being. A serial killer. A tax evader. A guy who uses "LOL" unironically in professional emails. The possibilities are endless.
And here's the kicker: What if I unwittingly signed a 40-page waiver, like the ones for McKamey Manor? You know, the place where you shell out your hard-earned cash for a guy to duct-tape you to a chair and yell at you for ten hours. Except here's the thing—this feels real. Real enough that my heart's now trying to escape through my ribcage. Fantastic.
So here I am, spiraling in the dark, wondering if this is how it all ends. Alone. Forgotten. Questioning whether I was even worth remembering in the first place. Honestly, I thought my final moments would be more... cinematic. You know, something with violins or at least a cool one-liner. But nope. Just me, my paranoia, and whatever's lurking in the dark.
And then—bam—the lights hit me. My eyes felt like someone had lobbed a handful of sand in them. Great start. Once the blinding pain subsided, I got a good look around. The place was… disappointingly ordinary. It looked like the lobby of a budget hotel where they serve stale bagels and lukewarm coffee.
Front and center was a receptionist. A name tag that read "The Receptionist" sat pinned to his chest like he couldn't be bothered to pick an actual name. He was grinning—wide, unnervingly cheerful—and I swear there was foam at the corners of his mouth. A rabid desk clerk. Awesome.
"Hello, Ms. Cottontail?" he chirped, his voice so bright and perky it was borderline sinister. His gaze was stagnant like he was almost programmed to look in a specific direction. Was he looking at me? Through me? Hard to tell. I suddenly felt like a hologram.
"That's… me," I said, my voice barely convincing even myself. I wasn't sure why my legs hadn't bolted yet, but here we were.
"Welcome to the game," he said with a grin so perfect it was unsettling. Teeth too white, too straight, too wide and way too... deliberate. No way those chompers were natural. If someone had told me this guy was a robot—or, better yet, a demon in a cheap human costume—I'd have believed them. Crazy didn't even begin to cover it.
The receptionist's unsettlingly perfect smile doesn't waver. He points to an old, creaky elevator with doors that seem to shudder with every passing second.
"Your room awaits, Ms. Cottontail," he says, his tone syrupy sweet, as if he's trying to sell me a used car.
I glance at the elevator. Its dim light flickers ominously, and the panel looks like it was ripped out of a 1950s horror set. The smell of iron and damp cloth wafts over. Lovely.
"Game? What game?" I ask, feigning nonchalance as I stand my ground.
The receptionist tilts His head twisted a full 90 degrees, as if it had come unhinged from his neck, his smile now stretching unnaturally wide. "Well, I can't spoil the surprise, can I? You'll find out in... seven hours." His gaze is piercing now, like he's assessing how long I'll last.
I decide to press my luck. "And if I choose not to play?"
He chuckles, a low, guttural sound that's anything but human. "Oh, my dear Ms. Cottontail, that's the beauty of it—everyone plays. Whether they know it or not."
Great. Vague and creepy. My favorite combo.
He leans forward, almost whispering now. "The elevator to your left will take you to your accommodations. Room 07. Rest, prepare, or... ponder. Your choice. But don't be late."
The fluorescent lights above buzz ominously as I approach the elevator, my pulse quickening. Eye contact is key, I remind myself. Don't let them see you're afraid.
I step into the rickety elevator, the doors groaning shut behind me. For a moment, I half expect the cables to snap, sending me plummeting into some fiery pit below. Instead, it jerks violently and begins its ascent—or descent; honestly, I can't tell which.
"Room 07," I mutter to myself. "Lucky me."
As the elevator screeches to a halt, the doors slowly creak open, revealing a narrow hallway bathed in a sickly green light. At the end of the corridor is a single door with the number 07 etched into it.
I walk toward it, my footsteps echoing eerily. Something about the air feels... wrong. Too heavy, too quiet, as if the walls themselves are watching.
Reaching the door, I hesitate. My hand hovers over the knob, my gut screaming at me to turn back. But where would I even go?
I push the door open and step inside.
The room is stark and minimalist—just a bed, a desk, and a clock
No windows, no personal touches.
I close the door behind me, the sound echoing like a gunshot. What now? Wait and see what horrors await me? Or try to figure out a way to survive this... game.
And then I notice it. Sitting on the desk is a small envelope with my name scrawled across it in blood-red ink.
"Welcome, Ms. Cottontail," it reads. "Your first challenge begins at midnight. Sweet dreams." I glance at the clock beside the envelope; its red digits glow ominously in the dim room: 5:00 PM.
I throw the envelope down, my heart pounding. Midnight can't come fast enough—or maybe it can. Whatever awaits me, one thing is clear: this game doesn't plan to let me leave easily.
I lie on the bed, attempting to take stock of my situation. The murky smell assaults my nose like it has a personal vendetta, but I stay put because, well, priorities. Before I even get around to assessing anything, exhaustion sucker-punches me, dragging me into the most restless excuse for sleep I've ever had.
A deafening siren jolts me awake—of course, it's that siren, the same obnoxious one that lured me here in the first place. The clock beside me flashes red, screaming 12:00 AM like it's mocking my misery. "Damn it," I mutter, trying to drag myself up, only to realize my legs feel like they've been replaced with lead weights. Great. Just great. "I am not ready to die today," I grumble, but even that sounds like wishful thinking.
