CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - ”If You Sign Up For The 'Lights Out Dining Experience', Here's What You're Getting Into” Creepypasta

Episode Date: December 5, 2021

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For dinner late last night, I had a bowl of fresh from the box mac and cheese, a supermarket bag salad, 20% off, and an off-brand light beer. I enjoyed this gourmet feast on a tray in front of the TV, because Terminator 2 was on. I tell you this so that you will understand that I am not, in any sense, a part of the high-end food world. My fiancé, on the other hand, was, Rosalie, self-identified as a foodie. And slept with a copy of salt-fat acid heat on a nightstand. She was constantly scaring local markets for the freshest ingredients and newest combinations. She didn't mind ingredients lists a mile long or dishes that took time to make. Cooking was her zen and the kitchen was a temple.

That meant, of course, that we also had to make holy pilgrimages to the hottest restaurants. I didn't share Rosalie's passion for food, but we shared just about. everything else. Different as we were, we were both willing to learn and grow together. I've never had that with anyone else and I wonder if I ever will again. You see, my fiancée, Rosalie, died a few months ago. I was a mess for a few weeks after. I soon realized I needed to say goodbye to Rosalie in a way that a close casket and a few hollow words hadn't provided. I decided to try and experience that had been Rosalie's last obsession, eating at a dark restaurant.

If you don't know, the concept of a dark restaurant is that by depriving the diner of their sight, they're able to focus more fully on their sense of taste. Some say it's gimmicky, some say it's science. I just thought it might be the best way to find some closure and move on with my life. The only dark restaurants I could find were hundreds of miles from the mid-sized space. city where I lived. Not only that, but a lot of them looked incredibly expensive and pretentious as well. If there's one thing I learned visiting taco trucks with Rosalie, it was that price was no guarantee of quality. Not only that, but often the restaurants that focus most in

appearances cut corners in other areas, like treatment of the staff, for instance. And stressed, underpaid workers often cook corners themselves just to get through the day. Rosalie used to say the same places was so toxic, you could feel it as soon as you walked in the door. Taking care of Rosalie's old belongings was hard. I sorted through her stuff a little at a time, partly to lose myself from the memories, partly because I didn't have the stomach for much more. I knew that once I sealed up that last cardboard box, she'd really, truly be gone. I was going through a nightstand drawers when I found it.

An ad for a mobile dark restaurant called The Lights Out Experience. Based on its tour dates, the Lights Out experience will be coming through town in just a few days. I scrambled to call the number on the leaflet and make a reservation. An automated voice walked me through the steps as I used my phone's keypad to punch in the date and time I wanted to visit Lights Out. It was annoying, but as something of an introvert, I think I actually prefer a machine rather to. than a person. I scrambled to find a pen when the automated voice read off the address whereby lights out experience would be. I had to press one to repeat the message several times before I sure I'd gotten it right. It was strange that Lights Out didn't have an email service,

website or even Yelp. They didn't have an Instagram either, but then again, what would they post? Little black photos of complete darkness? My suspicions deepened when I saw the address, an empty factory in a mostly abandoned industrial part of town. I wondered if it was all a scam. If it was, at least they didn't have any of my important information. I figured I'd go anyway. If it was all a practical joke, fine, lesson learned. At least I'd have a chance to get dressed up and drive to an evening meal with a window down

listening to some chill beats, the way we used to do it. There's something so gloomy about that whole size. of town. The dead grass in the fence the flots, the rusted corrugated metal, the pot-old street. I was starting to be glad I'd be eating in the dark instead of having the view of the place.

But when I pulled up to the address of lights out, my jaw dropped. They literally rolled out a red carpet for guests, lined with brass poles and velvet ropes. Glittering lamps strung overhead, illuminated our path in the gathering dusk.

There was an ornate facade in front of to the old factory door that reminded me of what the circus uses for funhouses and arcades. The big flowing letters pronounced the lights out experience. So far, the only dark about the whole thing was the doorway, which was as black as a toothless open mouth. I'm not sure why that was the image that came to mind, but I shivered a little as I walked toward it. I calmed down a bit when I saw that I wasn't the only customer arriving, cars that cost more than I'd make in my life and shining black limousines discharged men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns onto the sumptuous red carpet. A few cars diverted to a hidden, garage-like structure that I figured

was for clients even more VIP than the crowd unloading in front of me. I suddenly realized that at no point had I seen a price for Lights Out. At worst, I'd just have to order the cheapest thing on the menu and hope they took MasterCard. My fellow diners didn't enter Lights Out en masse. an orderly line outside before stepping, one group at a time, into the darkness. The facade looked a whole lot different up close. What it looked like a quaint painting of happy Victorian banqueteers now seemed fantastic, even sinister. A ghostly woman catching her tears in a wineglass that shone with a silver glow. A man wearing a skull face paint and a top hat feasting on a plateful of human eyes.

