What are the best slot machines to play in Atlantic City

I had turned 21, on June 21, 2016, and my Grandmother took me to Atlantic City where she went on her honeymoon before the casino’s were established. Unfortunately, my grandfather had passed away in 1999 and at least my Grandmother has me to go places with her.
We stayed at the Trump Taj Mahal and I just loved the bright lights and the sounds of the slot machines. My Grandmother and I decided to play the penny slots with just one penny at a time. We were definitely not their target customers.
My Grandmother carried around a big purse where she had loads of snacks stuffed inside. Between the free drinks and my Grandmother’s snacks there was really no reason to get up besides to go to the bathroom.
Every time I would get up my Grandmother would save my seat at the slot machine. My Grandmother was raised during he depression and she developed some unique habits, like if someone had only eaten half of their hotdog and left it on the side of the garbage then she would just finish eating it. I just thought it was funny and she probably had developed an immunity to every imaginable germ.
Watching my Grandmother, I followed suit and did the same thing by finishing other people’s meals.
I was 21 and had no real responsibilities. I came from a dysfunctional home where my parents were at times functioning alcoholics and other times they weren’t really functional at all.
Unfortunately, I had the same addictive personality like my parents as does my Grandmother and the slot machines were like candy to our brains.
Neither my Grandmother nor I had cell phones so we had no one to bother us. We just had such a good time playing the slots and joking around with each other. There was no real concept of time inside the Taj Mahal. 2:00 am looked the same inside the casino as 2:00 pm.
We just played and played and played. We both seemed to drift off at times and close our eyes for a short time then we wake up and continue to play.
I would lose a penny then win three pennies then lose five pennies then win seven pennies. The thrill of winning mixed with the bright lights and catchy sounds sent a jolt of happiness through my brain.
My grandmother and I were definitely poster child’s for the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. We just both had addictive personalities. I remember reading about radio contests to see who can stay up the longest where days of sleep deprivation led to permanent mental health issues for the contestants.
I knew things were getting bad when multiple cocktail waitresses would say “hey your back again” or “you were in the same spot as last week.”
I was hanging on by a thread. I knew if I got away from the stimulus of the machines then my mind and body would just collapse. I had complete tunnel vision everything besides my Grandmother was completely filtered out.
The casino manager actually approached my Grandmother and I to give us a friendly warning that it was time to leave. I almost collapsed when he told us that it had been three weeks straight that we were playing the same slot machines. I think we caused red flags in their computers because neither of the slot machines we using were generating any money for the hotel.
I think we were scared to move for fear that we would both collapse. The casino made an exception and brought us both coffees.
After drinking the coffees my Grandmother and I agreed to get up and go to the bathroom then leave. When I got into the bathroom I knew that I had pushed my mind and body way to far from days if not weeks of sleep deprivation. I was concerned for my grandmother but I truly had nothing left in me, so I went in one of the bathroom stall’s locked the door and sat down on the toilet where I instantaneously passed out.
I had such deep dreams that I never had before. I was in my own dreamworld. Nothing could wake me up but time.
Then, like a bear knows hibernation is over, I felt a sensation in my head that it was time to get up. I opened my eyes and there’s nothing but absolute darkness. A darkness that I haven’t experienced since I was deep in an underground cave when I was on a tenth grade field trip.
I thought that I had gone blind because there was nothing but darkness. My head was just so exhausted. I feel like I could close my eyes and sleep more, but my adrenaline was starting to kick in.
I’m still feeling a bit woozy and I say “where am I?” I was still trying to remember all the weird dreams I had on top of trying to figure out where I am in this complete darkness. I’m in a sitting position so I try to stand up, but my legs are numb, so I sit back down.
I then try to recall where I am and I say “am I sitting in a toilet in the casino?” I think to myself this can’t be. Did the lights in the bathroom break? Why hasn’t anyone else come in?
I yell out “Hello ... Hello. The lights in the bathroom are out. Grandma! Can you hear me?”
I’m met with deafening silence. I reach my arms out and feel metal walls on both sides of me so I know for sure that I’m in a bathroom stall.
I figure I sat for to long and I must of put to much pressure on my nerves so that’s why my legs are numb. I decide to throw myself on the floor. I lean forward and I could feel the door of the stall in front of me. I use the door to brace myself to the floor.
I continually say “ooh awe ooh” until I hurl myself on the floor. My legs are still to weak to move so I drag myself with my arms and reach up to unlock the door to the stall.
I get out of the stall and I get a sensation of extreme hunger and thirst. I now focus on finding the sinks. I use my arms to drag my body on the bathroom floor. I can’t remember where the sinks were located so I just continually move around on the floor. The fear of the absolute darkness outweighs the disgustingness of the bathroom floor. Eventually I start to feel metal pipes and I realize that I’m under a sink. I’m starting to get a little sensation back in my legs so with one hand I reach up for the sink and I reach out with my other hand and thrust myself upwards until I’m on my knees. I yell out a loud groaning sound and I awkwardly stand up. My legs are shaky and weak but at least I can feel them. I give myself a minute to allow my legs to get reacclimated and allow circulation to go through them.
I reach out and feel metal and I push in and realize that it’s one of those faucets that you push in to get water in order to get water to come out. I use one hand as a cup and I lean forward and continually drink water from my hand until I’m satisfied.
I start to feel that my legs have some strength so I take small steps while I hold onto the sink.
I get an overwhelming urgency to urinate so I decide to pee in the sink rather than trying to find the urinal. I unzip my pants and all I could think of if someone opens the door then I would be so embarrassed or possibly arrested. I finish peeing and I pick a direction and I slowly move my legs. I feel around the walls and eventually I feel the frame of a door and I push on it forward.
As the door opens I see nothing and I hear nothing. I’m scared beyond belief. I don’t know if there was a massive power outage or some type of evacuation happened or there was some type of apocalypse.
I yell out “Hello is there anyone else here Hello!” I get no response so I continually to yell out Hello. I vaguely remember the women’s bathroom being next to the men’s bathroom. So I guide myself against the wall until I feel a door. I figure that it must be the women’s bathroom so I open the door.
I yell out “Grandma are you in there ... Grandma are you there?”
I wait a few moments and in a low raspy voice I hear “John, Is that you? Turn the lights on. Where am I?”
I say “Grandma I think we’re still in the casino and I don’t know what’s going on. There’s no power anywhere. It’s just not the bathroom. The casino is completely dark as well.”
My grandmother responded “Casinos never close. Especially the Taj Mahal.”
I respond “I know Grandma. I have no idea what’s going on!”
My grandma responds “How long have we been asleep?”
I respond “I have no idea. I’m guessing days.”
My grandma says “I can’t move my legs.”
I respond “I know I couldn’t move mine either. Give them a few minutes you’ll get your sensation back. Try to move around as you sit down. I’m going to go and try to find out what’s going on!”
My grandmother responds “Ok but come back. Don’t leave me to die.”
I say “I won’t I’ll come back for you.”
I exit the bathroom and yell out “I’ll be back Grandma!” And she responds “You better!”
I try my best to remember as much as I could about the casino and the arrangements of everything. It’s difficult because it’s as dark as an underground cave. There is zero light or at least I hope that’s the problem and I haven’t gone blind. But then I think that my grandmother couldn’t see either. I thought there’s emergency lights that should come on if there’s a power outage, so I really have no idea of what’s going on.
I get a dreamlike memory of dropping money on the floor and remembering a red like carpet then I remember the garbage cans alongside the walkway where people would leave there their uneaten food.
I slowly start to remember that there’s a walkway made up of tiles in the middle of the casino floor that separates two areas of slot machines. So if I make it to the middle area then I probably could walk towards an exit.
I feel the floor and it’s carpet. I slowly start to walk and I feel slot machine after slot machine. I walk slow so I don’t bang my legs into chairs. I’m in a virtual maze and I feel like I’m just going around in circles.
The feeling of overwhelming hunger is starting to consume me as well. My legs have most of their strength back at this point but I’m consumed with hunger and fear.
Navigating around a casino floor is confusing enough with the lights being on and in complete darkness it’s virtually impossible.
I’ve must have been wandering aimlessly for an hour in a virtual circle. I have to come up with a plan. I know my grandmother must be terrified as well.
I have no rope or anything else. Not to say that rope would help me. Then I have an aha moment. I say out loud “The chairs. Use the chairs.” Meaning that the backs of the chairs move to the side when someone gets up from the slot machines. So if I move the back of the chairs to their sides then that’s how I’ll know I’ve been down the row.
I can’t explain why all the chairs are facing forward. If there was a mass exodus then most of the chairs would be facing to their sides.
As I walk each chair I pass I move it to its side. This takes a painstakingly long amount of time but my wandering method didn’t work.
Eventually my method seems to work as I can tell which rows I’ve been down already. Remarkably I feel a divide in carpet from from tile and I say “Thank God!”
I have grainy memories of coming into the casino and seeing staircases and escalators that were opulent but my Grandmother wanted nothing to do with them. But I do remember getting on an elevator and I believe we went to the third floor, so I know that I have to find stairs now.
I know we originally came in through the boardwalk and we didn’t walk that far once we got inside the casino. So now I have to find the stairs and not miss them because the hotel is long and if walk in a direction opposite the boardwalk I am virtually dead because I’ll never find my way back in the pitch dark because the hotel casino is so big and long.
