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the old arcade is open; just like it’s always and never been.
it’s normal, yet at the same time not, █████ muses, as they push open the doors to the rows upon rows of ticket-dispensing fun. it smells musty and abandoned; and yet, the machines are all open, turned on and spotless, just as they would have been the day they cut the ribbon.
they stroll in between isles of games both familiar and not; all sparkling new and turned on. █████ suppresses a shudder; something just felt….off, about this place. they swing their legs over the prize station, looking around at the rows upon rows of pastel plushies and stationary they had to offer. after a bit of decision, they pinch a few tokens, and, jumping over the counter once again, █████ boots up the nearest game.
it's a sort of fighting game, meant for two players; but there's no one there and █████ is fighting against empty space. their player is fairly well-built; muscular and ripped, as to be expected from these sorts of games. but the other one...
it’s grainy and pixelated, but it’s unsettling nonetheless. wide, bloodshot eyes stare blankly at them from the arcade game - an unblinking gaze that holds then in an unseen and impenetrable trance. it’s willowy and tall, a stark contrast to their small and stocky fighter, with pale skin and long, unruly hair. everytime their player manages to land a hit, it makes a weird noise - a weird squelching one, like bloodstained boots on a pavement.
they sigh, moving on to the next game. after the first level, it really gets quite boring. just the same fight sequences, over and over and over..
the noise stops, and the game beside them blinks to life.
waka waka!
pac-man’s yellow figure is stationary in a map that they’re never seen before, a strange rectangular one with no fruits and small boxes constructing most of the obstacles they have. the only ghost that they can see is blinky - his bright red darker, almost menacing red. the colour of blood.
squelch.
fear grips █████’s heart. they run away from the machine, pac-man mirroring their every movement.
blinky gets closer.
their boots thump against the tiled floors of the arcade, heart thumping in tune to the shitty arcade music as the weave between arcade machines. as they pass them, they each blink to life, all blood red screens and tickets, shooting out of the slots to try to entangle them and trap them in their pixelated games. █████ can see the exit now, they’re so close, they’re-
a long strand of tickets curls around their ankle, dragging them backwards. they glance behind them -- each open arcade game's screen is as black as night, pale hands pressing against the screen and begging to be let out. past victims, invited in by the temptation of the vintage games and pastel prizes that were now trapped forever in the four walls of the greying establishment.
█████’s blood turns cold with fear. the tickets drag them towards the only arcade machine left open -- the only one without a weeping soul trapped within the box of the old timey machine.
won't you join us?
on the screen, pac-man dissolves into a spray of white and yellow pixels. YOU LOST! YOU LOST! YOU LOST! the game repeats. their character drops dead, and the willowy, pale figure on the game screen smiles, blood red lips stretching across chipped yellow teeth. the door swings, once, twice, before shutting with a final and desolate click.
the old arcade is open -- won’t you pay a visit?