#pinecrest square

Aliens filming pranks at the mall? Even worse than TikTok kids!

I was taking a patrol lap around the mall when someone winged a cup of Coke at me from the second-floor balcony. I dodged it. Coke and ice splashed all over the Zara storefront. I looked up and saw three skinny little pre-teens pointing and laughing from the balcony. One of them was holding something up in its hand, filming me. I remember thinking they were wearing dumb masks that made their heads look like big gray ovals.

I hate these TikTok kids. They come in here all the time, filming their stupid pranks, hoping to get famous for being a dummy in public. I was no different when I was their age, but that’s not the point. The point is, you’re not allowed to film in the mall, and you’re definitely not allowed to throw a Coke at my head.

I run up the stairs, cursing these kids with every step. They’re standing and laughing until they see it’s serious. Then they start running. Now I can see they’re in full body costumes, skinny as hell, just smooth gray arms and legs flailing everywhere as they ran.

I wouldn’t have chased them, except I knew something they didn’t. That wing of the mall was closed today for maintenance. Sure enough, the kids turn the corner and run smack into a locked security gate. Gotcha!

I pull up, breathing heavier than I’d like to admit, and confront the kids. I’m just about to ask for their ID and where their parents are, when it hits me. These kids aren’t wearing costumes. And they aren’t kids. And the one with the “phone” is projecting a 3D holographic feed of what’s happening, including a “Likes” counter ticking up in bizarre alien script. Looks like I’m the #1 trending prank victim in the Andromeda Galaxy. My parents would be so proud.

All four of us are surrounded by a brilliant white light, like a military floodlight to the face. When the light goes away, I realize two things: I’m not in the mall, and these aren’t kids. They’re still pointing and laughing at me like kids, but they’re definitely not kids.

If they’re not kids, and we’re not in the mall, then I don’t have to follow management’s rules about violence against customers. I stood up straight and grinned, and they didn’t need alien telepathy to know what I was thinking. They stopped laughing and looked at each other. I took a big breath and loomed towards them, fists raised, doing my best silverback gorilla impression.

Two of them backpedaled, holding up their skinny little four-fingered hands. The third one started poking at its device, which I thought was a phone. The first two were making a bunch of fast, high-pitched squeaking noises.

I got up to the one who was working its gadget and pulled back my fist for a solid blow, and then the white light came again, and next thing you know I’m back in the mall. Same place, same time, no aliens. The only sign that anything unusual had happened is that my name badge was replaced by some kind of alien Verified sticker, and I can’t get it off my work shirt. I look around, but I don’t see anyone, no witnesses, just me and the security gate. Later, I checked the security cameras, and wouldn’t you know it, all they recorded was static the entire time.

I radioed for the janitorial crew to hit up the Zara with a wet cleanup protocol and headed back to my office. Halfway there, I get a radio call from janitorial. Whatever was in that cup, it sure wasn’t Coke, because it’s eating through the plate glass and the terrazzo floor, and it smells like ozone and blueberries. Some kind of alien goop, I guess. Good thing I ducked when they threw it at me. If I ever see those intergalactic punks again, I’ll be ready for them.

My job got better when I started using The Backrooms to my advantage. I work at the Unnamed Pretzel Store at Pinecrest Square Mall. It’s your basic boring shopping mall, but the first week I worked there, I got lost in The Backrooms.

When I took out the trash at the end of my shift, I opened the second door on the left instead of the first. You know the drill. Endless miles of flickering yellow-tinged lights, slightly damp industrial carpet, and walls that seem to be breathing if you look at them too closely.

The first thing I did was drop the trash bag on the floor. Why not, right? It was heavy, and it smelled like stale frosting. Maybe the Minotaur wants a bunch of crumpled-up used napkins and expired cinnamon sugar pretzel nuggets. You don’t know his life.

Next, I found a folding metal chair and sat down. It had been a long shift, and my feet were killing me. I checked my phone, but there’s no signal in The Backrooms. That’s fine, I figured I could use a break from doom-scrolling.

I looked around and soaked in the atmosphere. If you think about it, the Backrooms are just trying their best, like everyone else. I took a bunch of pictures and some short videos to show my friends later. It started seeming less “creepy” and more “quiet and cozy.”

Eventually, I got hungry. I wasn’t about to eat the pretzel trash. Besides, I was leaving that as a sacrifice to the Minotaur. Thumbs up.

The secret to leaving The Backrooms is so simple that I felt stupid once I realized it. All you have to do is walk backwards out of the room you’re in, and then you’re back in regular reality. Time doesn’t pass in “the real world” when you’re in The Backrooms, which means it’s a great place to go when you need a break from work.