Chapter 1: Welcome to The Pit

Chapter 1: Welcome to The Pit

The symphony of dying electronics was Ash Miller’s nightly lullaby. It was a cacophony of discordant chimes from a dying claw machine, the final, wheezing gasp of an air hockey table, and the distant, looping attract mode of Street Fighter II—a digital ghost still trying to coax one last quarter from the empty room. This was the sound of closing time at The Pit, and Ash hated it more than the daytime noise of screaming children and frustrated parents. The quiet that followed was worse. It was a heavy, listening silence.

He dragged a gray mop bucket across the sticky floor, the water turning a murky shade of brown from spilled soda and grime. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed a weary tune, a few flickering like dying fireflies, casting long, dancing shadows that played tricks on the eyes. Ash, in his faded black polo with the arcade’s grinning devil logo, felt like one of those shadows—a permanent fixture of the place, slowly burning out. Twenty-four felt more like forty-four in here.

His desire was simple, almost pathetic in its modesty: get through the last twenty minutes of cleanup, lock the doors, and go home to the blessed anonymity of his small apartment. A night without incident. A night where the only monster he had to deal with was the one that sometimes stared back from his own reflection.

With a sigh, he propped the mop against the prize counter. The glass cases were filled with cheap plastic toys and knock-off electronics that cost more in tickets than they were worth in dollars. It was a palace of false promises, and he was its tired king. He ran a hand through his messy dark hair, the gesture automatic, his hazel eyes scanning the checklist on the counter.

Mop floors. Check. Wipe down machines. Check. Empty trash. Check. Final walkthrough. Laser Tag.

Just the thought sent a familiar prickle of unease up his spine. The laser tag arena was the heart of The Pit, a two-story maze of black-lit ramps, glowing obstacles, and dead ends. During the day, it was chaos. At night, it was a void.

He grabbed the heavy ring of keys, their jangling echoing unnaturally in the cavernous space. As he walked toward the back of the arcade, he passed the darkened screen of a Mortal Kombat cabinet. For a split second, he saw his reflection: tired, gaunt, a five-o’clock shadow clinging to his jaw. But behind his own image, for a fraction of a second, he thought he saw the reflection smile. A wide, predatory grin that wasn't his.

He stopped, blinked. Shook his head. Just the flickering lights. Just the exhaustion. It was always the exhaustion. He rubbed his left palm, his thumb tracing the faint, jagged line of a scar he’d carried for nearly a decade. A stupid night in a graveyard. A stupid board game. He’d learned a long time ago not to trust his own eyes in the dark.

The entrance to the laser tag arena was a heavy, metal-plated door designed to look like a spaceship’s airlock. It was fitted with a hydraulic arm to ensure it closed slowly, preventing kids from getting their fingers smashed. Part of his closing routine was to check that the arena was empty and lock it from the outside.

He put his shoulder to the door, expecting the usual hiss and heavy swing.

It didn't move.

Frowning, Ash pushed harder. It felt like pushing against a solid wall. That was wrong. The hydraulic arm offered resistance, sure, but this was different. This was an unyielding, solid weight. He grunted, putting his full body into it, his sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. The door didn’t budge an inch.

“Come on, you piece of junk,” he muttered, assuming the mechanism was jammed. He braced himself, ready to give it one last, powerful shove.

The door shoved back.

It wasn't a slow, mechanical movement. It was a single, violent jolt, imbued with a force that felt like living muscle. The impact threw him backward, and he stumbled, catching himself on a nearby Skee-Ball machine. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. He stared at the door, now perfectly still, his mind racing to find a logical explanation. A pressure malfunction? A short in the electronics?

But it hadn't felt mechanical. It had felt deliberate. It had felt like malice.

Against every screaming instinct in his body, he knew he had to go in. If a customer was trapped inside, messing with the door, it was his responsibility. If the door was broken, it was his job to report it. He swallowed the coppery taste of fear, pulled the mini Maglite from his back pocket, and cautiously approached the door again. This time, when he pushed, it swung open with a soft, hydraulic hiss, as if nothing had ever happened.

The air that wafted out was cold, stale, and smelled of dust and ozone. He flicked on his flashlight, its beam cutting a sharp white cone through the oppressive darkness. “Hello?” he called out, his voice sounding small and thin. “Anybody in here? Arcade’s closed.”

Silence answered him. Not the listening silence of the main floor, but a dead, flat, sound-absorbing silence.

He stepped over the threshold, the door sighing shut behind him. The arena was a disorienting labyrinth of glowing edges, the faint UV lights making his white shoelaces glow an eerie purple. His flashlight beam swept across the lower level—plastic barricades shaped like futuristic crates, angled walls painted with neon planets, and the dark, gaping mouths of corridors leading deeper into the maze. Nothing.

He knew he should just turn around, lock the door, and pretend the whole thing was a faulty hinge. But the feeling of being watched was overwhelming. It was a physical pressure on the back of his neck. He wasn't alone.

His light drifted upward, toward the second-story loft—a sniper’s nest for players, overlooking the entire arena. The beam traced along the railing, catching on a loose wire, then moved further into the corner.

And stopped.

Something was standing there.

It was tall, impossibly so, its form barely distinguishable from the deep shadows that clung to the corner. It wasn’t a person. The proportions were all wrong—limbs too long, torso too thin. It was a silhouette, a man-shaped hole cut out of the darkness. It was perfectly, unnaturally still. As his light held steady, he could make out no features, no clothes, just a solid, motionless shape of pure black.

A name whispered through his mind, a joke passed between the night-shift crew to explain away strange noises and missing prize stock.

Frank.

The figure didn’t move. It didn’t breathe. It just stood there, watching him from the loft above. Ash felt the air turn to ice in his lungs. The rational explanations—a trick of the light, a forgotten piece of equipment, his own frayed nerves—all evaporated, leaving behind a single, terrifying certainty.

He was looking at the thing that had pushed the door.

Slowly, carefully, Ash began to back away. He didn't take his eyes off the figure, his flashlight beam trembling in his hand. One step. Then another. His heel hit the door. He fumbled behind him for the push bar, his gaze locked on the shadow in the loft. It remained motionless, a silent, towering sentinel of the dark.

He found the bar, shoved his weight against it, and stumbled back out into the comparative brightness of the arcade. He didn't wait to hear the door hiss shut. He slammed it with all his might, the metal groaning in protest. He fumbled with his keys, his fingers clumsy and numb, found the right one, and jammed it into the lock. He turned it twice, the heavy thunk-clunk of the deadbolt seeming pitifully inadequate.

He leaned his forehead against the cold metal of the door, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His quiet night was over. His simple desire for a normal shift was shattered. He had stared into the void at the heart of The Pit, and he knew with sickening certainty that something had stared back.