So I slowly walk with my hands out. I walk back and forth and I can tell that the tiled area is about six feet wide.
Eventually I find an area where the tile opens up. My hands reach out to walls and I feel metal elevator doors. Of course their buttons don’t light up. Next to the elevators is a wall that feels like a dead end. So I feel for the elevators again and move past them. I know there must be stairs in the middle of the casino floor.
I want to find the stairs and I don’t want to keep walking down that tile corridor. Also I don’t want to fall down the stairs so once I make it past the elevators I slowly put my foot down to the right and feel more tile so I’m guessing this is more of the corridor.
I backtrack a little bit and I try to move in a horizontal direction to the elevators towards the middle of the casino floor. I inch my way towards the center with my hands out and eventually my right leg hits something and I quickly determine that it is an escalator.
Though I’m consumed by hunger, I know I’m close to getting out of here. I walk down the escalator then I get off and walk down two more sets of escalators.
I figure that I’m on the ground floor and I’m overwhelmed with disappointment that it’s still complete darkness. I have no answer for this. I figure the glass entry doors should emit some form of light even if it’s the moonlight if it’s dark outside.
I know that I have to walk towards the boardwalk and if I move in the wrong direction then I’m better off dead.
I remembered how I walked down the escalators where I went down one way then the next floor I was turned around.
So I figure that I need to walk straight. I force myself to count steps and if I walk more than a hundred then I know I’m going the wrong way. So I slowly move forward with my arms out.
I counted 60 steps and for the first time I can see something other than darkness. I can barely make out a silhouette of a wall, so I move towards the wall.
As I move towards the wall I can’t explain why there’s only a small amount of light getting through. I reach out with my hands and I feel glass. I’m still baffled on why there’s only faint light. Then as I move along the glass I can eventually see A slither of the boardwalk and it’s daytime and people are just casually walking. Then I see that there is wood panels on the outside and the doors are boarded shut.
So I frantically start banging on the glass doors and I can see people look in my direction but they just continue to walk by. I don’t know if there was a hurricane or something to explain why the doors are boarded shut.
So with the little energy I have left I knock and knock and knock. I don’t know if the people think the knocking is from construction or if they just don’t care.
Eventually I fall to the flood put my back to the wall and bang with my elbows against the glass.
The hope that I once had is gone. My body has zero energy and I’m going to die like a trapped rat. I just can’t keep my eyes open anymore. I have no idea when the last time I ate was because I don’t know how long I was asleep for.
Then I pass out.
I slowly wake up and realize that I’m on a hospital gurney. Apparently someone heard me knocking and notified the police. The Good Samaritan was a former casino worker who knew the casino was essentially abandoned and there was no work going on.
I was given IV’s that gave me enough strength for me to regain my consciousness. I asked the nurse “where’s my grandmother?”
She responds “Do you want me to call your grandmother and tell her your in the hospital?”
I say in a weak raspy voice “No, my grandmother was in the casino with me!”
The nurse said “Sir, the police report says your probably homeless and somehow you wandered into the casino.”
I say “No, my grandmother and I were playing the slot machines for days with no rest and we both went into the bathroom and each passed out in a stall.”
The nurse says “Sir the Taj Mahal went bankrupt months ago. If your story is accurate then you have been asleep for months.”
I start to get weak again and tell the nurse “Please my grandmother is on the third floor on the women’s bathroom.”
Then I pass out again.

1992, some nondescript suburban city in the mid-Atlantic region of the east coast.
I was sixteen years old at the time. I’d recently landed the esteemed job of “dish boy” at the local Chuck E. Cheese franchise. At the time, ball pits were still very much a thing.
They’re calling 2020 “The Year the Ball Pit Died.” Actually, that’s just what I’m calling it. But I don’t see a resurgence of ball pits taking place after the coronavirus clears up. I say good riddance for a couple of reasons. First, ball pits are fucking disgusting, if you didn’t know that already. Second –– well, let me give you a bit more background, then it will all make a lot more sense. Maybe with enough context, you’ll believe what happened to me.
Back to ‘92. As a sixteen-year-old Chuck E. Cheese dish boy, part of my job was to “clean the pit.” At the end of every month, we’d pull all the balls out, put them on massive tarps, spray them with disinfectant, then pile them back in. It took hours. You wouldn’t believe the type of shit we found at the bottom of the pit. Cheap toys kids had won in the arcade, beloved blankets belonging to little girls and boys, lost forever in the sea of plastic, and moldy slices of pizza that had been there for weeks, just to name a few treasures.
Because it took so much effort to take out the balls, we did preventative maintenance. After closing every night, I got sent into the danger zone with a bottle of OdoBan and a fresh roll of Bounty paper towels, with the express purpose of identifying “dirty balls” and “giving them a once over.” Despite the task sucking mightily, my fellow high school co-workers and I had some good laughs.
The manager of the franchise –– who also owned it –– reminded me a lot of Gustavo Fring from Breaking Bad. Not because he was Chilean (he wasn’t), nor because he owned a meth empire (he didn’t, at least not that I know of). But the manager had this crazy attention to detail and expectation for excellence. He would make his Chuck E. Cheese franchise the most successful of all time or die trying. He did die trying. Heart attack, ‘94. But that’s not the focus of this story, so let’s get back to it.
Ball pits, yeah. Disgusting and impossible to clean. Kids, faces smeared with grease and cheese, would dive into the fucker head first. I shit you not, one time I saw this kid standing on the edge of the pit and taking a piss right into the middle of the thing.
No bueno. Especially in 2020. Not a chance governors are signing off on that shit again.
You probably haven’t heard much about what I’m going to tell you. As I mentioned earlier, most people haven’t because it took place in ‘92 in a shithole, mid-Atlantic suburb. There was some brief press about what happened, a few urban legends about the dangers of letting your kids go near a ball pit (right alongside the ones about HIV-laced needles being put in the coin slot of public payphones), but eventually, the cops chalked what happened up to a standard abduction.
That was that. Kids started diving in headfirst all over again.
The kid who disappeared was named Miles Penrose. Eight years old. He was attending the birthday party of one of his friends. All their families were there, the moms chatting about their suburban existences, the dads pounding beer and talking about the glory days. The party started at around three o’clock, and they booked a roped off area until seven. Four hours of the kids going wild, slurping Coke, scarfing down pies as fast as the cooks could make them.
A little after four o’clock, Miles went missing. And his mom went ballistic. They shut down the restaurant, made sure everyone stayed inside, and the cops started taking statements. There were so many people there that the questioning went long past midnight. Miles’ mom continued melting down. His dad stared around angrily, accusing everyone in the restaurant with his eyes.
There’s a classic Hollywood plotline that you have 72 hours, three days, until your chances of finding whoever went missing winnow down to zilch. But Miles was long gone as soon as he went below the surface of the ball pit. And no one saw what happened but me.
I was busing tables when I saw a flash of movement, stopped, and looked through the ball pit area’s plastic windows. Miles had been standing alone in the pit, smiling. If he was actually friends with whoever’s birthday it was –– and not just a sympathy invite –– he sure as hell wasn’t one of the popular kids. Quiet looking type. Red hair. Goofy smile. Fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. But for the few seconds I saw him before he disappeared, I could tell he was a nice kid. Just gave off that vibe.
Suddenly, from all around Miles, pale arms reached up. Seven arms, exactly. The arms were so translucently pale that the veins stood out like dark blue extension cords. Miles’ expression changed to one of utter horror. Whatever was beneath the pit had grabbed onto him. I thought it was just other kids messing around at first. But the arms looked old, almost dead. Like they’d come from beyond the grave.
Miles started slipping below the surface of the pit. He was screaming. I could see his terrified expression through the plastic windows. But the other kids were screaming too, high on sugar and having the time of their lives. Nobody noticed when Miles went below completely. He was reaching out of the pit up toward some invisible life preserver that wasn’t there. Our eyes met for a second, then one of the hands reached up, covered his face, and yanked him violently beneath.
The only sign Miles had been there at all was a small disturbance in the pit, the balls trying to follow the source of whatever was pulling downward. Sort of like Sarlacc in Return of the Jedi, grains of sand falling into a dark, gaping maw. But the pit was so stuffed with plastic balls that there was nowhere for them to go. They just rolled around on top of each other as Miles disappeared.
The kids carried on playing. I stumbled to the back of the restaurant with a plastic container full of dishes and started cleaning them, too terrified to tell anyone what actually happened.
Thirty minutes later, Miles’ mom noticed he was gone and went looking for him.
**\*
The cops questioned me, just like everyone else in the restaurant. I was the only one with a story worth considering.
“I saw him disappear into the ball pit.”
“Disappear?”
“Yeah, he disappeared.”
“What do you mean he disappeared?”
“There were seven hands, all around him. They reached from underneath, like they were coming up from a grave or something. Then they pulled him down.”
The cops looked at each other. I could tell they thought I was just some dumb kid being a pain in the ass.
“You watch a lot of horror movies, son?”
“Yeah, I do.”
It was the truth. I wasn’t going to lie to the cops. I’ve always loved horror movies.
“Horror movies about zombies, maybe? The living dead?”
