This job was amazing.
I was ready to stay in this role until I grew old and gray.
After the boss left, I settled into my usual routine of sneaking in some downtime.
The front desk job was usually pretty dull. After the morning rush, only a handful of people trickled in throughout the day.
The hotel had surveillance cameras in the hallways, but unfortunately, the boss-controlled rooms were off-limits to monitoring. I couldn’t see what was happening inside, but the occasional bloodcurdling screams from the back told me plenty.
Every now and then, a player would stumble out of a room, drenched in blood and visibly shaken. Just as they’d start to feel a shred of relief, crimson tentacles would shoot out from another room and drag them right back in.
While all this chaos unfolded, I got a message from my mom.
“Zoe, it’s been almost three months since you graduated. Have you found a job yet?”
I was in a great mood and ready to share the good news, but then her next message came, “If you don’t find work soon, you can go sleep on the streets. I’m done taking care of you!”
My excitement took a nosedive.
I replied, “Mom, I found a job. I’m working as a hotel receptionist.”
Her response came quickly: “Really? No way. You just happened to find a job the second I asked? Are you making this up? With your degree, what decent company would hire you? A receptionist? That sounds like a scam.”
Her words felt like a punch to the gut.
Feeling frustrated, I snapped back, “Believe it or not, someone did hire me. Even if you think your daughter’s nothing more than a bottom feeder, I’m a bottom feeder who knows how to make her own way!”
That last part must’ve hit a nerve because her next message came in hotter and angrier.
She sent me over a dozen one-minute voice messages back-to-back.
Not wanting to argue, I flipped my phone face down on the desk.
My mom had always been good to me, but she had this unshakable belief that I couldn’t do anything right. Every word felt like a jab as if I were still a helpless child who couldn’t survive without her.
I barely had time to stew in those feelings before the resonant toll of a bell snapped me out of it.
It was 5 p.m. The game instance had ended for the day.
Which meant it was time for room inspections.
By the time players staggered out of the hotel, very few were still in one piece. Blood and severed limbs littered the floor in their wake.
To my disbelief, someone even exclaimed, “I made it out alive! Oh my God, I’m so lucky!”
With my heart pounding, I carefully navigated around the carnage and made my way to the elevator, riding it up to the second floor.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Anyone there? Front desk here for room inspections,” I called out.
Silence.
Guessing that the game boss had already left the room, I used my keycard to unlock the door.
But the moment it swung open, a little girl’s body suddenly toppled toward me.
Her nose was crooked, her mouth twisted, her tongue hanging unnaturally long. Her face was smeared with blood.
I stood frozen.
After a long, awkward minute, she finally spoke.
“Am I not scary? Why didn’t you scream?”
I sighed, pulled out a pack of wet wipes, and gently cleaned her face. Her actual features gradually emerged, looking far less horrifying than before.
