Deimos, observing from the shadows, watched Jack's efforts to rework his game. The mortal had taken his divine chaos and shaped it into something more inviting, more 'playable.' He deliberately changed the title from Terror Tavern to Respite, believing it sounded more benign and approachable. After a final click of the 'publish' button, Deimos's divine presence flickered with impatience.
Without waiting for the mortal's approval or curiosity, Deimos turned and vanished into the void, seeking the reactions of mortals, those fleeting, fragile beings whose screams he craved. He returned to the same apartment he had dismissed earlier, but this time, everything felt different.
Inside, Mark's dismal apartment remained as grim as before, cluttered, dimly lit, the air thick with stale cigarette smoke and the scent of stale pizza. Bloodshot eyes, exhausted and reddened from sleepless nights, stared at a mountain of empty energy drink cans. Despite his battered appearance, he had a new spark of energy, an almost reckless curiosity.
He scrolled through the endless flood of game submissions, eyes dull but twitching with faint hope. Then, he paused. There it was: Respite. The picture showed a peaceful-looking tavern, warm lights spilling from its windows. The description was simple: "A game that looks like it's for Relaxation." Nothing else.
"Well, it's basic," Mark thought, "but honestly, I'm so sick of garbage games coming through lately, I might as well give it a shot." He clicked 'download,' lay back on his battered futon, and slipped on his VR device. As the game loaded, a strange feeling of anticipation mixed with fatigue settled over him.
The first thing that struck him was the music, soothing, calming, but with odd jingle mixes that sounded out of place. Slight glitches, maybe? He tilted his head, trying to ignore the earworms that kept popping in and out, discordant and wrong.
"Probably just a bug," he figured, looking at the menu. The scene was an old, cozy inn, the same as in the picture. He hesitated, then thought, "Well, I'll see if it's any good. Even if it's just okay, I can tell them to fix the music. If it's terrible, I'll just delete it." He clicked 'Play.' The moment he did, he felt it, an immediate shift. The leather seat beneath him, the gentle sway, the soft creak of wood. His eyes widened as the world around him dissolved into a carriage, an old-fashioned horse-drawn wagon. The music persisted, still glitching slightly, each jingle feeling more out of sync.
"What the?" he thought, his pulse quickening.
The carriage rolled smoothly to a stop in front of the inn. The driver turned to him with a quiet nod. "This is your last respite until your final destination," he said softly. Mark hesitated, then opened the door, stepping out into the cool air.
He looked around, the bright midday sun illuminating the inn. The inn's facade looked inviting, wooden beams, flickering lanterns, but there was an unsettling weight behind the quaintness. A prompt appeared: "Enter the inn." He obeyed, walking toward the entrance.
Inside, the innkeeper was a large man, fat, round, with a perpetual, wide smile plastered across his face. His cheeks bulged, and his eyes twinkled with an unsettling cheerfulness that never faded. His grin stretched so wide it seemed almost unnatural, as if carved into his face. The kind of smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
He greeted Mark with a slow, lumbering nod. "Welcome, welcome," he said in a gravelly voice, his face still split in that unyielding grin. A prompt appeared: "Order a Room." Heart pounding, Mark approached.
The Innkeeper
"Just a room for the night," he managed, his voice cautious. The innkeeper nodded silently, reaching beneath the counter to produce a key that looked old, worn, but oddly pristine. The wide grin never left his face, not for a second.
He motioned with a fat, gloved hand for Mark to follow. As they moved along the corridor, the innkeeper's cheerful but grating voice broke the silence. "Eatery the door on the right," he said, gesturing with a pudgy finger.
Mark looked past him, noticing a small table opposite the door, topped with an antique gramophone. Its scratched surface and dust gave it an eerie, forgotten air. The hallway stretched on, lined with pictures, portraits of faces that seemed almost alive. Or perhaps, not quite. Every glance made him feel like he was seeing faces where there were none, faint, fleeting, flickering shadows behind painted eyes.
They reached the final door at the end of the hall. The innkeeper, still smiling that wide, unchanging grin, eased it open. Inside, the room was plain, just a bed, a desk, and a window. The moment Mark stepped inside, the music shifted, lighter, softer, more serene. He turned to thank the innkeeper, but the large man was already gone, the door silently closing behind him.
Just before the door closed, the innkeeper's voice echoed out, cheerful, yet unsettling. "Do you have any special requests for your last meal?"
Before Mark could answer, the door slammed shut with a loud bang. And a new prompt appeared: "You Feel Tired, best get some Rest."
Mark hesitated, his heart pounding. His head spun with questions and unease. "What just happened?" he wondered. "Is this part of the game? Or something strange going on?"
He looked at the prompt. "Well, I guess I should just sleep," he decided, feeling both curious and nervous. "Maybe it was best to see where this strange journey led next."
End of Ch 8: Respite