“Why does it matter?”
“We’ll ask the questions, son.”
The managefranchise owner, the one who died two years later from a heart attack, came over.
“Is there a problem, officers?”
The cops shook their heads.
“No problem. Just taking statements from the young man here. But we’re finished.”
The franchise owner grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me aside.
“Get your ass back to the kitchen and clean the dishes.”
I hustled away, wanting to tell the cops more but knowing I’d missed my opportunity.
**\*
That was just the beginning of the night for me. The manager told me to call home and tell my parents I’d be helping empty the ball pit to look for signs of Miles. No one believed me that he’d disappeared into the pit, but the cops decided to empty the thing anyway.
Two hours later, after we got all of the balls out, I saw something strange. I’d never seen it before, even though I’d cleaned out that pit a half dozen times.
Built into the wood floor of the pit, past slices of rotten pizza and cheap plastic toys kids had won in the arcade, there was a trap door. Snagged on a rusty, protruding nail at the trap door’s edge, there was a coin purse. It was one of those fake kiddy wallets that moms give their sons and daughters on trips to places like Chuck E. Cheese so they don’t carry around a bunch of loose change in their pockets.
I looked closely at the coin purse to see that it was embroidered with a name:
Miles.
**\*
When I told the cops who were helping out about the trap door, they came over to take a look. The manager, huffing and puffing, shoved me out of the way. He looked ready to commit murder.
“What’s under the trap door?” one of the cops asked.
“Crawl space,” said the franchise owner. “No one goes down there anymore. We’ve long since tossed the stuff that had been stored under the floorboards, mostly trash and old tools. This building used to be a machine shop.”
The cops insisted on having a look. The unlucky guy who drew the short straw went underneath with a flashlight, but he didn’t find any sign of Miles. There was no exit point, either. The trap door led into the crawl space beneath the building, but nothing led out.
**\*
When all was said and done, they chalked Miles’ case up as a standard disappearance. Seventy-two hours passed. Then a week. Then a month. After six months, they stopped looking. Miles’ mom came to the restaurant every day, walking into the ball pit area and looking around for her lost son. On a couple of occasions, she pulled me aside, recognizing me as the one who’d said Miles had disappeared beneath the plastic balls.
After catching me talking to Miles’ mom for the third or fourth time, the manager told me to pack my shit and get out.
**\*
Twenty-eight years have passed since the day Miles Penrose disappeared at the Chuck E. Cheese restaurant in the town I’ve long since left. I’m middle-aged now, forty-four. I’m twice divorced and have one kid I talk to, one who hates my guts. But let’s not get into that. The direction my life has gone is a bit of a sore subject.
Up until November of last year, 2019, I hadn’t thought about what happened to Miles for a decade or more. Life does that to you. Memory is weird. You only reserve mental space for the essential stuff. Looking back, it makes me sad that Miles’ memory wasn’t essential after a while, but that’s just the way things go.
So, November 2019. Right as the coronavirus was heating up, but not quite a state of emergency yet. Ball pits were still allowed, as was in-person dining. My friend, his wife, and I went to a fancy gala in the city. It was an art exhibit put on by this fancy pants auteur from Europe. $200 a ticket, but it was an all-you-can-eat lobster feed, so I was onboard.
Only when I walked in did I realize that the centerpiece of the exhibit was a giant ball pit. There were a bunch of white, plastic balls piled into a big above ground pool. Around the pool was a deck with the buffet and dining tables, everything built atop scaffolding covered in artificial turf, so it looked like a hillside.
Summer Vacation. That was the name of the exhibit. Funny timing, because it was winter, one of the coldest ones on record in the city I’d relocated to. Blizzards had been bombarding the city for weeks, and one was currently raging, covering the urban landscape in snow.
A lump rose in my throat when we got inside. I had avoided ball pits like the plague since what happened in ‘92. I insisted that we leave, but my friend and his wife reminded me that the tickets were nonrefundable. They had no idea about the trauma I’d experienced as a sixteen-year-old. It became the topic of conversation for the first part of dinner until we switched to talking about something else I can’t remember.
I watched, out of the corner of my eye, as person after person jumped into the pit. Moms and dads. Grandmas and grandpas. People were reliving their childhood, which I think was the point of the exhibit. There were kids there too, the sons and daughters of filthy rich patrons of the arts.
What happened next was almost exactly the same as what happened to Miles Penrose in ‘92. A little girl was standing in the pit by herself. Her name was Sarah Wallace. She was blonde-haired and rosy-cheeked, smiling in a state of complete and utter bliss as she watched people of all ages jump in.
Suddenly, from around her, pale arms protruded from the pit. Seven arms, exactly, streaked with veins so dark that they may as well have been black. Sarah screamed, but once again, no one heard her. People were too busy talking about art, screaming in jubilation, and chomping down all-you-can-eat lobster to notice.
I jumped up from my table and ran full speed, leaping into the pit where she’d gone under. I did my best to swim beneath the plastic balls, but they were too thick. I just slipped around, the mass of plastic preventing my progress.
I climbed out and noticed everyone who’d come to the gala was looking at me –– some with smiles, thinking I’d joined in on the fun, some with looks of terror that a 44-year-old man was flailing around like a crazy person. Sarah Wallace’s mom was scanning the area for her daughter. Our eyes met, she registered what had happened, and she began to scream.
**\*
The way it played out after that was eerily similar to the way it had happened in ‘92. Cops came. They questioned people. They questioned me thoroughly, given that I was the one who’d noticed Sarah was gone. They emptied the pit. But the difference between this time and ‘92 was that there was no trapdoor. The base of the pool was made of a solid piece of plastic.
**\*
The standard seventy-two hours passed, but I’d known the second Sarah disappeared into the pit that she was gone, just like Miles.
It was late on a Sunday. I was at my expensive downtown loft, alone. The loft is up on the third floor. There’s nothing outside –– no fire escape, no nothing. If you open the window and step out, you’re falling onto hard concrete forty feet below.
That night I’d been busy researching the history of ball pits, searching Google’s archives for news of disappearances at McDonald’s, Chuck E. Cheese, and Burger King restaurants throughout the 90s. But I was coming up short.
Then, all of a sudden, the power went out. I didn’t think much of it. The blizzard, raging for weeks, had caused the power to go out a bunch of times already.
The apartment cloaked in darkness, I walked to my bedroom thinking about Sarah Wallace. With the combination of heat blasting inside my apartment and cold air hitting the glass from the outside, there was thick condensation on all the windows. I got into bed despite knowing that sleep was a long way off. It had been hard to come by since what happened three days earlier at the art gala.
Something terrifying happened then. I noticed movement outside my bedroom window, obscured by the condensation. But it wasn’t physically possible. There was no fire escape. It was a straight drop, forty feet to the street below. Sure, window cleaners came once every six months, but it was almost midnight, and they’d already come the previous week.
I got up from my bed and walked to the window to investigate the movement. When I got to the window, there was a massive BANG, like a hand had slapped the other side. The glass rattled. I stumbled back into my bed, forced to take a seat on the edge.
I saw seven hands appear on the other side of the window. They began tracing something in the condensation. But that wasn’t possible either. They were on the wrong side of the glass. The condensation was on the inside.
Still, the tracing continued. My heart jackhammered in my chest. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, there was a message.
“I will stop sniffing around like a cheese-hungry rat.”
__ YES __ NO
The message about me being a cheese hungry rat –– the connection to the 1992 Chuck E. Cheese ball pit incident –– whatever this paranormal entity was, it was the same one from all those years ago. The same one that had taken Miles Penrose in ‘92 and Sarah Wallace, three days before. I got up, taking slow steps toward the window. The room had become freezing cold, but the message traced in the condensation remained.
Part of me wanted to keep searching for Miles and Sarah, to find the truth about what happened to them. I wanted to keep researching disappearances at other ball pits, if there had been any.
But being as terrified as I was –– and I hate myself for it now –– I traced a giant X next to “YES.”
Suddenly, seven ghostly hands reached up from the floor inside the apartment, planting themselves on the window with another BANG. They began rubbing the window in circles, the wet glass squeaking as they did.
I stumbled back into the bed again, forced to take another seat. I closed my eyes.
When I opened them a minute later, the message was gone. So too was the condensation. Outside, it was snowing as hard as it had been for weeks. There was nothing on the other side of the glass. No pale hands attached to vein-streaked arms were reaching up from the floor.
I was alone in the apartment –– just me, the memory of Miles and Sarah, and an overwhelming sense of guilt that I decided to give up on their memory.
**\*
If 2020 is truly “The Year the Ball Pit Died,” I’m grateful. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking. But I hope for the sake of kids everywhere that I’m right.
[WCD]

Teddy’s VHS collection never really came up in conversation. Sure, occasionally I’d say something about the oblique pop culture reference t-shirt he wore, and I recall having a discussion or two about his obsession with 90s sitcoms, but most of our time together was spent talking about the strangeness of the locals.
I originally moved to Prague to squeeze out as much fun out of my 20s as I could in a cost-effective manner. Beer was cheaper than water, rent was infinitely more affordable than San Fran and there’s something to be said about dating in the porn capital of the world. Teddy’s reasons for moving to Prague on the other hand were a bit more cryptic.
