by Ian Black

Created on: January 22, 2009

Working in restaurant was never my idea of fun. I don't think it was ever to be fun, really.

The restaurant was attched to a big holiday firm, holding a hundred guest rooms, a lounge, and the main lobby, for the reception. There wasn't anything spectacular about it; atmospheric in nature, but dull in comparison to out-side life, the restaurant didn't hold much of an enthusiastic approach to money-making. The floors were linoleum, shaded brown and red, with long, elegant curtains dangling from the window frames.

People were quiet, secluded to their own opinions. It felt as though an inner evil had taken control of their lives, forcing them not to whisper a breath of speech. Their faces looked haggard, fatigued, curling in on themselves as though they were afraid of something terrifying. But there wasn't anything terrifying about the place; it was ordinary and dull. I only took the job because the money was good, but the conditions were far from exceptional. Upon entering the restaurant for the first time, it felt like gliding into some place unknown; like every place masked a danger that hadn't yet been detected by the human eye.

I waited inside the reception area, not daring to say anything. People wandered by me, not acknowledging my presence - which I was fine with. A shiver of paranoia and apprehension sent lightning bolts down my spine. I wanted to turn and flee, but I knew I needed the money. Was that everyone else's excuse for not fleeing when they had the chance? Had their souls been taken from them when the stepped in to the Hell zone? Possibly, but I couldn't be sure. Hastily, I chcked my watch: 10:45am.

"What you wantin'?" said a gruffy, impolite voice from behind me.

Turning, I felt my mouth gaping open. "I'm here to see Helena MacBooth? I'm joining the team."

"Are ye' now?" I didn't much like this grubby little woman. Her hair was messy and unkempt; hurriedly done up into a bun of greasy light brown tangles. Her face was small, narrowed; her lips piercing and scabbed. Her clothes were fashionable, which was surprising; a navy blue blazer fitted onto her slender form, with a white top tucked neatly into matching navy blue trousers. "Did I here ye' right, little one, that you're here to see Helena MacBooth?"

"Yes," I replied flatly. The tension was building; anger and resentment burning mentally from one person to the other. "Sorry if I've done something wrong. Didn't mean to cause any alarm," I added innocently.

The lady laughed hysterically; the noise harsh

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