Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 44459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44459 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
“Yeah,” I said, ignoring the twinge of relief that slid through me.
He hesitated. Then, his gaze narrowed, and he tilted his head. “What?”
“Nothing.” But it quickly became clear he wasn’t going to let it go. I scrubbed a hand over my jaw. “I have to admit, I’m surprised you let people opt out. I’d heard this experience is supposed to be the baddest of the bad.” I hadn’t been able to find much on Void, but there was a horror house in Florida that a few websites listed as the closest comparison. “I read that some other places don’t let you quit.”
“You’re talking about Eric Crewson’s torture shack in Tampa?” He smirked. “No. The Void experience isn’t like anything else. Having a way out empowers our guests. Every room, every scene, they’re making a choice not to safe out. Without that option, you’d be going through without accomplishing anything—things just happen to you.” He folded his arms over his chest and looked self-righteous. “This tests limits. Hell, some of our guests who don’t make it all the way through, they come back to see if they can conquer their fear the next time.”
“Do they?” I asked.
“If they don’t, they usually make it farther than before.” He leveled a gaze at me that was so piercing, it made me uncomfortable. “What Crewson doesn’t get is that having a way to escape and not using it? Makes the experience more intense.”
As much as I didn’t want to admit it, what he was saying made sense. By not quitting, I’d be giving my tacit consent for every scene.
“I need you to confirm one more time,” he said, “that you don’t have epilepsy, a heart condition, asthma, or any other physical condition that could affect your ability to go through the void.”
“No, I don’t have any—”
He nodded. “You understand the rules and that you’ll be asked to leave if you don’t follow any of them.”
“Yes.”
He gestured to the paper on the tabletop. “You signed that?”
I slid it over to him, and he scanned the signature line. Satisfied, he set it on top of his tablet, picked them both up, and rose from his seat.
“Follow me,” he announced.
My mouth went dry.
He led me across the hallway to a room identical in shape and size to the one we’d just left, but the setup in here was very different. The long conference table was gone, replaced by drab gray fabric that hung from tall poles, partitioning off one side of the space into numbered stalls against the wall. It vaguely reminded me of a makeshift hospital or vaccine clinic.
“Go into the first one,” Josh said, “and change into the clothes we’ve provided. All your personal items, including your phone and shoes, go in the plastic bag you’ll find in there.”
I paused. Giving up my phone was expected, so I’d come prepared. “I have a pad and a pen for notes.” He wanted the review to be accurate, right? Detailed notes would be invaluable when I sat down to write. I dug the small notepad and pen out of my back pocket before holding them up for him to see. “Can I keep these?”
He laughed like it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “Sure.” His tone suggested it was highly unlikely I’d have time for notes, but he was willing to humor me.
“Thanks,” I said automatically and moved toward the opening in the curtains.
“Tyler.” It wasn’t my name that made me hesitate so much as the realness behind Josh’s voice. “You’ll get the most out of your experience if you don’t try to view it through the lens of a journalist. Be in the moment and live it. If you give in to the story, I promise you, it’s a hell of a ride.”
Unlikely, I wanted to say but kept the comment to myself. Instead, I nodded and went into the stall, pulling the curtain closed behind myself.
There were two hooks on the wall with the same sign above each. Pick one, they said. Two identical black T-shirts hung on the first hook and two pairs of black jeans on the second. The only difference I could tell was the size. Beneath them sat a battered-looking folding chair. A pair of dark socks and a thick white plastic bag rested on the seat, and two pairs of black boots were tucked beneath it.
At least everything looked and smelled clean.
I ignored the anxiety in my chest as I selected the best fit from each item and got changed. The jittery feeling I’d had earlier intensified and made it a challenge to place my clothes inside the bag.
Once I’d laced up the boots and shoved my pen and notepad into my back pocket, I pulled back the curtain and found Josh waiting for me with a black marker.