Whenever I would ask him about his departure from the states he would wax poetic about the dark gothic streets, about the strangeness of the city, about how he could feel Kafka’s perpetually confused spirit drifting through the subways, but it wasn’t until one rum soaked evening that he gave me something concrete.
‘You can also find some pretty niche VHS tapes here,’ he said, ‘and I like collecting VHS tapes.’
Maybe he wanted me to press the subject further, maybe he wanted to show me his collection, but to be honest I didn’t care.
I liked the dude, he was weird, but I liked him. Frail and covered in adult acne Teddy was funny looking and meek, but the guy had a heart of gold. Whenever I found myself lost in the absurd bureaucracy of the city or was looking for an explanation to the strange customs of the Praguers Teddy was more than happy to help. He moved to the city just a year before me, yet somehow he had managed to get a grasp on the strange consonant filled lingo of the locals and knew of just about every expat friendly gem hidden around the dark alleys.
We were on friendly enough terms to be conflict free roommates and occasionally grab a drink together. I liked the dude. I just didn’t want to enter check out my weird hobby territory.
It wasn’t until he went missing that I saw his collection.
A regular VHS tape fits about four episodes of a twenty-minute show. Judging by the sparse amount of space available in Teddy’s room, he had enough tapes to stay occupied for weeks.
Whilst Teddy was privy to all the drama of my personal life I didn’t know much about his. I never met any of Teddy’s friends, but I presumed he had some. For the first two weeks of his absence I assumed that Teddy just went on some spontaneous hiking trip with some friend I never heard about. One worried phone call from his father dispersed those illusions. Teddy was missing and Teddy only had one friend in Prague – me.
His father flew in from Maryland and for six months he stayed in his son’s cramped room. It was miserable rooming with a grieving father, but the guy continued covering Teddy’s share of the rent and I didn’t want to be soulless. For six months he searched the city for some sort of evidence that his son was alive, but Teddy’s disappearance was total. I had no leads, the police had no leads and after half a year of searching Teddy’s father ran out of hope. Long after it became clear that his son was not coming back Teddy’s father flew back home to hold a memorial service.
They invited me to come and speak at the service, even offered to cover my airfare to Baltimore, but I declined. I didn’t know Teddy well enough to speak to his grieving family and traveling across the Atlantic is about as pleasant as a sleep deprivation experiment. Instead, as his family gathered to mourn, I made my way to Teddy’s VCR.
I was going to put on a random Friends episode, Teddy seemed to have really enjoyed that show, but when I tried to pop in the cassette there was resistance from the machine. The slot was already filled with a different tape.
ADVENTURES OF PROFESSOR EGGHEAD SEASON ONE ep 1 – 4
To pay my respects I figured I’d do my best and try to indulge in Teddy’s weird hobby. I pushed the tape back into the machine and pressed play.
A coffee shop flickered to life on the screen. On first glance there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with it; a group of teens gathered with laptops in what looked to be a study group, out by the window two friends had an animated conversation, a small line of people dressed in gray office garb stood in line waiting for their coffee. Yet the longer I watched the coffee shop scene play out the more I noticed something was off.
The teens relentlessly typed away at their computers, but the screens of their laptops were off. The conversation by the window was filled with excited hand gestures and bouts of laughter, yet the two friends made no sound when they moved their lips. The line of office workers stood patiently in line, but no orders were ever filled. The whole coffee shop seemed stuck in the same thirty-second loop that repeated over and over. It was as if everyone was waiting for something. Sitting behind the thick screen of Teddy’s television, I waited as well.
It was faint at first, I even paused the tape to see whether the sound wasn’t coming from my neighbor’s apartment, but soon enough it became clear the noise was originating from the television. Somewhere off screen a live studio audience was clapping and cheering, anticipating the arrival of a beloved character.
Then the door opened and he entered.
The studio audience hollered with joy as he appeared on screen, but my stomach went flush with discomfort. This man, this creature, this thing that stood at the entrance of the coffee shop defied all reason. A face of a human, a desperately tired human, drooped from his egg-shaped body. Over his stubby limbs he wore a dirty lab coat and the sparse nest of hair on his pointed scalp looked like it hadn’t been washed in years, but it was his eyes that stoked true discomfort in my core – bloodshot and lined with yellow grime they stared straight into the camera.
‘I AM PROFESSOR EGGHEAD!’ the abomination screamed in a queer accent drenched in anger, ‘I HAVE COME HERE TO AWAKEN MYSELF FOR ANOTHER DAY OF SCIENCE!’
The studio audience’s joyous clapping turned to wild laughter, yet no one in the coffee shop found the creature’s outburst funny. They all seemed scared.
With rage filled stomps the egg-shaped being lumbered his way past the frightened business folk to the front of the line. ‘I DEMAND BOILED WATER!’ he screamed, ‘I DEMAND BOILED WATER THAT HAS BEEN STRAINED THROUGH CRUSHED BEANS OF THE COFFEE PLANT! IF I AM TO GET ANY SCIENCE DONE ON THIS DAY I MUST HAVE CAFFIENE COURSING THROUGH MY POWERFUL VEINS!’
Everyone in the coffee shop seemed wholly uncomfortable with the existence of the egg-man; his presence radiated a fury throughout the entire establishment, but it was the young barista he was facing who received most of his ire. She looked to be on the edge of a panic attack. ‘I’m sorry sir,’ she mumbled, biting her lip in discomfort, ‘I don’t understand you.’
‘NO ONE UNDERSTANDS THE EGGHEAD!’ he screamed, raising the nubs of his arms to the sky, ‘NO ONE WILL EVER UNDERSTAND THE EGGHEAD!’
This drove the studio audience wild. A deafening bout of canned laughter boomed from the television. With a deep-seated confusion in my heart, I cut it off with the remote and went on the balcony for a cigarette.
For a while I tried to make sense of why Teddy would watch something so unhinged but those thoughts didn’t stick around for long. Teddy was a weird guy who was into weird things, trying to understand his tastes was just as futile as the six-month search effort. A part of me wanted to believe that he was still hiding somewhere in the smoggy city that stretched out beyond the balcony, but I knew the truth. Teddy was gone, and somewhere out in Baltimore his family was gathered around a corpse-less funeral saying goodbye.
His father cried a lot – just about every night for the first couple of months. It wasn’t until I had to put on headphones to drown out a grown man’s sobs that I realized how thin the walls of the apartment were. Even muffled through blaring music, those two AM howls were scratched into my memory.
Standing on my balcony, alone, hearing faint echos of the man’s wails I realized I needed a drink.
As I rushed out of the house in search of company, however, the television screen in Teddy’s room caught my eye. The screaming egg-creature was still staring at the camera, stuck in an angry shout. If Teddy was around and he sat me down to watch that madness I probably would have lasted longer. A twinge of guilt sparked in my chest for never humoring Teddy's obsession.
As soon as I resumed the tape the café was replaced with a barbershop. Much like the previous scene, there was an air of artificiality surrounding everything on the screen. A heavy middle-aged woman hovered over the single customer that the barbershop had with scissors in her hands, yet she never made a single cut. Another employee was using a broom to clean up the remains of a previous haircut, but he never actually disposed of the hair. He just pushed it around the floor in a circle. Even the bright colored fish in the barbershop aquarium seemed to be swimming around in a steady formation.
The barbershop was stuck in a familiar 30-second loop, waiting for something to happen. After a minute or two the cheering of the studio audience started to reverberate through the quiet room.
‘I AM PROFESSOR EGGHEAD!’ the mad creature raved as he burst through the door, ‘I DEMAND THAT THE DEAD CELLS BE REMOVED FROM MY SCALP WITH SHARP KNIVES SO THAT I CAN BE BORN ANEW!’
His words were much angrier than before, the egg shaped monstrosity was foaming at his mouth with rage, but his eyes still seemed comatose. ‘I AM PROFESSOR EGGHEAD AND I DEMAND YOUR ATTENTION!’ he yelled, impotently waving his short arms. The studio audience found his frustration hilarious.
Everyone in the barbershop was doing their best to look away, but the malformed scientist would not be ignored. He wobbled up to the occupied chair and started to nudge it, making the hairdresser’s job impossible.
‘Please, sir, could you just wait for your turn?’ she finally said, doing her best to look away from his horrible suffering eyes.
‘NO!’ Professor Egghead screamed, ‘I DEMAND ATTENTION NOW! I DEMAND MY SCALP BE CLEANSED OF FILTH SO THAT I CAN WHOLEHEARTEDLY COMMIT MY EGG-SHAPED BODY TO SCIENCE!’
With one swift motion the nightmarish creature grabbed the man in the chair and threw him to the ground. There was stunning force in those stocky limbs of his. With a spine-chilling crack the innocent customer slammed skull-first into the floor. He lay there, unmoving. The studio audience saw the random act of violence as the pinnacle of comedy.
‘THERE ARE NO MORE CUSTOMERS FOR YOU TO SERVE!’ Professor Egghead screeched as a faint trickle of blood crawled across the white floor, ‘IT IS NOW TIME FOR YOU TO SERVE THE EGGHEAD! IT IS NOW TIME FOR YOU TO CLEANSE MY SCALP!’
