Tales of Pinecrest Square Mall

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.

A Navy ship was the last thing I expected to find in the fire lane. Once per shift, we have to walk a lap around the outside of the mall. It’s like a ceremonial thing more than anything else. The worst thing I usually find is trash on the sidewalk. Not today.

I’m coming around the corner behind Macy’s when I hear a big “whoomp” and see a misty green fog pile up on the ground, and then a huge ship appears right in the parking lot. In the fire lane, specifically. It made a grinding noise as it settled on the pavement and leaned to the side. It smelled like rust and dead fish. Had “DE-173” painted high on the port bow. I recognized it as a Navy destroyer escort. Never expected to see one illegally docked in the fire lane.

I look around. Somebody else must be seeing this, right? The parking lot was empty except for a scattering of employees’ cars, and some seagulls squabbling over an empty Shake Shack bag. Except the seagulls were silently frozen mid-air, mid-peck, mid-squawk.

Suddenly, I hear screaming, the real serious kind, so I drop my radio and run to the ship. The top half of a man in an old-fashioned sailor’s uniform is sticking out of the ship’s hull. Not sticking out through a porthole. Stuck in the hull itself. I don’t know what’s going on with his bottom half. I guess he doesn’t either.

I lunged towards him, reaching into the green fog. It felt like electrified syrup. I grabbed the sailor’s hands and tried pulling him free. The sailor looks me right in the eyes, begging for his life. I’ll be seeing his face in nightmares for the rest of my life. I feel a pulsing, like gravity is wobbling, like I’m playing tug-of-war with the destroyer escort. I’m hanging onto the sailor for dear life, then I’m falling face-first into the void.

I landed on my hands and knees, hard. I wasn’t lying in a parking lot, I was inside, on a polished concrete floor. My brain identified it by smell before my eyes could catch up and process everything: I was in a 7-11. It smelled like sweaty hot dogs rolling under a heat lamp, stale coffee, and despair. The clock on the wall tells me it’s ten minutes ago. The store is empty except for the clerk at the register. She’s giving me a sour look, like I was the weird one here.

I grab a newspaper off the rack. I’m staring at it, trying to figure out why it has a bunch of news about Virginia Beach on the front page when there’s another feeling like someone twisted the universe like a balloon animal, and I’m back in the mall parking lot.

The ship is gone, the green fog is gone, and no one’s screaming. The only differences are I’m soaked in sweat, I have today’s newspaper from Norfolk Virginia in one hand, a button from the sailor’s uniform in the other, and my radio is on the ground in a dozen pieces. Over the ringing in my ears, I can hear the seagulls fighting over stale French fries. Situation normal.

The only thing I ever want from these situations is proof. The button and my newspaper aren’t proof to anyone but me, but that’ll have to do.

So there I am, minding my own business, eating the sandwich I packed for lunch, watching the security cameras, when I see a scuffle break out at a kiosk between Lush and the sneaker store.

I got up from my desk and slogged down to the kiosk. It’s all the way the other side of the mall, of course. Halfway between Starbucks and the east entrance. What can I say? I need this job.

I shuffle down to the kiosk. It sells bee stuff - candles and soap, that kind of thing. I hate this part of the mall. It reeks of Cinnabon. I find the employee glaring at a little old lady. The employee starts loudly explaining how this little old lady was trying to steal propolis (whatever that was), and the little old lady claimed she was a time traveler who needed “tinctures” (whatever those are) so she could save the world.

The whole time, the little old lady was standing there with her jaw set and her fists full of those little brown glass bottles with the squeeze bulb on top. Tinctures, I guess. Bee stuff. I don’t know. She wasn’t trying to get away, but she also wasn’t about to drop her loot.

When Karen finally ran out of steam, I turned to the little old lady. “Hey, lady, why don’t you come with me down to the office, and we can sort this out. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding, right?”

I had at least a foot and a half on her, but she squared her shoulders and glared up at me like a prize fighter. Having grown up with a healthy respect for my nana, my instinct was to take a step back. Luckily, my 25 years of career military and professional training kicked in, and I held my ground.

“My name is Evelyn Burroughs. You may address me as Mrs. Burroughs.”

“Fair enough, Mrs. Burroughs. Please put the bottles down and follow me.”

She launched into this whole cockamamie story about how she was a time traveler from the future, and they had a critical need for propolis, and she would be snapping back into the future in 32 minutes, thank you very much young man.

I knew better than to contradict her. “Okay, Mrs. Burroughs,” I rested my hands on my utility belt. “But we’re causing a disturbance having this conversation out here in the middle of the mall. How about if you come with me, we sit in my office and have a chat, and your spaceship can pick you up there.”

My feet were killing me, and I’m sure hers were, too. The mall’s terrazzo floor is murder on these old joints. I could tell my appeal to her sense of dignity hit home, too. She glanced around and seemed to realize for the first time that she was causing quite a scene.

I told Karen I would return her bottles of bee stuff later. Karen wanted me to grab them out of the old lady’s hands, but we both knew I’m not allowed to touch people as part of my job, and the little old lady wasn’t about to let go of the goods.

I walked Mrs. Burroughs all the way back to the security office. She was acting like a real tourist the whole time, saying things like “Oh my!” or “Would you look at that?” Like she’d never been in a mall before. I figured she was just trying to sell the bit. Working it a little too hard, if you asked me, but at least she wasn’t making more trouble.

Once I closed the door behind us, she had a proposition for me. “I’ll leave right now if you come with me,” she said. “Here, hold my hand.”

