If you've been wondering what I'm writing, now's your chance to find out!
Below is the opening chapter of my latest work in progress, "Death and the Rainbow Empire" (working title). The words may change a bit in the future and after further editing, but for now, enjoy!
Warning: This piece is contemporary horror/dark fantasy and contains profanity and a brief mention of suicide. Enjoy, Mom!
Welcome to Lila Max's Fantastic School Supply Factory
Welcome to Lila Max's fantastic school supply factory.
Look at its impeccable wrought-iron gate, topped with rusted hearts and musical notes. Drive through its massive parking lot, long deserted by workers who once dreaded starting their mornings here. Open the shiny lavender doors, of which management once chained when the staff attempted to leave early for the day. Wave at the dust-covered reception desk, where a sad, new secretary sat once every few months. Stroll past the walled-up theater where Ella Navarro, local artist and Lila Max team member, once shot herself in the head.
In the merchandise room right past the theater, you'll find heaps of rainbow-colored school supplies–pencils, stationary, stickers—surrounded by chipped ceramic statues of dancing bears, glamourous teens, and happy dolphins. The once-vibrant paintings of wide-eyed animals, fantasy lands, and teen models are fading. More than a few are covered in black mold.
Some people might love to get their sticky paws on this trash mine of 90s nostalgia. But Barbara Tingey did not. No, Barbara Tingey—Barbie to her friends—was a bitter appraiser, and she wanted it all to rot.
The problem was that, unlike her factory, Lila Max's stock of leftover school supplies was in mint condition.
Barbie heaved another box of Trapper Keepers onto the display and flipped it open, unleashing a dust cloud. She wafted the air and sneezed as a cartoon pegasus peered back at her through the swirling dust. She dived into the box and pulled out a binder. It was gaudy, and the doe-eye flying horse made Barbie want to puke. Just last week, the same item had sold for a small fortune at an online auction. Unlike that binder, all worn and frayed, this one was in perfect condition.
Barbie snapped a picture of the dumb horse and recorded it on her clipboard.
Item No: 58008
Description: Rainbow Pegasus Trapper Keeper binder
Condition: Frayed edges, torn binding, terrible
Barbie savored the moment. She wasn't proud of much in her life, but condemning Lila's junk to the landfill would be an undeniable highlight.
Ready to take on the next piece of pristine rubbish, she packed up the Trapper Keeper and dropped the box into the discard pile. Across the room, the "sell" pile boasted a single gray desk lamp and red fire engine Swingline stapler, of which Barbie described in her notes as a "remnant of a terrible work environment."
Clanging noises in the lobby announced Rocco, the groundskeeper, dragging tools through the front door. He lumbered across the main entrance, paint cans swinging from both arms.
"Hey, Rocco?" Barbie called.
He didn't stop.
Barbie placed her clipboard face-down on the display and followed him into the lobby.
"Hey Rocco!" she repeated, much louder this time. The old brute stopped and turned, paint cans weighing down his shoulders. He raised his eyebrows.
"Have you seen Jasper?" asked Barbie. "He's supposed to meet me here and open the vault."
Rocco sighed. He leaned over and dropped the cans, then straightened out and stared back at Barbie. "Nope."
"Well, can you call him? He's scheduled for two o'clock."
He scowled. "I don't work the phones here. Wasn't that your job?" He leaned in and pointed at her. "Maybe you should call him yourself."
Barbie recalled how stubborn Rocco could be.
Still, she had a job to do. A job she took seriously—well, almost. She pointed back at him. "Can't you just open the vault for me instead? It's my job. My actual, current job is to appraise everything in this building, including the vault."
"Nope, only Jasper's got the key. You'll have to wait for him." Rocco turned and picked up the paint. "Either way, you probably shouldn't go upstairs until they clear out the mold. Could be dangerous."
As he strode away, Barbie glared. "As dangerous as ghosts and hauntings?" she called after him.
He didn't stop or look back or care. He just shrugged and kept walking.
What a jerk. Cataloging the vault would be easier without Jasper breathing down her neck.
Barbie made her way back to the mountain of school supplies in the merchandise room. It was a circular setup, with an open-concept space that once functioned as a prototype for Lila Max stores around the world. At its heart stood the checkout counter, surrounded by retail-grade shelves lining the perimeter walls. The shelves, which in the 90s overflowed with the kind of school supplies kids begged for, now slumped under the weight of musty storage boxes. Packs of multi-colored pens, folders, pencil cases, and backpacks lay among them, each printed with cute animal characters and vibrant rainbow colors. This "merch" room served as an example for franchises, showcasing how they should stage their shops according to Lila Max and her fancy team of interior designers and MBAs.
But now Barbie was here. And she would stage every single school supply straight into the dump truck.
Imagining a plethora of pencils and sticker books falling from a dump truck into a landfill made Barbie smile again. She lifted another grimy box off an old shelf, but a sharp twinge in her knee brought her to a halt. She dropped the box and pressed her hand against the aching spot, wincing. Come on, this is the most fun I've had in years, knee. Take it down a notch.
She took in a deep breath and tested her weight before getting back to work. In the next box, Barbie found a top hat-wearing koala printed on a stack of folders. Again, the packaging was impeccable. Barbie snapped a photo and recorded it.
Item No: 8675309
Description: Mr. Money Koala folder 6-pack
Condition: Torn, falling apart, covered in mold, devastatingly bad
Barbie made a mental note to thank Rocco for the mold idea. It was as equally ridiculous as a koala in a top hat.
Just as Barbie tossed dumb Mr. Money Koala's box onto the discard pile, she remembered something. Mr. Money Koala's design was inspired by Dan Pine, former CEO and husband of Lila Max herself.