With clumsy effort the creature climbed up on top of the chair. The hairdresser was extremely distressed, but the audience found the egg-man’s climb to be deserving of raucous applause.
‘BRING OUT THE KNIVES AND ALTER MY APPEARANCE!’ he screamed, kicking his stubby legs in frustration, ‘I AM A BUSY MAN AND THERE IS SCIENCE TO BE DONE! DO WHAT I DEMAND!’
For a moment it looked like the hairdresser was going to say something, like she was going to decline the malformed maniac service, but she reconsidered. With shaking hands she grabbed ahold of the greasy tufts of hair on his oval scalp and started to cut.
‘I AM PROFESSOR EGGHEAD!’ the creature screamed, looking straight into the camera, ‘I ALWAYS GET WHAT I DESIRE! ALL SHALL BE GIVEN TO ME IN THE NAME OF SCIENCE!’
It was as if he could see me, as if his tired eyes were reaching past the television screen and trying to bring me into his demented world. The glimpse into Teddy’s confounding media diet was enough for me; I still didn’t understand why the guy would watch the tape but I was certain I wanted to turn it off. I reached for the remote with my sweaty hands, but before I could turn off the television the scene changed again.
For a moment I was sure my eyes were playing tricks on me, that I was having some sort of psychotic break with reality, but the longer I looked at the screen the more certain I was of what I was seeing.
I desperately scrolled through my phone searching for Teddy’s father’s number, but I kept my eyes glued to the screen.
A colorful fast-food restaurant flickered to life on the television. The line to the counter stood still, the customers held their burgers in anticipation but never ate and somewhere off in the distance a studio audience started to clap.
Two rings. Teddy’s father picked up right away.
‘I found your son,’ I said.
The red uniform was an unusual choice of clothing, and the beginnings of a patchy beard were starting to grow on his face, but I recognized Teddy right away. He was standing behind the counter, nervous, as if he knew what was awaiting him.
‘You… You found my son?’ said the voice on the phone, shaking with breathlessness, ‘Where? Where is my boy?’
I tried to explain what was happening, but I kept on tripping over my words. The tape, the egg-man, the insane eyes; I didn’t know where to start. Before I could gather my thoughts into something coherent the television exploded in another wave of celebration.
‘I AM PROFESSOR EGGHEAD!’ the fever dream boomed from the screen, ‘I DEMAND THE GRILLED CARCASS OF AN ANIMAL BETWEEN TWO PIECES OF PROCESSED WHEAT! I MUST RECEIVE NOURISHMENT BEFORE I INDULGE IN THE SCIENCE!’
‘I’m sorry sir,’ Teddy whimpered, unsure of how to speak to the monstrosity which waddled towards him, ‘There are other customers, if you just wait your place in line-‘
‘THERE ARE NO OTHER CUSTOMERS THAN ME, PROFESSOR EGGHEAD!’ the creature shrieked as he shoved the innocent bystanders to the floor, ‘I DEMAND FLESH AND BREAD! I DEMAND FUEL FOR MY BODY SO THAT I CAN COMMIT MY MIND TO SCIENCE!’
One by one they crashed head-first into the floor to the crackling joy of the studio audience. Soon enough the egg shaped abomination was face to face with Teddy.
‘You have found my boy?’ cried the voice from the phone, ‘Please, please tell me my boy is safe.’
‘I WILL DESTROY ALL THAT IS IN MY PATH IN THE NAME OF SCIENCE!’ the walking nightmare hollered, ‘BRING ME A FEAST WORTHY OF A PHILOSOPHER KING!’
With each uncomfortable twitch of Teddy’s face the audience on screen exploded into another fit of hysterical laughter. I tried to turn down the sound of the television so that I could hear the grieving man on the phone but it was to no avail. With every press of the remote the egg-man shouted louder, with every decreased decibel the studio audience became wilder. Leaving a desperate Teddy flickering on the screen I escaped to the balcony.
‘Please, please do not joke about this,’ he whimpered into the phone, ‘My heart cannot handle cruelty right now.’
I took a deep breath, lit up a cigarette and explained myself. I told him about the tape, about Professor Egghead, about Teddy. All I got in response was silence. I tried to imagine how I would respond if I was on the other side of the phone, how I would make sense of it all, but I couldn’t. I waited for the man’s response with echoes of canned applause playing in the back of mind.
‘This is not a joke?’ Teddy’s father finally asked.
‘No,’ I said, ‘It all sounds crazy but –‘
A wave of dizziness washed through me. My cigarette plummeted down to the streets below. Suddenly the overcast city in front of me was impossibly bright, as if someone had turned on a thousand fluorescent bulbs across the sky. The applause, the canned applause that I thought was a simple memory in the back of my skull had grown to a tangible volume. My legs felt weak. Fearing the balcony railing I stumbled back into my apartment.
‘I AM PROFESSOR EGGHEAD!’ boomed the television, ‘I HAVE ARRIVED TO EXCHANGE MONETARY TOKENS FOR GOODS! I MUST STOCK MY DOMICILE QUICKLY SO THAT I CAN COMMIT THE REST MY TIME ON THIS PLANET TO SCIENCE!’
The audience clapped and laughed but suddenly they went silent. The only thing that I could hear was a gentle, repetitive beep – the beep of a supermarket checkout isle.
‘WHAT IS THIS?’ he screamed, ‘IN THE NAME OF SCIENCE! WHAT IS THIS?’
Past the buzzing lights in front of my eyes I could see a spot of dark. I blindly crawled towards it, desperately hoping to regain my sight.
‘WHERE IS HE?’ Professor Egghead demanded, ‘HOW AM I MEANT TO MAKE A PURCHASE WHEN THE SALES CLERK IS MISSING?’
As I felt my way towards the one part of my universe that wasn’t drenched in eye burning light a tower of cassettes collapsed against my back. I was back in Teddy’s room and I was looking up at the screen.
The television was calming to my eyes but it stirred fear in my heart. I was looking at the florescent-lit checkout line of a supermarket. A trail of blood and bodies led up to an unattended register. A defiant Professor Egghead gripped his shopping cart and stared into the camera with dead eyes.
‘I HAVE TAKEN TEMPORARY LEAVE FROM THE WORLD OF SCIENCE TO PURCHASE GOODS AND THIS IS HOW I AM REWARDED? WHERE IS THE SHOP ASSISTANT? I DEMAND THE SHOP ASSISTANT!’ he screamed. The studio audience was in complete silence, all that could be heard was the gentle beep of a far off checkout machine and the professors labored breathing.
‘WHERE IS HE? I DEMAND ANSWERS! WHERE IS HE?’ spit was flying from his mouth onto the camera, in a show of rage he started jabbing his shopping cart in the direction of the audience. ‘I AM WORLD RENOWNED SCIENTIST PROFESSOR EGGHEAD! I DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR THIS!’
He wheeled his cart back and forth, foaming at the mouth as if he were a rabid dog, but something behind the camera caught his exhausted eye.
‘Oh,’ he said, his voice losing all its fury, ‘There you are.’
His sudden change of tone made me flinch away from the screen, but his dull eyes followed me.
‘Professor Egghead can see you,’ he said, his eyes still dead tired but his mouth forming into a thin-lipped smile, ‘Come back where you belong. Let me pay for my goods so that I can return to my work in the field of science.’
The clapping resumed again. It was quiet at first, but as the abhorrent grin on the television grew the applause became louder and louder. Whatever was happening the audience loved it.
‘Come on back to Professor Egghead,’ he said, flashing a smile of thin yellowed teeth, ‘I demand attention.’
The light around me reverberated with growing strength, the clapping and cheering and whistling was so loud it felt as if my eyes were about to pop out of my skull.
‘I DEMAND ATTENTION!’ the egg-man screamed, the rage returning to his voice, ‘I DEMAND IT! I DEMAND IT! I DEMAND –‘
The screen went dark, and so did the blinding light. I was back in Teddy’s room; alone and drenched in sweat. For a moment I just lay on the floor, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling, trying to find a loose thread of sanity in an insane world, but before I could even begin to process the madness I had witnessed my phone started to ring.
It was Teddy’s father.
He begged me to turn the tape back on, to rewind and find the image of his lost son, to bring some semblance of hope back into his life, but I couldn’t. I refused to be in the same room as that tape, let alone to watch it again. Whatever was on that cassette was cruel and dangerous. I didn’t want to end up like Teddy.
He offered money, he wept, he got angry, but nothing that he could say or do could make me go back to that hellscape. I offered to mail the tape to him, but the idea of entrusting the footage to the postal service drove the man furious. After two hours on the phone Teddy’s father informed me that he would be flying to Prague and retrieving the VHS tape himself. I didn’t argue with the man, the thought of not being alone with the confounding reality of Professor Egghead even eased my mind somewhat. With a last-minute flight Teddy’s father would be back in Prague in less than two days. I figured I could hold out that long. For a moment I was calm.
But that moment didn’t last long. As I went to sleep that night I couldn’t escape the vision of those dull eyes and that angry mouth. Even as I write this, with the morning sun quietly peeking into my room, the visage of the egg-shaped man still haunts me.
Yet it’s not the mere idea of Professor Egghead that is stealing sleep from me right now, no, there’s something much worse that is keeping me awake. Throughout the night, as I found myself leaving behind my worries and nodding off to sleep, I started to hear things.
