In the darkness, your stomach churns. Acid eats the ground-up remnants of an overpriced omelet, a mishmash of undercooked ingredients amputated and blended and fused to each other, a rearranged corpse of Frankenstein’s monster. It’s a creature inside of you, and as you climb Cardiac Hill on a silent October night, finally finished with a “dinner” break that quickly turned from 30 minutes to two hours, you feel it trying to escape.
At the top of the steps, catching your breath while you stare back at the mountain you just conquered, you feel an unnatural tingle climb down your spine as if you’re being watched. You’re afraid to turn around. It could be anyone: a wraith, a demon, a campus intruder — or worst of all, your editor-in-chief, finally at her wit’s end about your long dinner breaks which rob the Trinitonian of its only copy editor. Overcoming the queasiness in your stomach, you peek over your shoulder and are met with nothing but the tower clanging its death knell. You count 13 strikes.
On that note, you realize it’s finally time to head back into the trenches and fight the droopiness of your eyelids along with the rest of the staff. With your ears perked up for sudden jerks and sounds of villainous laughter, you begin your descent onto the Trinitonian’s very own cutting floor — also known as the “Dungeon.” The Trinitonian staff are many things, but boring is definitely not one of them. You were supposed to dress alongside them in costume today and play pranks on people, but you never participate.
A slow wave of terror washes over you when you see the door ajar, spilling out the blackness within. Curiously, the door isn’t propped up on anything; instead, it’s holding itself open despite sometimes being too heavy for you to hold it open yourself. There’s no time for overthinking all of this, you suppose. You have a paper to get out.
You walk into the den. You can’t believe that Trinity, of all places, used to have a bar. You can imagine the carnivalesque laughter and music that must have smothered the room. Tonight, though, the room is as you’ve never seen it before — it’s black as ink, save for the red EXIT sign glowing on the far side, and it’s silent. They must’ve turned out the lights to save energy, you think.
You feel your heartbeat rattling your ribcage. You walk on for what seems like hours before you stop, realizing the futility of your exercise. You become aware of the churning of your stomach again; the creature is climbing out of your intestines to escape, escaping, escaped and suddenly your legs buckle and you’re writhing on the bare ground. All the air has left your body, and you’re very aware of your limbs that are uncontrollably spasming, compulsively twitching and knocking against sharp objects that you can’t quite make out in this darkness.
All it requires is a second look under the scarlet light that pours from the EXIT sign to discern it; the floor around you is littered with the remnants of human souls — femurs, skulls, kneecaps, people transformed into things. You are one of them.
The lights in the Tiger Den flash back on and your back straightens, the fatigue in your body exchanged for adrenaline. You feel replenished just as the room pours out old-timey carnival music. You run into where the newsroom should be but as you swing open the door, all you see is a mirror and a reflection in it that you don’t recognize, and you’re all alone and no one is even here and sweat leaks from your pores and you can hear your heartbeat screaming in your own ears and you’re really, really scared.
With a bang, the door behind you slams, and a gust of wind pushes you to the floor. You just want to lay there and close your eyes, and when you wake up, it’ll all be okay, just a horrible dream. You can’t, though, because little do you know, you’re not alone.
There’s a mirror on the ceiling where there didn’t used to be. There are mirrors everywhere, and you don’t recognize your reflection.
The sound of crackling fire and casual chit-chat suddenly replaces the sinister carnival music. The voices are familiar but discordant — they fill you with the initial warmth of well-deserved relief. You’re not alone; this isn’t a dream but instead an elaborately-planned prank. You turn and see your friends and coworkers in a fit of stitches, triumphant with a video camera and absurd costumes. You are safe. You are secure.
Until you aren’t. Smoke clouds your peripheral vision and flames burn the oasis of safety and security you relished. The glint of a knife catches your attention.
Cackles fill the room as you hear the hysterics of those you spend every Wednesday night with. They are on the shelves — looking down at you, howling, smiling with sharp teeth. Laughter you once relished and looked forward to now holds an entirely new weight. The puzzle pieces are falling together in your head — why is there never a full staff? Why are you the only one who leaves to eat? Your eyes are glued to the mirror on the opposite wall that reflects a murky figure slowly treading towards you. “Back from dinner?”
All the mirrors in the room shatter at once.
