They always said malls were dying. But for some reason, Maplewood Galleria never did.
It stood like a forgotten relic from the ’90s—too old to attract real crowds, too new to be completely abandoned. Half the storefronts were vacant, lights flickered, escalators creaked, and yet… it never closed.
Jared, a 24-year-old retail worker, had just started his night shift as a temporary security guard. He needed the money—his mom was sick, and the bills didn’t stop just because life got hard.
The manager, a gaunt man named Mr. Farren, handed him a small flashlight and a logbook.
“Don’t go near the lower level,” he warned in a monotone voice. “Especially not past 2 a.m.”
“Why not?”
“There’s nothing down there anymore,” Farren replied. “Just… don’t.”
The way he said it sent a chill up Jared’s spine. But he laughed it off. Old malls always had ghost stories.
By 11 p.m., the last of the customers had left. Jared wandered the halls, radio crackling occasionally, his footsteps echoing through the massive empty corridors.
But as the hours ticked by, the mall seemed to… breathe.
The lights dimmed in strange patterns. Storefronts he’d walked past minutes ago were suddenly shuttered. A directory kiosk lit up even though it wasn’t plugged in.
Then came the sound.
Low at first. Like someone dragging something heavy across tile.
Jared spun around—no one.
He checked the security cameras.
At 1:47 a.m., the feed for the lower level went completely black.
Then static.
Then… movement.
A figure appeared.
Pale, naked, emaciated. Crawling on all fours, too fast to be human. It twisted its limbs as though its bones bent the wrong way.
Jared’s heart dropped.
He switched off the monitor, told himself it was a glitch.
At 2:03 a.m., the emergency fire doors on the lower level opened on their own.
They had no power.
He grabbed his flashlight and against every warning, headed toward the down escalator.
The lower level was cold.
Not just chilly—unnaturally cold, like the temperature dropped 20 degrees. His breath fogged.
The lights were completely dead. The flashlight beam barely cut the dark.
Empty shops lined the corridor, glass fogged, mannequins collapsed or missing limbs. Old advertisements from a decade ago still clung to the walls—”Back-to-School Sale 2012″—but they were smeared, the ink warped as if it had melted.
Jared called out, “Hello? Is anyone down here?”
Something skittered across the tile. Fast.
He whipped the light around.
Just a flicker of movement disappearing around the corner. Too low to be a person.
He should’ve turned back.
But the hallway seemed to stretch behind him, the way out retreating with every step he took.
And then—he found the old PlayZone, a kids’ play area that had been shut down years ago. The plastic slide was cracked, the padded flooring torn open like claws had raked it. A carousel horse lay on its side, its glass eyes cracked.
He saw a child.
A little girl, maybe eight, in a tattered pink dress, crouched behind the ticket counter.
“Are you okay?” he asked, heart pounding.
She looked up.
Her face was blank—eyes solid black. No irises. No whites. Just obsidian voids.
“Help me,” she said softly. “They’re hungry.”
“What? Who—”
From behind him came a loud snapping sound. Like bone breaking.
He turned just in time to see them.
Four figures crawling fast—naked, pale, eyeless. Their jaws hung open wider than any human’s could, unhinged like a snake, filled with rotted teeth. Their limbs bent backward, fingers scraping the floor.
Jared ran.
He didn’t know how far or how long—just that the layout made no sense anymore.
He found himself in the food court, but the signs were all wrong.
The Pizza Palace logo had teeth. The Smoothie Shack pulsed like it was alive.
He blinked—and the girl was beside him again.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“No sh*t!” he yelled. “Why are you following me?”
“They’re lonely. They want you to stay. Like the others.”
“What others?”
The ceiling above cracked.
A body dropped down. Hung by its intestines. Still twitching.
Jared screamed and sprinted, slipping on blood that hadn’t been there seconds ago.
The girl walked calmly behind him, floating a few inches off the ground now.
“They feed on time,” she whispered. “That’s why the mall never closes. Time bends here.”
Jared reached the elevator, slammed the button.
It dinged open, and he stepped in—
Right into pitch-blackness.
The lights didn’t work. The buttons were gone.
The door shut behind him.
Something was in the elevator with him.
Breathing.
Whispering.
The sound of fingernails scraping metal walls.
Suddenly, the elevator dropped.
Freefall.
But instead of crashing, it landed with a soft thud, and the doors opened… into a department store filled with mirrors.
Every wall. Every angle. Reflections of him everywhere.
But they didn’t move with him.
Some were staring. Smiling. Bleeding.
And then all of them turned… to look at him.
He backed away, but the floor became reflective too—glass-like.
Hands burst through the mirrored surface and grabbed his ankles.
He screamed.
The little girl stood outside the mirror now, watching.
“They remember you now,” she said. “You’re part of the mall.”
Jared blacked out.
He awoke in the break room.
Daylight streamed through the window.
His flashlight was gone. His clothes were soaked in sweat.
He checked his phone—6:45 a.m.
Had it all been a nightmare?
He burst out of the room and into the mall, which looked normal. Early morning workers were opening stores. The escalators worked. The lights were fine.
Mr. Farren approached him with a coffee.
“Rough first night?” he asked.
“You have no idea,” Jared muttered.
Farren gave a tight smile.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It gets easier… once you stop trying to leave.”
“What?”
Farren walked away.
Confused and shaken, Jared stumbled toward the exit.
But the glass doors wouldn’t open.
They weren’t locked.
They weren’t real.
He pounded on them. Screamed.
People walked by. None noticed him.
Then, from the corner of his eye—his reflection in the glass didn’t move.
It was smiling.
Behind him, the little girl appeared again.
“You’re home now,” she said.
Jared turned, but the mall was gone.
Just darkness.
And a carousel, still turning.
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