CHOOSE YOUR OWN MINDFUCK: A Night in Eighth Block Tower (A1)
Bedlam Bible fans! Explore the Eighth Block Tower! Choose your fate! New posts every Tuesday and Friday. September '23 through December '23. Don't succumb to the huummmmmmmmm...
You’ve chosen to enter the Eighth Block Tower…
You follow the other two men into the front entrance of the Eighth Block Tower and instantly you’re greeted by a wall of dense air that smells like two parts motor oil and one part black mold. The air is so thick you feel you have to breathe deeply in order to get the right amount of oxygen to your brain. This has you feeling lightheaded pretty quickly.
There’s a lot of miscellaneous debris spread across the floor in the foyer and you find yourself staring at the floor as you walk through the building, making sure you don’t step on any of the shards of broken glass, of which there’s plenty of.
The foyer is essentially just a small room with a broken chandelier and a flickering wall lantern, not at all inviting. There’s an elevator in this room, but someone has carved the word ‘busted’ into the steel door, so you don’t have much faith in its ability to perform its duties. You push the call button on the off chance that someone has serviced the elevator since the carving, but nothing at all happens. The button doesn’t even light up. There’s a sign fastened to the wall that simply says ‘STAIRS’ along with two red arrows pointing in both the left and right directions.
“Hopefully the stairs aren’t busted too, or else we’re gonna have a helluva time getting to the cash,” you say, pointing to the sign, but the fellas don’t seem to hear you. They’re focused on a crumbling poster that’s barely clinging to the wall. The cartoon image of a purple television with a giant red ‘X’ plastered over it is featured prominently on the face of the poster, along with a phone number and the words, “SAY NO TO BRAIN POLLUTION.”
“What the hell d’ya suppose this is?” one of the fellas remarks.
“Who knows,” the other fella says. “Could be anything. You’ve heard about this place, right? So many stories. None of ‘em pleasant. I’ve even heard there’s this thing that’s living here… you know, like, haunting the place, or some shit. It’s one of those… what do you call ‘em? The things that are constantly shiftin’ their shape…”
“A shapeshifter?” you ask, because what else could it be?
He nods his head. “Yeah, that’s right—a shapeshifter. Now why couldn’t I think of that? I’ve heard there’s a shapeshifter livin’ somewheres inside these walls. Wonder if we’ll see it tonight.”
“You believe in that stuff?” you ask, then silently contemplate your own answer to the question. Do you believe in that stuff? You’ve never thought about it before. You’ve thought of ghosts and demons and stuff like that, but never put too much stock into them actually existing. But a shapeshifter… you’re not sure how you feel about it.
“It don’t matter what I believe, or what you believe or what he believes,” he answers, pointing to both you and your accomplice. “We’ll find out if it’s real tonight.”
A cold chill runs up your spine. You’re spooked, but you play it cool. Shapeshifters can be shot, right? You pat your beltline to make sure your gun is still within reach. It is.
“Shut up,” the other fella says. You get the feeling he’s masking his fear with anger, but don’t call him out on it. “I told ya outside, let’s get in and get out. No use hanging around any longer than we have to.”
He starts to walk toward the stairs. You think about where you’re headed, but only remember hearing the loot was in a shoebox on the top floor of the tower. You’re not sure of the exact apartment or room, anything.
“Either of you know where we’re headed?” you ask.
“Top floor,” they say in unison. Then one of the guys turns around and says, “Apartment 12.”
You nod, assuming the man must’ve spoken to the prisoner in private to get more specific information about the location of the shoebox. Knowing how prepared he is has you nervous. You were on guard before he even said that, but now there’s even more reason to be wary of your partners and their intentions. You’re sure to analyze their every word and move, looking for any evidence of their intent. You’re smarter than them. They don’t know who they’re dealing with, you think, possibly trying to convince yourself it’s true. You keep your eyes peeled.
The three of you walk up the stairwell, all the way to the top floor of the tower. You’re just starting to sweat through your clothes as you reach it. There’s a handmade sign pinned to the wall, just above the entrance to the floor—a simple strip of cardboard with the words “The Cliff” written across it in heavy black ink. You’re not sure what it means, but there’s a heaviness in the words. You don’t like the connotations of it.
You open the door to the entrance and it leads to another communal hallway, almost exactly like the hallway on the first floor, but much darker. Only two of the wall lanterns are functioning properly, and there’s one other that flickers on occasion, but provides very little light.
Your stomach sinks. You’re not sure why. You have a feeling deep inside that something terribly wrong is happening inside this building, especially here on this floor, and now you’re right in the middle of it. You’re sure you’re only seconds away from being exposed to the brunt of all its madness. You nearly throw up, but somehow keep it down.
Finally, the three of you are standing in front of the door to the twelfth apartment. You take a deep breath and study the faces of your partners, waiting for one of them to play leader and decide what you’ll be doing next.
One of them jimmies the lock and a half a minute or so later, you’re standing inside the apartment. It’s dark inside, but you can see well enough to detect evidence that someone is living inside this space. There’s empty food containers on the countertops and furniture in the living area. No one seems to be at home, thankfully.
“I’ll search the bedroom,” one of the men says, then he points to the other and says, “You search the hallway closets. And you…” he says, finally pointing at you. “You check the living room and kitchen. Check every cabinet and drawer. And try to keep quiet, too. We don’t wanna attract any unwanted attention.”
Instantly, you’re suspicious. The fella barking orders now is the same one who knew the exact apartment number to search. You don’t like the idea of separating, especially if the man knows the exact place the shoebox is hidden. You don’t know anything about these guys except that they’re slimy crooks, and being one yourself, you know there’s only one thing for sure about slimy crooks: they can’t be trusted.
Then again, perhaps he doesn’t know the exact location of the cash. He seems pretty dim-witted. Maybe he’s inadvertently giving you the chance to find the cash yourself. You silently fantasize about finding the shoebox and sneaking out of the apartment and the tower completely undetected. You think of all the things you could do with that amount of money, and the more you think about it, the more you’re liking the idea of separating.
— Don’t like the idea of separating? Click here.
— If you agree with his orders, click here.