I hear beeps. Whenever I am about to fall asleep I hear the gentle beeps of a checkout machine, and beneath those beeps, I hear steadily growing applause. I fear that if I fall asleep, even for a second, I will be transported into the same demented reality where the egg shaped man makes his demands. I fear that I will disappear just like Teddy.
I don’t know how long I can stay awake. I don’t know how to make this stop. All I know is that I don’t want to go back there. I don’t want to witness another one of Professor Egghead's adventures.

I had turned 21, on June 21, 2016, and my Grandmother took me to Atlantic City where she went on her honeymoon before the casino’s were established. Unfortunately, my grandfather had passed away in 1999 and at least my Grandmother has me to go places with her.
We stayed at the Trump Taj Mahal and I just loved the bright lights and the sounds of the slot machines. My Grandmother and I decided to play the penny slots with just one penny at a time. We were definitely not their target customers.
My Grandmother carried around a big purse where she had loads of snacks stuffed inside. Between the free drinks and my Grandmother’s snacks there was really no reason to get up besides to go to the bathroom.
Every time I would get up my Grandmother would save my seat at the slot machine. My Grandmother was raised during he depression and she developed some unique habits, like if someone had only eaten half of their hotdog and left it on the side of the garbage then she would just finish eating it. I just thought it was funny and she probably had developed an immunity to every imaginable germ.
Watching my Grandmother, I followed suit and did the same thing by finishing other people’s meals.
I was 21 and had no real responsibilities. I came from a dysfunctional home where my parents were at times functioning alcoholics and other times they weren’t really functional at all.
Unfortunately, I had the same addictive personality like my parents as does my Grandmother and the slot machines were like candy to our brains.
Neither my Grandmother nor I had cell phones so we had no one to bother us. We just had such a good time playing the slots and joking around with each other. There was no real concept of time inside the Taj Mahal. 2:00 am looked the same inside the casino as 2:00 pm.
We just played and played and played. We both seemed to drift off at times and close our eyes for a short time then we wake up and continue to play.
I would lose a penny then win three pennies then lose five pennies then win seven pennies. The thrill of winning mixed with the bright lights and catchy sounds sent a jolt of happiness through my brain.
My grandmother and I were definitely poster child’s for the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. We just both had addictive personalities. I remember reading about radio contests to see who can stay up the longest where days of sleep deprivation led to permanent mental health issues for the contestants.
I knew things were getting bad when multiple cocktail waitresses would say “hey your back again” or “you were in the same spot as last week.”
I was hanging on by a thread. I knew if I got away from the stimulus of the machines then my mind and body would just collapse. I had complete tunnel vision everything besides my Grandmother was completely filtered out.
The casino manager actually approached my Grandmother and I to give us a friendly warning that it was time to leave. I almost collapsed when he told us that it had been three weeks straight that we were playing the same slot machines. I think we caused red flags in their computers because neither of the slot machines we using were generating any money for the hotel.
I think we were scared to move for fear that we would both collapse. The casino made an exception and brought us both coffees.
After drinking the coffees my Grandmother and I agreed to get up and go to the bathroom then leave. When I got into the bathroom I knew that I had pushed my mind and body way to far from days if not weeks of sleep deprivation. I was concerned for my grandmother but I truly had nothing left in me, so I went in one of the bathroom stall’s locked the door and sat down on the toilet where I instantaneously passed out.
I had such deep dreams that I never had before. I was in my own dreamworld. Nothing could wake me up but time.
Then, like a bear knows hibernation is over, I felt a sensation in my head that it was time to get up. I opened my eyes and there’s nothing but absolute darkness. A darkness that I haven’t experienced since I was deep in an underground cave when I was on a tenth grade field trip.
I thought that I had gone blind because there was nothing but darkness. My head was just so exhausted. I feel like I could close my eyes and sleep more, but my adrenaline was starting to kick in.
I’m still feeling a bit woozy and I say “where am I?” I was still trying to remember all the weird dreams I had on top of trying to figure out where I am in this complete darkness. I’m in a sitting position so I try to stand up, but my legs are numb, so I sit back down.
I then try to recall where I am and I say “am I sitting in a toilet in the casino?” I think to myself this can’t be. Did the lights in the bathroom break? Why hasn’t anyone else come in?
I yell out “Hello ... Hello. The lights in the bathroom are out. Grandma! Can you hear me?”
I’m met with deafening silence. I reach my arms out and feel metal walls on both sides of me so I know for sure that I’m in a bathroom stall.
I figure I sat for to long and I must of put to much pressure on my nerves so that’s why my legs are numb. I decide to throw myself on the floor. I lean forward and I could feel the door of the stall in front of me. I use the door to brace myself to the floor.
I continually say “ooh awe ooh” until I hurl myself on the floor. My legs are still to weak to move so I drag myself with my arms and reach up to unlock the door to the stall.
I get out of the stall and I get a sensation of extreme hunger and thirst. I now focus on finding the sinks. I use my arms to drag my body on the bathroom floor. I can’t remember where the sinks were located so I just continually move around on the floor. The fear of the absolute darkness outweighs the disgustingness of the bathroom floor. Eventually I start to feel metal pipes and I realize that I’m under a sink. I’m starting to get a little sensation back in my legs so with one hand I reach up for the sink and I reach out with my other hand and thrust myself upwards until I’m on my knees. I yell out a loud groaning sound and I awkwardly stand up. My legs are shaky and weak but at least I can feel them. I give myself a minute to allow my legs to get reacclimated and allow circulation to go through them.
I reach out and feel metal and I push in and realize that it’s one of those faucets that you push in to get water in order to get water to come out. I use one hand as a cup and I lean forward and continually drink water from my hand until I’m satisfied.
I start to feel that my legs have some strength so I take small steps while I hold onto the sink.
I get an overwhelming urgency to urinate so I decide to pee in the sink rather than trying to find the urinal. I unzip my pants and all I could think of if someone opens the door then I would be so embarrassed or possibly arrested. I finish peeing and I pick a direction and I slowly move my legs. I feel around the walls and eventually I feel the frame of a door and I push on it forward.
As the door opens I see nothing and I hear nothing. I’m scared beyond belief. I don’t know if there was a massive power outage or some type of evacuation happened or there was some type of apocalypse.
I yell out “Hello is there anyone else here Hello!” I get no response so I continually to yell out Hello. I vaguely remember the women’s bathroom being next to the men’s bathroom. So I guide myself against the wall until I feel a door. I figure that it must be the women’s bathroom so I open the door.
I yell out “Grandma are you in there ... Grandma are you there?”
I wait a few moments and in a low raspy voice I hear “John, Is that you? Turn the lights on. Where am I?”
I say “Grandma I think we’re still in the casino and I don’t know what’s going on. There’s no power anywhere. It’s just not the bathroom. The casino is completely dark as well.”
My grandmother responded “Casinos never close. Especially the Taj Mahal.”
I respond “I know Grandma. I have no idea what’s going on!”
My grandma responds “How long have we been asleep?”
I respond “I have no idea. I’m guessing days.”
My grandma says “I can’t move my legs.”
I respond “I know I couldn’t move mine either. Give them a few minutes you’ll get your sensation back. Try to move around as you sit down. I’m going to go and try to find out what’s going on!”
My grandmother responds “Ok but come back. Don’t leave me to die.”
I say “I won’t I’ll come back for you.”
I exit the bathroom and yell out “I’ll be back Grandma!” And she responds “You better!”
I try my best to remember as much as I could about the casino and the arrangements of everything. It’s difficult because it’s as dark as an underground cave. There is zero light or at least I hope that’s the problem and I haven’t gone blind. But then I think that my grandmother couldn’t see either. I thought there’s emergency lights that should come on if there’s a power outage, so I really have no idea of what’s going on.
I get a dreamlike memory of dropping money on the floor and remembering a red like carpet then I remember the garbage cans alongside the walkway where people would leave there their uneaten food.
I slowly start to remember that there’s a walkway made up of tiles in the middle of the casino floor that separates two areas of slot machines. So if I make it to the middle area then I probably could walk towards an exit.
I feel the floor and it’s carpet. I slowly start to walk and I feel slot machine after slot machine. I walk slow so I don’t bang my legs into chairs. I’m in a virtual maze and I feel like I’m just going around in circles.
The feeling of overwhelming hunger is starting to consume me as well. My legs have most of their strength back at this point but I’m consumed with hunger and fear.
Navigating around a casino floor is confusing enough with the lights being on and in complete darkness it’s virtually impossible.
I’ve must have been wandering aimlessly for an hour in a virtual circle. I have to come up with a plan. I know my grandmother must be terrified as well.
I have no rope or anything else. Not to say that rope would help me. Then I have an aha moment. I say out loud “The chairs. Use the chairs.” Meaning that the backs of the chairs move to the side when someone gets up from the slot machines. So if I move the back of the chairs to their sides then that’s how I’ll know I’ve been down the row.
I can’t explain why all the chairs are facing forward. If there was a mass exodus then most of the chairs would be facing to their sides.
As I walk each chair I pass I move it to its side. This takes a painstakingly long amount of time but my wandering method didn’t work.