Now I've got a choice: what if I just don't go? Stay here, pretend I'm asleep, let this whole thing blow over? Brilliant plan, right? Except the universe loves a good laugh at my expense. Just as I'm entertaining my genius idea, there's a knock on the door—no, scratch that, a battering ram disguised as a knock. It's so forceful I'm half-convinced the door is about to splinter into pieces.
Heart racing, I shuffle toward the door with my chainsaw that I had hid earlier under the bed and manage to squeak out, "Who's there?" in the shakiest voice imaginable. Nice one, self. Real tough. Maybe next time, try not to sound like a terrified rabbit.
Then, that voice—the same eerily cheerful tone from reception—floats through the door. "Ms. Cottontail, come quickly. Time's up. Or don't... and see what happens." He practically sings it, the cheerfulness barely masking an undertone of malice that sends a chill down my spine. Great. Just great.
My breath catches in my throat as I stare at the door, my fingers hover over the doorknob, debating whether I should open it or barricade myself in.
"Tick-tock, Ms. Cottontail!" the voice singsongs from the other side, his tone so cheery it's nauseating. "Don't keep me waiting. It's rude, you know."
Rude? Seriously? I want to snap back with something clever, but my mouth stays clamped shut, refusing to cooperate. Instead, my brain supplies a single thought: If I don't open this door, he's going to come in anyway, and judging by that knock, I don't think he'll ask nicely.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I grip the doorknob. It's ice-cold, and with a deep breath, I twist it and pull the door open, bracing myself for whatever nightmare is waiting on the other side.
And there he is. The man—or whatever he is—stands there, his grin wide and unnerving, like he's enjoying a private joke at my expense. "There she is," he says, his frame reaching the ceiling as he looms over me, clapping his hands together as if I'm the star of some twisted show. "Shall we?"
Shall we what? I want to ask, but the words stick in my throat. Instead, I just nod, because apparently, that's all I'm capable of right now. He steps aside, gesturing grandly toward the hallway, and I have the sinking feeling that whatever's ahead makes staying in this room look like a day at the spa.
I want to cry. No, scratch that—I want to curl up in a ball and die already. Each step I take toward the elevator feels like I'm dragging a mountain behind me, my legs heavier with every movement. I can feel his eyes boring into the back of my head, his gaze a physical weight. And personal space? Forget it. This guy is literally breathing on the back of my neck.
I step into the elevator, my heart racing, and—thankfully—he doesn't follow. Instead, he stands just outside, holding up three fingers with his abnormally long, spindly hand. The door slides shut before I can ask what that even means. For a fleeting moment, I feel safe.
But the moment doesn't last. The elevator begins to move—up? Down? I can't tell, and my stomach lurches with uncertainty. That's when I notice it: the number 3 is already lit. Someone's beaten me to it. I jab the button for 4, hoping to throw off whatever nightmare this is. Of course, the elevator has other plans. It ignores me completely and heads straight to 3, skipping 4 as if my choice was a mere suggestion.
When the doors slide open, I'm met with a sight that makes my blood run cold. It's the receptionist. The same one from earlier. His smile is plastered on, impossibly wide and unnerving.
"What?" I manage to croak, more to myself than anyone else.
The receptionist tilts their head slightly, the motion too sharp, too mechanical. "Welcome back," he says sweetly, as if I've just returned from a pleasant outing. "We've been expecting you."
The thought hits me like a slap—did the elevator take me back? I step out, glancing around. No, this isn't my floor. It's bathed in a dull, eerie blue light, completely different from the yellow glow on my floor.
My chest tightens. How the hell did he get here so quickly? My mind races. The elevator was fast—too fast. It took barely three seconds to reach the third floor. There's no way he could've taken the stairs and beaten me here.
Yet here he is, standing at the end of the hallway, his unnerving grin stretched wider than ever. He doesn't look winded, not even a bead of sweat on him. In fact, he seems... calm. Too calm.
I take a step back toward the elevator, my pulse pounding in my ears. The thought of pressing the button and taking my chances elsewhere flits through my mind, but something tells me it wouldn't matter. Wherever I go, he'll be there. Somehow.
And then it hits me—did he just say we? Oh, fantastic. Who exactly is "we"? The thought alone makes me want to turn around and bolt, but instead, I find myself trailing behind him like an obedient little rabbit as he gestures for me to follow.
Suddenly, he stops dead in his tracks, so abruptly that I nearly crash into him. Nice of him to give a heads-up. Peering around his too-tall frame, I spot it: a massive, automated door that's so ridiculously oversized it looks like it's trying to compensate for something. It spans the entire hallway, looming like the gateway to doom.
That's when I notice the camera perched in the top-right corner of the door. With a soft whir, it jerks to life, swiveling toward us like it's just woken up from a nap. The receptionist glances at it, and—oh, because of course—a blue beam of light shoots out and scans his right eye. "Access granted," the voice declares in a sterile, automated Alexa-like tone, as if this whole situation isn't already creepy enough.
The giant door hisses open, revealing a glass compartment waiting inside. "Step in," he says, his cheery tone suddenly gone, replaced with something that makes my stomach twist.
I hesitate—because, duh—but he's got zero patience for my stalling. Before I can process what's happening, he grabs me like I'm a wayward toddler and shoves me into the glass box. "Thanks for the personal space," I mutter under my breath, not that it matters.
The door slams shut behind me with a metallic clang, sealing me in pitch-black claustrophobia. Perfect. Just perfect.