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riaAt Night, the Rides Breathe. I’m the One Who Fixes Them.
You ever work somewhere so long that you stop noticing how messed up it is? Like, you show up, clock in, ignore the blood under the vending machines, and just go about your night like it’s totally normal? That’s where I’m at with my job.
I won’t say the real name of the place — mostly because I like having a paycheck, but also because I think saying it out loud might do… something. So for now, I’ll just call it The Park. Yeah. Super creative, I know.
If you haven’t guessed it already, I work at an amusement park. Not one of those big shiny corporate ones where the mascots wear six-figure smiles and the food costs more than your rent. This place is older. Quieter. Cheap tickets. Cheap thrills. You know the type — rides that feel like they were built before OSHA existed.
I’m on facilities maintenance, mostly the night shift. If something’s sparking, leaking, screaming, or not supposed to be breathing — I’m the guy they send.
They made me sign a lot of papers before I started. Most jobs give you a handbook. The Park gave me a waiver mentioning things like "assumed realities," "auditory hallucination thresholds," and something called The Protocol for Looping Zones, which no one explained.
I asked my supervisor about it once. He just laughed and said, “You’ll know if you’re in one. Eventually.”
It’s been three years. Tonight alone, I’ve walked the same hallway four times and ended up in four different places. I’ve fixed lights in areas that aren’t on any blueprint. I’ve heard giggling from the speaker system even when the power was down.
Last week, someone — or something—handed me a lost-and-found tag with my name on it.
I wish I were making this up. But I’m not.
This park has teeth. And I think it’s smiling at me.
Before I got a uniform or learned how to reset the power grid, they handed me a stack of paperwork about three inches thick.
That’s where I read about “assumed realities” and other weird stuff like payroll and “The False One.” Everything I needed to know was buried in the Perceptual Imprint Packet — PIP-9 for short.
The first time I read it, it felt like something got carved into my brain — not remembered, but installed. The words didn’t just stick; they echoed.
After your third otherworldly cognitive imprint, though? It kind of loses its shock value.
Here are a few clauses I can’t forget, even if I tried:
**Clause 3.2 – Visual Anomalies** “Employees agree not to report or discuss any visual anomalies experienced on park grounds between 12:00 a.m. nd 5:00 a.m., ncluding but not limited to: impossible architecture, living reflections, ride structures that appear to breathe, or humanoid figures wearing incorrect skin.”
**Clause 5.7 – Replacement Protocol** “If an employee witnesses another staff member vanishing, melting, being swallowed by a ride, or speaking in reverse before disappearing, they must clock out and return the next night as scheduled immediately. A replacement will be arranged.”
**Clause 9.5 – Timekeeping** “Clock in before the third chime of the closing bell. If you clock in after, and the ride operator known as ‘Mr. Shivers’ has noticed you… You’ll need to wait for dawn.”
**Clause 8.3 – Punctuality and Attendance** “Employees are expected to arrive on time and remain for their full shifts unless approved by a supervisor. Repeated tardiness or unexcused absences may result in termination.”
I didn’t believe any of it — not at first.
Then came the night Gary disappeared.
We were doing our usual rounds near the Tilt-a-Whirl — a ride that looks like it’s been left to rust but still somehow spins like it’s possessed. The park was dead quiet except for the flicker of a dying neon sign above us.
I saw Gary standing behind the ride, talking to… something. At first, I thought it was another employee, but the way he was talking made no sense. His voice sounded like it was playing backwards — garbled, broken, unnatural.
Then his body started to ripple. His outline warped, and his skin looked like it was peeling — not like a wound, more like old wallpaper. Then he just… faded into the frame of the ride. Into the metal itself.
Like he had never been there at all.
I stood there frozen, trying to convince myself I didn’t see that.
Then I remembered Clause 5.7.
I clocked out without a word.
Gary never came back.
A few nights later, they brought in a new guy. Young. Quiet. Avoided eye contact. I caught him staring at the Tilt-a-Whirl once, like he knew something but didn’t want to talk. I didn’t push.
I don’t know what happened to Gary.
But HR marked him as “promoted,” and honestly, that’s way more terrifying.
It’s almost 11 a.m. ight now. I’ve got to get some sleep before tonight’s shift.
There’s more I haven’t told you yet — things that don’t fit in the clauses, stuff I can’t explain even after three years.
But I’ll keep writing when I can. If I miss a night, it’s probably nothing.
Probably.
