Knightmare Fuel

I’m a receptionist at a hotel. I can’t tell you which one because as much as I hate my job right now, I really can’t afford to get fired. Let’s just say it’s a chain in the UK, it rhymes with GravelSlodge, and it’s pretty gross. Like, we’re talking powdered egg for breakfast and vomit stains on the carpet. I work nights, so I’ve seen my fair share of fucked up stuff. There’s the woman who took a shit on the floor, picked it up, put it in her purse, and carried on about her evening like nothing had happened. Or the time a man ran around naked, arms flailing, screaming “the sheep are coming”. And that’s just a standard Friday night.  Honestly, I have hundreds of tales like that to tell. But this one is different.  Okay, so I’m going to set the scene for you: it’s a Sunday night, so it’s pretty slow. It’s about 11pm- I’m a few hours into my shift. There’s one other dude, Greg, working the front desk with me, but he’s disappeared to help someone with their key card. ...

    He looked a lot younger, but there was no mistaking it; the man in the window was our trusted neighbour , Phil. But how was that possible? We didn’t even know who he was until he moved in next door- a whole decade  after  that video was filmed. Maybe it was just a really weird coincidence?     I frantically fast-forwarded the tape until the playground at Booker’s Lodge appeared.      “Do you want to go on the swings?”     “Yes please!”     I pressed pause.      I’d missed it before, but there he was, thirty-five minutes into the tape, stood in the background amongst the parents. He was looking right at us.     Once is a coincidence, but twice?      Then it clicked. The photos. Red = yes, black = no.      I rummaged through the shoeboxes marked with red, flicking through each of the photographs .       “What the fuck…” I whispered.   ...