Eventually my method seems to work as I can tell which rows I’ve been down already. Remarkably I feel a divide in carpet from from tile and I say “Thank God!”
I have grainy memories of coming into the casino and seeing staircases and escalators that were opulent but my Grandmother wanted nothing to do with them. But I do remember getting on an elevator and I believe we went to the third floor, so I know that I have to find stairs now.
I know we originally came in through the boardwalk and we didn’t walk that far once we got inside the casino. So now I have to find the stairs and not miss them because the hotel is long and if walk in a direction opposite the boardwalk I am virtually dead because I’ll never find my way back in the pitch dark because the hotel casino is so big and long.
So I slowly walk with my hands out. I walk back and forth and I can tell that the tiled area is about six feet wide.
Eventually I find an area where the tile opens up. My hands reach out to walls and I feel metal elevator doors. Of course their buttons don’t light up. Next to the elevators is a wall that feels like a dead end. So I feel for the elevators again and move past them. I know there must be stairs in the middle of the casino floor.
I want to find the stairs and I don’t want to keep walking down that tile corridor. Also I don’t want to fall down the stairs so once I make it past the elevators I slowly put my foot down to the right and feel more tile so I’m guessing this is more of the corridor.
I backtrack a little bit and I try to move in a horizontal direction to the elevators towards the middle of the casino floor. I inch my way towards the center with my hands out and eventually my right leg hits something and I quickly determine that it is an escalator.
Though I’m consumed by hunger, I know I’m close to getting out of here. I walk down the escalator then I get off and walk down two more sets of escalators.
I figure that I’m on the ground floor and I’m overwhelmed with disappointment that it’s still complete darkness. I have no answer for this. I figure the glass entry doors should emit some form of light even if it’s the moonlight if it’s dark outside.
I know that I have to walk towards the boardwalk and if I move in the wrong direction then I’m better off dead.
I remembered how I walked down the escalators where I went down one way then the next floor I was turned around.
So I figure that I need to walk straight. I force myself to count steps and if I walk more than a hundred then I know I’m going the wrong way. So I slowly move forward with my arms out.
I counted 60 steps and for the first time I can see something other than darkness. I can barely make out a silhouette of a wall, so I move towards the wall.
As I move towards the wall I can’t explain why there’s only a small amount of light getting through. I reach out with my hands and I feel glass. I’m still baffled on why there’s only faint light. Then as I move along the glass I can eventually see A slither of the boardwalk and it’s daytime and people are just casually walking. Then I see that there is wood panels on the outside and the doors are boarded shut.
So I frantically start banging on the glass doors and I can see people look in my direction but they just continue to walk by. I don’t know if there was a hurricane or something to explain why the doors are boarded shut.
So with the little energy I have left I knock and knock and knock. I don’t know if the people think the knocking is from construction or if they just don’t care.
Eventually I fall to the flood put my back to the wall and bang with my elbows against the glass.
The hope that I once had is gone. My body has zero energy and I’m going to die like a trapped rat. I just can’t keep my eyes open anymore. I have no idea when the last time I ate was because I don’t know how long I was asleep for.
Then I pass out.
I slowly wake up and realize that I’m on a hospital gurney. Apparently someone heard me knocking and notified the police. The Good Samaritan was a former casino worker who knew the casino was essentially abandoned and there was no work going on.
I was given IV’s that gave me enough strength for me to regain my consciousness. I asked the nurse “where’s my grandmother?”
She responds “Do you want me to call your grandmother and tell her your in the hospital?”
I say in a weak raspy voice “No, my grandmother was in the casino with me!”
The nurse said “Sir, the police report says your probably homeless and somehow you wandered into the casino.”
I say “No, my grandmother and I were playing the slot machines for days with no rest and we both went into the bathroom and each passed out in a stall.”
The nurse says “Sir the Taj Mahal went bankrupt months ago. If your story is accurate then you have been asleep for months.”
I start to get weak again and tell the nurse “Please my grandmother is on the third floor on the women’s bathroom.”
Then I pass out again.

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1992, some nondescript suburban city in the mid-Atlantic region of the east coast.
I was sixteen years old at the time. I’d recently landed the esteemed job of “dish boy” at the local Chuck E. Cheese franchise. At the time, ball pits were still very much a thing.
They’re calling 2020 “The Year the Ball Pit Died.” Actually, that’s just what I’m calling it. But I don’t see a resurgence of ball pits taking place after the coronavirus clears up. I say good riddance for a couple of reasons. First, ball pits are fucking disgusting, if you didn’t know that already. Second –– well, let me give you a bit more background, then it will all make a lot more sense. Maybe with enough context, you’ll believe what happened to me.
Back to ‘92. As a sixteen-year-old Chuck E. Cheese dish boy, part of my job was to “clean the pit.” At the end of every month, we’d pull all the balls out, put them on massive tarps, spray them with disinfectant, then pile them back in. It took hours. You wouldn’t believe the type of shit we found at the bottom of the pit. Cheap toys kids had won in the arcade, beloved blankets belonging to little girls and boys, lost forever in the sea of plastic, and moldy slices of pizza that had been there for weeks, just to name a few treasures.
Because it took so much effort to take out the balls, we did preventative maintenance. After closing every night, I got sent into the danger zone with a bottle of OdoBan and a fresh roll of Bounty paper towels, with the express purpose of identifying “dirty balls” and “giving them a once over.” Despite the task sucking mightily, my fellow high school co-workers and I had some good laughs.
The manager of the franchise –– who also owned it –– reminded me a lot of Gustavo Fring from Breaking Bad. Not because he was Chilean (he wasn’t), nor because he owned a meth empire (he didn’t, at least not that I know of). But the manager had this crazy attention to detail and expectation for excellence. He would make his Chuck E. Cheese franchise the most successful of all time or die trying. He did die trying. Heart attack, ‘94. But that’s not the focus of this story, so let’s get back to it.
Ball pits, yeah. Disgusting and impossible to clean. Kids, faces smeared with grease and cheese, would dive into the fucker head first. I shit you not, one time I saw this kid standing on the edge of the pit and taking a piss right into the middle of the thing.
No bueno. Especially in 2020. Not a chance governors are signing off on that shit again.
You probably haven’t heard much about what I’m going to tell you. As I mentioned earlier, most people haven’t because it took place in ‘92 in a shithole, mid-Atlantic suburb. There was some brief press about what happened, a few urban legends about the dangers of letting your kids go near a ball pit (right alongside the ones about HIV-laced needles being put in the coin slot of public payphones), but eventually, the cops chalked what happened up to a standard abduction.
That was that. Kids started diving in headfirst all over again.
The kid who disappeared was named Miles Penrose. Eight years old. He was attending the birthday party of one of his friends. All their families were there, the moms chatting about their suburban existences, the dads pounding beer and talking about the glory days. The party started at around three o’clock, and they booked a roped off area until seven. Four hours of the kids going wild, slurping Coke, scarfing down pies as fast as the cooks could make them.
A little after four o’clock, Miles went missing. And his mom went ballistic. They shut down the restaurant, made sure everyone stayed inside, and the cops started taking statements. There were so many people there that the questioning went long past midnight. Miles’ mom continued melting down. His dad stared around angrily, accusing everyone in the restaurant with his eyes.
There’s a classic Hollywood plotline that you have 72 hours, three days, until your chances of finding whoever went missing winnow down to zilch. But Miles was long gone as soon as he went below the surface of the ball pit. And no one saw what happened but me.
I was busing tables when I saw a flash of movement, stopped, and looked through the ball pit area’s plastic windows. Miles had been standing alone in the pit, smiling. If he was actually friends with whoever’s birthday it was –– and not just a sympathy invite –– he sure as hell wasn’t one of the popular kids. Quiet looking type. Red hair. Goofy smile. Fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. But for the few seconds I saw him before he disappeared, I could tell he was a nice kid. Just gave off that vibe.
Suddenly, from all around Miles, pale arms reached up. Seven arms, exactly. The arms were so translucently pale that the veins stood out like dark blue extension cords. Miles’ expression changed to one of utter horror. Whatever was beneath the pit had grabbed onto him. I thought it was just other kids messing around at first. But the arms looked old, almost dead. Like they’d come from beyond the grave.
Miles started slipping below the surface of the pit. He was screaming. I could see his terrified expression through the plastic windows. But the other kids were screaming too, high on sugar and having the time of their lives. Nobody noticed when Miles went below completely. He was reaching out of the pit up toward some invisible life preserver that wasn’t there. Our eyes met for a second, then one of the hands reached up, covered his face, and yanked him violently beneath.
The only sign Miles had been there at all was a small disturbance in the pit, the balls trying to follow the source of whatever was pulling downward. Sort of like Sarlacc in Return of the Jedi, grains of sand falling into a dark, gaping maw. But the pit was so stuffed with plastic balls that there was nowhere for them to go. They just rolled around on top of each other as Miles disappeared.
The kids carried on playing. I stumbled to the back of the restaurant with a plastic container full of dishes and started cleaning them, too terrified to tell anyone what actually happened.
Thirty minutes later, Miles’ mom noticed he was gone and went looking for him.
**\*
The cops questioned me, just like everyone else in the restaurant. I was the only one with a story worth considering.
