If there was one thing Toby Fennell hated more than slow walkers and tepid tea, it was horror films. Not because they scared him—he considered himself unflappable—but because the characters were, in his own words, “a staggering collection of morons.”
“Who goes camping next to an abandoned asylum?” he often shouted at the telly. “Why are you splitting up? Do you want to die, Sandra?”
His flatmates had long since abandoned movie nights with him. Horror marathons were now enjoyed privately, with headphones, or during the sacred hours when Toby was alphabetising his spice rack (he owned six types of paprika and labelled them by smokiness).
“Honestly,” he muttered one Tuesday night while matching socks by size and mood. “The sheer lack of basic logic. Nobody ever survives because everyone behaves like a balloon full of mayonnaise.”
At precisely 11:37 PM, just as he was settling into his patchwork armchair with a comforting mug of Earl Grey and a lemon biscuit, someone knocked at the door.
Three sharp raps. Too theatrical to be a neighbour. Too rhythmic to be a delivery driver. Toby frowned.
He opened the door. No one there.
Only fog.
Heavy, swirling fog that smelled faintly of mildew and misplaced plot twists.
He tried to close the door.
Behind him, his flat vanished. Gone. In its place: a long corridor with flickering lights, groaning pipes, and carpet that squelched.
Toby pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been abducted by a trope.”
A chandelier flickered. A cackling laugh echoed in the distance. A portrait on the wall turned to face him.
“Not today,” Toby muttered, stomping off in his slippers.
He turned a corner and nearly collided with a girl in a crop top, denim shorts, and heels that screamed I make bad choices. She was sobbing.
“You’ve got to help me!” she cried. “It’s coming! It got Derek and Stephanie and—”
“Let me guess,” Toby interrupted. “You heard a noise and went to ‘check it out’, didn’t you?”
“We thought it was just the wind!”
“And when you found a dusty book written in Latin and bound in human skin, you read it aloud, didn’t you?”
She blinked. “Well… only the first page…”
Toby sighed. “Honestly, do none of you carry hobbies that don’t summon demons?”
Something snarled behind them. They ran into a dusty parlour just as a hulking shadow rounded the corridor.
“Rule number one,” Toby said, locking the door behind them, “never stop to monologue in a hallway.”
They caught their breath among Victorian armchairs, suspiciously twitchy drapes, and a phonograph playing an off-key lullaby.
“I’m Britney,” the girl panted. “You?”
“Toby. Insurance underwriter. Annoyed victim.”
A shrunken head on the mantel sneezed.
Toby threw a doily over it. “No thank you.”
Suddenly, a man in a bloodied apron entered the room holding a meat cleaver and a tray of scones.
“I made snacks!” he said cheerfully.
“Is that… jam?” Britney whispered.
“I wouldn’t trust it,” Toby said. “Probably spleens.”
They backed out and found themselves in a grand hallway with five doors marked:
Cursed Nursery
Forbidden Cellar
Mirror Maze of Sadness
Room of Perpetual Screaming
“Definitely Not a Trap” Lounge
Toby pointed. “We take the least dramatic option.”
Britney stared. “You mean… Lounge?”
“It says ‘definitely not a trap.’ Which means it is a trap. But so obvious that it might not be. Reverse psychology. Classic horror logic. We’ll risk it.”
They entered a sitting room where an ominous gramophone played “Careless Whisper” and a ghost in tap shoes was practising quietly in the corner.
Toby sighed. “This is fine.”
They sat down. Immediately, the floor dropped beneath them like a fairground ride designed by Satan.
They landed in a hedge maze. In the middle of a storm. At night.
“Why is it always a maze?” Toby muttered, brushing off leaves. “And why is it always raining?”
A voice boomed from the sky: “To create ambience, obviously.”
“Don’t sass me, disembodied narrator,” Toby snapped. “I’m lactose intolerant and angry.”
As they wandered the maze, they encountered:
A scarecrow politely asking them to vote in a blood ritual
A rabbit holding a chainsaw and muttering about “justice”
A well that screamed when looked at sideways
Toby steered them past each. “Nope. Absolutely not. And frankly, the rabbit’s a bit derivative.”
Eventually, they reached the centre. A glowing door read:
EXIT (If You Can Just Act Like You’ve Got Common Sense for Once)
Before Toby could formulate an exit strategy, he heard crying. Against all logic, he opened a door.