I sighed. If this is what she needed to get this over with, then fine. I took her hand. She smiled. I felt a sliding sensation like the whole world tipped hard to the left and went dark. When I opened my eyes, I was in the future.

You’re not going to believe me, but that doesn’t change it. I was definitely in the future. It smelled better, for one thing. I was in the same office, but I was sitting in a new chair I didn’t recognize. The lighting looked amazing, like we were outside on a sunny afternoon. The ancient coffee maker on the counter had been replaced by a big sleek stainless steel appliance with a bunch of buttons. Some squat little thing on my desk whirred like a fan. Maybe it was some kind of high-tech air purifier. Maybe that’s why the room smelled so much better.

Mrs. Burroughs grinned as she watched me goggling around just like she had on our walk back. Then she stood up, tucked all the little bottles into her pockets, and held out a ticket. When I took it, she tapped me on the wrist. When she did that, I felt that sliding feeling again, and then I was back in my office, holding a used lottery ticket dated two years from now. The ticket was a loser, but someone had written the winning numbers on the back in tidy, fancy old lady handwriting.

Like I said, I’m sure you don’t believe me, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve seen the future. It smells nice. There’s a little old lady who really needs bee stuff, but I don’t know why. And when I win the lottery in 19 months, maybe you’ll change your mind.

I never did figure out who summoned the demon to the food court, much less why or how. I guess it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I was in the middle of my lunch break when I spotted trouble on the security cameras. Looked like a drunk and disorderly, just what I need.

I put down my stale turkey sandwich and head to the food court. It’s a mess there. I mean, even more than usual. Tables and chairs knocked all over, people screaming and pointing, food spilled everywhere, and right in the middle of it, a terrifying demonic shape, so black it seemed to suck all the light in towards it.

It’s a demon that has possessed a middle-aged white lady with a short blonde haircut wearing a puffer vest over a white shirt, Lululemon pants, and spotless white sneakers. This is so much worse than I thought. It’s a Karen demon. Or a demon that possessed a Karen. At this point, I can’t really tell.

There’s a lot I could theoretically do in this situation, but they don’t give me a lot to work with. My 25 years of hard-earned military experience isn’t much good when I’m not allowed to touch anyone or use anything more than a cell phone. And that only to call the cops. You’re not allowed to beat people with your cell phone in this job. I asked.

Regardless, we have a situation here, and it’s my job to resolve it. First and foremost, the demon is gesturing wildly with the glass in its hand. Judging by the smell and the chunks of fruit floating in the red liquid, I’m guessing it’s sangria. Where it got sangria in the mall, I don’t know, but open containers are clearly prohibited by mall policy.

This isn’t to say people don’t wander around the mall getting drunk as hell. They do, and I leave them to it, as long as they keep it to themselves and don’t make trouble. You think all those stroller-pushing moms are sipping water out of their trendy Owala flasks? Hah!

The first thing I should do is call the cops, because they’re supposed to handle the drunk and disorderly cases. But the amount of hassle it is to have the cops come out here just isn’t worth it. Not if I can get the demon to leave quietly. Which doesn’t seem likely, but my half-eaten turkey sandwich isn’t getting any fresher, so I’m willing to give it a shot.

I step up to the demon and say “stop,” real normal, like I was about to tell it that its shoe is untied. The demon went silent, turned to look at me, and cocked its head in confusion. Great, I got its attention. Now to press my advantage. “You can’t have an open container of alcohol in here,” I told it. “I can have you arrested right now. Put the drink down and leave these premises.”

For a few seconds, it looked like the demon was going to follow my orders. Then it shook its head, screeched, and threw the glass directly at my head.

I dropped and took shelter behind a table. Glass crashed against the table, slopping sweet, fruity liquid everywhere. The demon went back to screaming and kicking furniture around. I pulled out my cell phone and, real quick, googled “how to get rid of a demon.” I skimmed the instructions, crossed my fingers that the AI response was correct and not hallucinating a bunch of garbage that was going to get me trapped in Hell for eternity, then stood up. “I renounce your connection to the devil and repent for doors opened to demonic influence,” I said, as loudly and firmly as I could. The demon pointed at me and snort-laughed. It had a point. It sounded dumb to me, too. I put the phone back in my pocket and decided to wing it.

“In the name of the manager, I rebuke thee!” I held my hands out dramatically. The demon shrieked. I had hit a nerve. I squared up and took another step towards it. “In the name of the manager, and the assistant manager, and the shift lead! I command you to leave these premises immediately!” The possessed woman fell to her knees. The black cloud of the demon started swirling around her, agitated, like angry bees. Time to take out the big guns. “In the name of the Regional Manager, I rebuke and break any curses, hexes, or demonic activity sent here to Pinecrest Square!”

That did the trick. The black cloud swirled out of the woman and came directly at me. It got right up in my face. A buzzing voice made of flies and broken glass said, “We will leave, but this is only temporary. We have your name, Vince. We know you.” This felt like someone dumped a bucket of ice water on my head. Then it swirled up and through the central glass skylight and off into the world.

Applause. I had forgotten about all the people. I looked around, feeling a little dazed, and waved my hand. “Nothing to see here,” I said, “Thank you for your cooperation.”

Some people were trying to help Karen to her feet, but she kept waving them off. I asked if she wanted me to call an ambulance, and she refused. Threatened to tell my manager about my “insolence.” Whatever, lady. By this point, I only had 10 minutes left in my lunch break, so I left her alone like she wanted and went back to the office to finish my sandwich.