Chapter 1: We Have A Ball Here!

Chapter 1: We Have A Ball Here!

The rust-flaked chain-link fence groaned in protest as Jon, ever the leader, vaulted over it with the easy grace of a man who still thought of high school football as his peak. “See? Easy,” he grunted, landing softly on the damp, overgrown grass.

Lissa giggled, her bright, optimistic sound jarring in the twilight gloom. “Come on, slowpokes! I want to get to the windmill hole before it’s totally dark.”

Leo lingered behind, hands shoved in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the park’s entrance sign. A single, flickering neon tube cast a sickly green pallor over the grinning mascot, Putt Head. The oversized golf ball head, with its two dead, black circles for eyes, seemed less like a cheerful invitation and more like a skull’s vacant stare. The sign promised, in peeling letters, “WE HAVE A BALL HERE!” It felt like a threat.

“Are we sure about this?” Kate asked, her voice a low murmur beside him. She wasn't looking at him, but at the decaying course, her sharp features tight with a distaste she was trying to mask as adventurousness. Their relationship was new enough that they were still performing for each other, pretending this kind of spontaneous, grimy fun was something they both enjoyed. The truth, Leo knew, was that they were both just trying to outrun the ghosts of the partners they’d left to be together.

“It’s the last night,” Leo said, the words tasting like ash. “The whole block is getting demolished next month. It’s either now or never.” He was trying to convince himself as much as her. This place was supposed to be a monument to their shared youth, a final pilgrimage before the wrecking ball of adulthood leveled everything. Instead, it just felt… pathetic. A graveyard of happy memories.

Aaron, ever the pragmatist, was already shaking the gate. “Locked up tight. Guess we’re all going over.” He adjusted his glasses and scrambled over with surprising agility, leaving just Leo and Kate.

Kate sighed, a puff of condescending air. “Alright, fine. One last hurrah for the working class.” She climbed the fence with a grim determination, her stylish jeans snagging momentarily on a twisted wire.

Leo followed, the rusty putter he’d brought from home clutched in his hand. It was a relic from his dad’s old set, heavy and solid. He landed with a thud, the impact jarring his teeth. The air inside the park was different—thick, still, and smelling of mildew and rain-soaked astroturf.

The five of them stood for a moment in the deepening dusk, a small island of nervous energy in a sea of decay. The once-vibrant green turf was now a mottled carpet of brown and grey, littered with pine needles and unidentifiable debris. The obstacles were shadows of their former selves: a fairytale castle with crumbling plaster turrets, a giant clown whose painted smile was a leering, chipped grimace, and the iconic windmill, its wooden blades frozen and skeletal against the bruised purple sky.

“Okay, this is way creepier than I remember,” Lissa admitted, her voice losing some of its bubbly edge.

“Nonsense,” Jon boomed, clapping his hands together. “It’s atmospheric. Let’s grab some putters.” He strode over to the starter’s hut, its window shattered, and triumphantly produced a handful of dented, brightly colored putters. “One for everyone.”

They each took one, their hands wrapping around cracked rubber grips. Leo hefted his own rusty club, feeling its familiar weight. For a moment, a genuine flicker of nostalgia warmed him. He remembered coming here on hot summer nights, the scent of popcorn in the air, the cheerful plink-plonk of balls dropping into cups, the thrill of a perfect shot. It was a simpler time. A better time.

“So, who’s keeping score?” Aaron asked, already trying to apply logic and order to the chaos.

Before anyone could answer, a loud CRACKLE of static erupted from hidden speakers, making them all jump. It was followed by a discordant, tinny jingle—a cheerful, looping melody that was horribly out of tune, like an ice cream truck from hell.

Then, the lights came on.

Not just the flickering sign, but every single light in the park. Harsh, buzzing fluorescent tubes sputtered to life above each hole, bathing the course in a sterile, shadowless glare. The colors were suddenly garish, the decay thrown into stark relief. The clown’s smile looked actively malevolent now, the castle a tomb.

“What the hell?” Jon spun around. “Is there a security guard?”

“My phone has no signal,” Aaron announced, his voice tight with alarm. He held up his screen, which was blank. One by one, the others checked theirs. Nothing.

Panic began to prickle at the edges of Leo’s apathy. He turned and walked back toward the gate they’d climbed. He grabbed the iron bars and pushed. They didn't rattle. They didn't budge at all. It was as if the gate had been welded shut, fused into a single, solid piece of metal.

“Guys…” Leo’s voice was strained. “The gate is sealed.”

They all rushed over, their disbelief turning to dread as they took turns shoving and pulling at the unmoving barrier. It was impossible.

“Welcome, golfers!”

The voice boomed from the speakers, cheerful and disembodied. It was a cartoon character’s voice, artificially high-pitched and full of relentless pep.

“Welcome to the Grand Re-Opening of Putt Head’s Mini-Golf! We’re so glad you could join us for a very, very special game.”

A single spotlight clicked on, illuminating the first hole. And standing there, perfectly still, was a life-sized mascot of Putt Head. It hadn't been there a second ago. Its oversized, dimpled golf ball head was tilted slightly, the two black circles that served as eyes fixed on them. Its gloved hands were clasped behind its back, and its posture was unnaturally stiff.

“Is that… is that a person in a suit?” Kate stammered, taking a step back. “This isn’t funny.”

“The rules for tonight’s game are simple!” the tinny voice chirped, seemingly ignoring her. “It’s an eighteen-hole course. You will play each hole, in order. All you have to do is make par.”

Jon stepped forward, his fear already curdling into aggression. “Alright, asshole, joke’s over! Let us out of here, now!”

The mascot didn’t move. Its head remained tilted, its black eyes staring into nothing.

“Oh, but the game is just beginning!” the voice sang. “And you’ll want to play your very best. Because here at Putt Head’s, we take our penalties very, very seriously.”

A low, wet, dragging sound echoed from the darkness just beyond the edges of the course. It was a horrible, slithering noise that made the hair on Leo’s arms stand on end.

“Now,” the voice continued, its cheerfulness taking on a razor’s edge of malice. “We’ve got a full roster tonight, so let’s get the ball rolling! Who’s ready to tee off?”

The spotlight on the first hole intensified, illuminating the pristine green turf of the starting pad. The mascot took one stiff, silent step to the side, gesturing with a white-gloved hand toward the waiting hole.

The five of them stood frozen, the ridiculous putters in their hands suddenly feeling as heavy as lead. The nostalgic night out had curdled into a nightmare. The whimsical music, the garish lights, the smiling mascot—it was all a facade, a brightly colored trap closing in around them. This wasn’t a game of mini-golf. It was something else entirely.

“Don’t be shy!” the voice from the speakers urged, a hint of impatience in its synthetic tone. It seemed to focus on the most brightly-colored person in their group, the one still trembling with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

“How about you, little lady in the pink shirt?” the voice cooed. “Ladies first! Let’s have a ball!”

Every head turned to Lissa. Her face, drained of all color, was a mask of pure terror. The putter slipped from her nerveless fingers and clattered onto the concrete path. The sound was like a gunshot in the sudden, suffocating silence.