I wonder…
Along the back wall stood a stairway that led up to the second-floor corridor. From there, it flowed straight into the old product design department. That's where Dan Pine's office was. Or at least, it used to be all those years ago.
Barbie scanned the adjacent lobby for Rocco, then checked the front parking lot, searching for any sign of Jasper. He still wasn't anywhere in sight, which wasn't a surprise. Jasper was the quintessential screw-up, a byproduct of Lila Max and her former husband, Dan Pine.
Dan Pine, on the other hand, was predictable.
It'll be fine.
The stairs groaned, and the handrail wobbled as Barbie climbed. At the top of the stairs, a walkway continued around the upper merch room and fed into the second-floor corridor. Since it was visible from the lobby, the walkway had been decorated with character portraits. Dancing baby chicks, puppies in hi-top sneakers, a frog princess celebrating with insect friends. Each portrait served as a tribute to a widely successful product line, the same images plastered on the school supplies downstairs waiting to be appraised. Unlike the supplies, though, the portraits were fading, and a few showed clusters of tiny black dots underneath their glass frames. Maybe Rocco hadn't lied about the mold.
Product design hadn't changed a bit. It was still a sad, vast space carved up by shoulder-height cubicles and rolling desk chairs. The air was stale and silent, and Barbie detected must. Unlike the lobby and merch room, no art cluttered the walls, no sculptures littered the tables, and no remnants of painted flora or psychedelic fauna adorned the office supplies.
It was a dead space designed for dying employees.
An icy draft pushed through the vents above, ushering Barbie toward the glass-walled office that once belonged to Dan Pine. In the 90s, he'd surveilled the product designers as he worked—or, rather, as he screamed at vendors on the phone. If he didn't like what he saw from his office, he'd come out and scream at the designers, too.
Barbie pushed Dan Pine's door open, and a wave of hot, dank air rushed out. She gagged at the mildew stench and covered her mouth. Ventilation in the office had always been poor, but Barbie couldn't recall anything this bad. Rocco was a truly terrible groundskeeper.
Barbie flipped a switch, and the fluorescents above flickered and hummed, flooding the room with light. She grabbed a nearby rubber wedge and jammed it beneath the heavy door, propping it open.
At the center of the office stood an imposing wood desk. Behind it, a bookshelf covered in dust hugged the back wall. Old business guides, Lila Max character figurines, and a giant stuffed Mr. Money Koala filled the shelves, while photographs and certifications lined the olive-drab walls. Barbie breached the threshold, and the fluorescents flickered.
Dan Pine, a certified control freak, would have ensured his access to the vault. So, if an extra vault key existed, it was bound to be in his office.
Barbie searched the desk. Nothing. She opened the drawers. Nothing. She scrutinized the shelves, opened books, and checked behind picture frames. Again, nothing. She picked up and shook Mr. Money Koala. Black specks dotted his fur, but there were no loose seams—and no key. Beads of sweat formed on Barbie's brow. Perhaps Dan had grabbed it before being locked out of the building in the mid-2000s.
Barbie considered ripping the stuffed koala apart when she remembered Dan's old computer. Long ago, he'd had a bulky, beige box with a matching monitor on his desk. It was gone now, but cords still protruded from a hole in the desktop. Back then, desks didn't come with pre-drilled holes for cords. They had to be custom-made or modified.
Barbie wondered if anything else had been modified. Cautious of her aching knee, she lowered herself into a half-squat and shuffled under the desk.
Bingo. Beneath the underside of the desk was a tiny hook holding a set of keys.
She yanked the keys from the hook and examined them. There were three, two regular and one large. One of them had to unlock the vault—well, maybe. She'd give it a shot. Either way, her odds of getting into that vault without Jasper Pine or that brute, Rocco Sullivan, had greatly improved.
As Barbie maneuvered out from under the desk, she caught a glimpse of the ceiling. She stopped, then turned and looked back up. The ceiling was blanketed in black mold.
Holy shit. Barbie covered her mouth and nose with her shirt and headed towards the door, prized keys in hand.
Next to the exit hung a framed photo of Lila Max. Despite the mold and unbearable heat, the image gave Barbie pause. For the last decade, Lila had isolated herself, but even before that, she'd avoided taking pictures. This photo appeared to be a rare corporate-style headshot of her from the 90s.
Barbie scoffed, then reached for the picture. It'd be the perfect addition to the trash collection downstairs. But before she ripped the frame from the wall, she realized this was the closest she'd ever get to telling Lila Max off. She glared at the former queen of school supplies.
"So much for the fantastic world of Lila Max. This place is a total shithole, and I can't wait to see it be torn down," she said.
Despite her contempt for Lila, a small tear escaped Barbie's eye. She wiped it away and sighed. She then tore the frame from the wall, revealing a sliver of light embedded in the plaster.
Barbie leaned in, fixated on the light. It was brilliant—and growing. Growing fast, so fast that she backed away. Lila's photo dropped from her grasp, shattering glass all over the floor. Barbie tried to step around the light toward the exit, but it rippled and blasted a hot gust of air at her.
From above, a drop of warm water landed on Barbie's arm. She glanced down at it and saw that it wasn't water at all. It was black and thick. Above her, black mold rained from the ceiling.
Barbie broke into a sprint for the door. As she reached it, a massive black tentacle burst through the light in the wall and grabbed her by the neck. It wrapped its arm around her torso and squeezed, pulling her toward the opening in the wall, now the size of a giant bear.
Barbie locked her legs and struggled to break the tentacle's grip, but the more she struggled, the tighter it became. Her knee screamed at her to give in. With her lungs crushing under the weight of the monster's grip, Barbie started to fade. She tried to scream. Nothing came.
The black ooze flooded the room. The tentacle pulled harder, and Barbie's feet inched closer and closer to the wall. Finally, her knee gave out, and she slipped into rising black muck.