Inside was a candlelit Gothic bathroom. Hovering above the tub was a transparent, weeping child ghost.
“Oh for—” Toby began.
“Will you play with me?” the ghost asked, eyes glowing.
“No, thanks. I don’t play with haunted children. I pay council tax and floss regularly.”
The toilet gurgled.
The mirror showed a vision of Toby screaming in an asylum.
“Right. Nope.”
He slammed the door. “I’d rather wet myself than deal with ghost plumbing.”
Next stop: a village fête inside a grand hall. Banners. Fairy lights. A sign read:
“Annual Undead Women’s Institute Bake-Off”
Dozens of pale ladies in frilly aprons offered cakes. All smiled too widely.
“Try the Victoria sponge. It’s made with the soul of Trevor,” one whispered.
“My lemon drizzle screams when you slice it,” added another.
Toby took a polite bite of a cupcake.
The room spun. He saw visions of regret, war crimes, and someone named Gerald.
“Right,” he coughed, tossing it into a cursed bin. “Delightful texture. Slightly too much existential dread.”
He bowed. “Lovely meeting you. Please never contact me again.”
In a dim corridor, they entered a gallery. Paintings of people lined the walls—one looked exactly like Toby, mid-scream.
Another was Britney, frozen in a horrified gasp.
The painting of Toby nodded at him.
“Oh brilliant,” Toby muttered. “A painting trap. Let me guess: blink and they move?”
He turned. A frame had moved closer.
He turned again. Closer still.
“We’re doing Weeping Angel rules now, are we?”
He spun slowly in circles while edging toward the door. Paintings crept in. Just as one lunged, he chucked an easel at it and bolted.
“I don’t have the energy for avant-garde horror mechanics,” he panted. “Also, that frame was tacky.”
Then: a clown corridor. Just clowns. Wall to wall.
One was riding a tricycle and humming Greensleeves backwards. Another offered popcorn. One floated upside-down and whispered, “Your shoelaces are lies.”
Toby turned to Britney. “Right. This one’s yours.”
She kicked a balloon dog out of the way and growled, “You ever seen a girl roundhouse kick a nightmare?”
They sprinted through with clowns grabbing at them. One managed to honk Toby’s nose.
“I WILL NEVER LAUGH AGAIN,” he screamed.
Finally, they reached a stone chapel. Candles. Pentagram. Robed cultists.
“Join us,” they hissed.
Toby checked his watch. “Nearly midnight. Can we speed this up?”
The leader, wearing too many necklaces, raised a goat skull.
“We require a vessel!”
“No thanks. I’ve already eaten.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I do. You chant, summon something hideous, then all die screaming. Seen it. Not interested.”
“You’ll have eternal life!”
“You’re wearing Crocs. I’m good.”
He smacked the skull against a wall and strolled out.
After dodging a cursed rocking horse named Reginald and a possessed kettle that kept boiling blood, Toby found the Control Room.
Screens flickered:
A man licking a cursed mirror.
A woman following voices into a wardrobe.
Two teens playing Ouija Jenga.
The robotic voice boomed:
“You have entered the Control Room. Survival rate: statistically improbable.”
“Try me,” Toby said. “I outlasted haunted jam, judgemental wallpaper, and something that tried to sell me haunted cryptocurrency.”
“You are… statistically annoying.”
“Correct.”
A form printed. Toby filled it out, ticking:
Complaints about maze layout
Overuse of fog
Cultists lacked charisma
Under “Additional Comments” he wrote:
“Stop summoning things if you can’t control them. And never trust a cupcake with a soul.”
The screen glitched.
“Simulation terminated.”
Toby and Britney blinked. Back in his flat. Britney mid-sip of now-lukewarm tea. Chairman Meow blinked.
On the coffee table: a glittery box and a note.
> Dear Toby,
> You survived. Barely. Enclosed is your HorrorVerse Survival Kit. Do with it what you will. Also, stop yelling at horror films. The characters can’t hear you. But we can.
> Love, The Management.
Inside:
A mug that read: “I Don’t Go Into Basements.” A torch that screamed “NOPE!” when turned on. A manual: *“Stop Touching Creepy Stuff: A Guide for Horror Dummies”*
Toby smiled. Britney exhaled.
“Tea?” she asked.
“Let’s make it chamomile. I’ve earned it. And tomorrow—”
He held up the manual.
“We write the definitive guide to not dying stupidly.”
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