“I saw him disappear into the ball pit.”
“Disappear?”
“Yeah, he disappeared.”
“What do you mean he disappeared?”
“There were seven hands, all around him. They reached from underneath, like they were coming up from a grave or something. Then they pulled him down.”
The cops looked at each other. I could tell they thought I was just some dumb kid being a pain in the ass.
“You watch a lot of horror movies, son?”
“Yeah, I do.”
It was the truth. I wasn’t going to lie to the cops. I’ve always loved horror movies.
“Horror movies about zombies, maybe? The living dead?”
“Why does it matter?”
“We’ll ask the questions, son.”
The managefranchise owner, the one who died two years later from a heart attack, came over.
“Is there a problem, officers?”
The cops shook their heads.
“No problem. Just taking statements from the young man here. But we’re finished.”
The franchise owner grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me aside.
“Get your ass back to the kitchen and clean the dishes.”
I hustled away, wanting to tell the cops more but knowing I’d missed my opportunity.
**\*
That was just the beginning of the night for me. The manager told me to call home and tell my parents I’d be helping empty the ball pit to look for signs of Miles. No one believed me that he’d disappeared into the pit, but the cops decided to empty the thing anyway.
Two hours later, after we got all of the balls out, I saw something strange. I’d never seen it before, even though I’d cleaned out that pit a half dozen times.
Built into the wood floor of the pit, past slices of rotten pizza and cheap plastic toys kids had won in the arcade, there was a trap door. Snagged on a rusty, protruding nail at the trap door’s edge, there was a coin purse. It was one of those fake kiddy wallets that moms give their sons and daughters on trips to places like Chuck E. Cheese so they don’t carry around a bunch of loose change in their pockets.
I looked closely at the coin purse to see that it was embroidered with a name:
Miles.
**\*
When I told the cops who were helping out about the trap door, they came over to take a look. The manager, huffing and puffing, shoved me out of the way. He looked ready to commit murder.
“What’s under the trap door?” one of the cops asked.
“Crawl space,” said the franchise owner. “No one goes down there anymore. We’ve long since tossed the stuff that had been stored under the floorboards, mostly trash and old tools. This building used to be a machine shop.”
The cops insisted on having a look. The unlucky guy who drew the short straw went underneath with a flashlight, but he didn’t find any sign of Miles. There was no exit point, either. The trap door led into the crawl space beneath the building, but nothing led out.
**\*
When all was said and done, they chalked Miles’ case up as a standard disappearance. Seventy-two hours passed. Then a week. Then a month. After six months, they stopped looking. Miles’ mom came to the restaurant every day, walking into the ball pit area and looking around for her lost son. On a couple of occasions, she pulled me aside, recognizing me as the one who’d said Miles had disappeared beneath the plastic balls.
After catching me talking to Miles’ mom for the third or fourth time, the manager told me to pack my shit and get out.
**\*
Twenty-eight years have passed since the day Miles Penrose disappeared at the Chuck E. Cheese restaurant in the town I’ve long since left. I’m middle-aged now. Well, not exactly middle-aged. I’m fifty-four. I’m twice divorced and have one kid I talk to, one who hates my guts. But let’s not get into that. The direction my life has gone is a bit of a sore subject.
Up until November of last year, 2019, I hadn’t thought about what happened to Miles for a decade or more. Life does that to you. Memory is weird. You only reserve mental space for the essential stuff. Looking back, it makes me sad that Miles’ memory wasn’t essential after a while, but that’s just the way things go.
So, November 2019. Right as the coronavirus was heating up, but not quite a state of emergency yet. Ball pits were still allowed, as was in-person dining. My friend, his wife, and I went to a fancy gala in the city. It was an art exhibit put on by this fancy pants auteur from Europe. $200 a ticket, but it was an all-you-can-eat lobster feed, so I was onboard.
Only when I walked in did I realize that the centerpiece of the exhibit was a giant ball pit. There were a bunch of white, plastic balls piled into a big above ground pool. Around the pool was a deck with the buffet and dining tables, everything built atop scaffolding covered in artificial turf, so it looked like a hillside.
Summer Vacation. That was the name of the exhibit. Funny timing, because it was winter, one of the coldest ones on record in the city I’d relocated to. Blizzards had been bombarding the city for weeks, and one was currently raging, covering the urban landscape in snow.
A lump rose in my throat when we got inside. I had avoided ball pits like the plague since what happened in ‘92. I insisted that we leave, but my friend and his wife reminded me that the tickets were nonrefundable. They had no idea about the trauma I’d experienced as a sixteen-year-old. It became the topic of conversation for the first part of dinner until we switched to talking about something else I can’t remember.
I watched, out of the corner of my eye, as person after person jumped into the pit. Moms and dads. Grandmas and grandpas. People were reliving their childhood, which I think was the point of the exhibit. There were kids there too, the sons and daughters of filthy rich patrons of the arts.
What happened next was almost exactly the same as what happened to Miles Penrose in ‘92. A little girl was standing in the pit by herself. Her name was Sarah Wallace. She was blonde-haired and rosy-cheeked, smiling in a state of complete and utter bliss as she watched people of all ages jump in.
Suddenly, from around her, pale arms protruded from the pit. Seven arms, exactly, streaked with veins so dark that they may as well have been black. Sarah screamed, but once again, no one heard her. People were too busy talking about art, screaming in jubilation, and chomping down all-you-can-eat lobster to notice.
I jumped up from my table and ran full speed, leaping into the pit where she’d gone under. I did my best to swim beneath the plastic balls, but they were too thick. I just slipped around, the mass of plastic preventing my progress.
I climbed out and noticed everyone who’d come to the gala was looking at me –– some with smiles, thinking I’d joined in on the fun, some with looks of terror that a 50-year-old man was flailing around like a crazy person. Sarah Wallace’s mom was scanning the area for her daughter. Our eyes met, she registered what had happened, and she began to scream.
**\*
The way it played out after that was eerily similar to the way it had happened in ‘92. Cops came. They questioned people. They questioned me thoroughly, given that I was the one who’d noticed Sarah was gone. They emptied the pit. But the difference between this time and ‘92 was that there was no trapdoor. The base of the pool was made of a solid piece of plastic.
**\*
The standard seventy-two hours passed, but I’d known the second Sarah disappeared into the pit that she was gone, just like Miles.
It was late on a Sunday. I was at my expensive downtown loft, alone. The loft is up on the third floor. There’s nothing outside –– no fire escape, no nothing. If you open the window and step out, you’re falling onto hard concrete forty feet below.
That night I’d been busy researching the history of ball pits, searching Google’s archives for news of disappearances at McDonald’s, Chuck E. Cheese, and Burger King restaurants throughout the 90s. But I was coming up short.
Then, all of a sudden, the power went out. I didn’t think much of it. The blizzard, raging for weeks, had caused the power to go out a bunch of times already.
The apartment cloaked in darkness, I walked to my bedroom thinking about Sarah Wallace. With the combination of heat blasting inside my apartment and cold air hitting the glass from the outside, there was thick condensation on all the windows. I got into bed despite knowing that sleep was a long way off. It had been hard to come by since what happened three days earlier at the art gala.
Something terrifying happened then. I noticed movement outside my bedroom window, obscured by the condensation. But it wasn’t physically possible. There was no fire escape. It was a straight drop, forty feet to the street below. Sure, window cleaners came once every six months, but it was almost midnight, and they’d already come the previous week.
I got up from my bed and walked to the window to investigate the movement. When I got to the window, there was a massive BANG, like a hand had slapped the other side. The glass rattled. I stumbled back into my bed, forced to take a seat on the edge.
I saw seven hands appear on the other side of the window. They began tracing something in the condensation. But that wasn’t possible either. They were on the wrong side of the glass. The condensation was on the inside.
Still, the tracing continued. My heart jackhammered in my chest. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, there was a message.
“I will stop sniffing around like a cheese-hungry rat.”
__ YES __ NO
The message about me being a cheese hungry rat –– the connection to the 1992 Chuck E. Cheese ball pit incident –– whatever this paranormal entity was, it was the same one from all those years ago. The same one that had taken Miles Penrose in ‘92 and Sarah Wallace, three days before. I got up, taking slow steps toward the window. The room had become freezing cold, but the message traced in the condensation remained.
Part of me wanted to keep searching for Miles and Sarah, to find the truth about what happened to them. I wanted to keep researching disappearances at other ball pits, if there had been any.
But being as terrified as I was –– and I hate myself for it now –– I traced a giant X next to “YES.”
Suddenly, seven ghostly hands reached up from the floor inside the apartment, planting themselves on the window with another BANG. They began rubbing the window in circles, the wet glass squeaking as they did.
I stumbled back into the bed again, forced to take another seat. I closed my eyes.
When I opened them a minute later, the message was gone. So too was the condensation. Outside, it was snowing as hard as it had been for weeks. There was nothing on the other side of the glass. No pale hands attached to vein-streaked arms were reaching up from the floor.
I was alone in the apartment –– just me, the memory of Miles and Sarah, and an overwhelming sense of guilt that I decided to give up on their memory.
**\*
If 2020 is truly “The Year the Ball Pit Died,” I’m grateful. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking. But I hope for the sake of kids everywhere that I’m right.

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