#entertainment
source
You ever work somewhere so long that you stop noticing how messed up it is? Like, you show up, clock in, ignore the blood under the vending machines, and just go about your night like it’s totally normal? That’s where I’m at with my job.
I won’t say the real name of the place — mostly because I like having a paycheck, but also because I think saying it out loud might do… something. So for now, I’ll just call it The Park. Yeah. Super creative, I know.
If you haven’t guessed it already, I work at an amusement park. Not one of those big shiny corporate ones where the mascots wear six-figure smiles and the food costs more than your rent. This place is older. Quieter. Cheap tickets. Cheap thrills. You know the type — rides that feel like they were built before OSHA existed.
I’m on facilities maintenance, mostly the night shift. If something’s sparking, leaking, screaming, or not supposed to be breathing — I’m the guy they send.
They made me sign a lot of papers before I started. Most jobs give you a handbook. The Park gave me a waiver mentioning things like "assumed realities," "auditory hallucination thresholds," and something called The Protocol for Looping Zones, which no one explained.
I asked my supervisor about it once. He just laughed and said, “You’ll know if you’re in one. Eventually.”
It’s been three years. Tonight alone, I’ve walked the same hallway four times and ended up in four different places. I’ve fixed lights in areas that aren’t on any blueprint. I’ve heard giggling from the speaker system even when the power was down.
Last week, someone — or something—handed me a lost-and-found tag with my name on it.
I wish I were making this up. But I’m not.
This park has teeth. And I think it’s smiling at me.
Before I got a uniform or learned how to reset the power grid, they handed me a stack of paperwork about three inches thick.
That’s where I read about “assumed realities” and other weird stuff like payroll and “The False One.” Everything I needed to know was buried in the Perceptual Imprint Packet — PIP-9 for short.
The first time I read it, it felt like something got carved into my brain — not remembered, but installed. The words didn’t just stick; they echoed.
After your third otherworldly cognitive imprint, though? It kind of loses its shock value.
Here are a few clauses I can’t forget, even if I tried:
**Clause 3.2 – Visual Anomalies** “Employees agree not to report or discuss any visual anomalies experienced on park grounds between 12:00 a.m. nd 5:00 a.m., ncluding but not limited to: impossible architecture, living reflections, ride structures that appear to breathe, or humanoid figures wearing incorrect skin.”
**Clause 5.7 – Replacement Protocol** “If an employee witnesses another staff member vanishing, melting, being swallowed by a ride, or speaking in reverse before disappearing, they must clock out and return the next night as scheduled immediately. A replacement will be arranged.”
**Clause 9.5 – Timekeeping** “Clock in before the third chime of the closing bell. If you clock in after, and the ride operator known as ‘Mr. Shivers’ has noticed you… You’ll need to wait for dawn.”
**Clause 8.3 – Punctuality and Attendance** “Employees are expected to arrive on time and remain for their full shifts unless approved by a supervisor. Repeated tardiness or unexcused absences may result in termination.”
I didn’t believe any of it — not at first.
Then came the night Gary disappeared.
We were doing our usual rounds near the Tilt-a-Whirl — a ride that looks like it’s been left to rust but still somehow spins like it’s possessed. The park was dead quiet except for the flicker of a dying neon sign above us.
I saw Gary standing behind the ride, talking to… something. At first, I thought it was another employee, but the way he was talking made no sense. His voice sounded like it was playing backwards — garbled, broken, unnatural.
Then his body started to ripple. His outline warped, and his skin looked like it was peeling — not like a wound, more like old wallpaper. Then he just… faded into the frame of the ride. Into the metal itself.
Like he had never been there at all.
I stood there frozen, trying to convince myself I didn’t see that.
Then I remembered Clause 5.7.
I clocked out without a word.
Gary never came back.
A few nights later, they brought in a new guy. Young. Quiet. Avoided eye contact. I caught him staring at the Tilt-a-Whirl once, like he knew something but didn’t want to talk. I didn’t push.
I don’t know what happened to Gary.
But HR marked him as “promoted,” and honestly, that’s way more terrifying.
It’s almost 11 a.m. ight now. I’ve got to get some sleep before tonight’s shift.
There’s more I haven’t told you yet — things that don’t fit in the clauses, stuff I can’t explain even after three years.
But I’ll keep writing when I can. If I miss a night, it’s probably nothing.
Probably.
#entertainment
source
| 9,000 mlx | |
| 19 | |
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