A hooded figure grabbing a far-eye appetizer with an abnormally long, gnarled arms. Even more strangely, every figure that wasn't monstrous was blindfolded. If anyone tried to cover my eyes with something, I decided I'd be out of there. Goodby's be damned. When it was my turn to cross the threshold, I hesitated. The air in there was much colder, and the cross breeze seemed to be pulling me in. People behind me started murmuring, clearing throats, and other polite signals for me to move. In the end, my fear of social interaction overcame my fear of the unknown,

and I stepped into Lights Out. I think I actually held my breath. Welcome to Lights Out, a suave female voice exclaimed. Name and reservation, please. I provided what I was asked for. How they checked anything in the absolute pitch black around us I had no idea.

I heard clacketka. high heels approach me. Hold out your hand, please, the voice requested. I felt like a fool, but I did as I was told. I held in a gasp when the anonymous voice

placed one end of a silk rope in my palm. It was true. The absence of sight and sound heightened my other senses. I felt every fibre of the cord and the unexpectedness of it all sent a delicious tingle running up my spine.

Now, if you'll kindly hold onto the cord and watch your step, the voice added, I'll guide you to your table. The first thing I noticed was how vast the space was. Everything in the old factory must have been gutted. It felt like standing in a massive cave chamber, unable to know where the wall and ceiling might be. You definitely seem to know your way around in the dark, I commented. The quiet, only broken by the rustling of other guests and my guide shoes on the bare concrete was a little unnerving. The tables are in a grid pattern,

always the same distance apart, so it's actually quite easy. My guide responded, and besides, I was born blind, so you could say I'm used to it. I'm sorry, I...

Not to worry, sir. Here we are. I felt essential tug of the rope guide me into a plush chair. Simply hold your hands out to find your dining set if you need to summon our staff, Simply ring the bell in front of you.

And, um, I ventured. How do I order? We offer a set menu, sir, so that won't be necessary. Enjoy your meal. The high heels faded into the distance. I suddenly felt very alone. I couldn't see my hands in front of my face, but I soon ran them over the linen tablecloths,

napkins and silverware, a wine glass, a water cup. To kill time, I tried to focus on the sounds at the other diners and imagine what they might look like. The person to my right must have been really glutton, because they were snuffling, snorting and chomping just like a pig. It sounded like they had a whole deer carcass over there, an enormous quantity of food. Meanwhile, the people on my left were like robots. Their cups in silverware clinked so mechanically, I felt like I could set my watch by it, if I could see my watch, that is. For some reason I imagined them as the Grim Reaper and his family have little Grim Reapers

all out for a Sunday dinner. It was a fight to hold back my laughter. Rosalie would have loved this. I heard the sound of pouring in plates being placed in front of me, followed by the tinkling of a tiny bell. Your first course, sir. The voice was male, so oily and soft and so close to my ear that I jumped a little. I was never going to get used to this.

this. Not sure what else to do, I reached out with my fork. The first course felt like some sort of bread dish. I cut off a bit and tried it. I melted in my mouth and I think I actually sighed out loud. French toast with a custard and tropical fruits. It was heavenly. More than that, it was a last dish Rosalie talked about making before the accident. What a perfect coincidence. Maybe somehow, here, in this bizarre place surrounded by strangers in the dark, I can actually make peace with Rosalie's memory. I was reaching for another forkful of French toast when I felt a hand grasped my wrist.

I nearly shrieked and tried to recoil. But those delicate fingers held fast. The touch felt familiar somehow, but very, very cold. Come on, Rosalie whispered, aren't you going to save me a bite? It couldn't be. But whoever it was, the person across from me sounded exactly like my dead fiancé. I swallowed. My throat was dry. I polished all of the water in a single go, then reached for the wine.

It was a fruity, flavourable Spanish wine called Grilla del Paso, which I only knew about because Rosalie always had it in the house. It was a favourite. What the hell was going on? I I think you're at the wrong table Sorry about that I stammered

Don't be silly The voice like Rosalie snorted There's no other place I'd rather be Is this some kind of a joke I hissed starting to get really angry now Because if it is it isn't funny I mean the French toast isn't that bad But I think it needs more cinnamon

Don't you The voice like Rosalie asked You can never add too much cinnamon Well, I mean, unless you drop the spice jar into the cake, I grinned in spite of myself. It was an inside joke Rosalie and I had. When she was making my mother's 60th birthday cake, the cinnamon container fell into the batter. She baked the cake without noticing, and my mother was treated to an odd, flumpy glass object on a birthday cake. If this person had anything to do with my Rosalie, they'd know that story.

They'd react. That could have happened to anyone. My arm received a playful smack, and if she keeps bugging me about my short hair, next time we'll be a kind pepper. It was impossible. We were talking as if no time at all had passed, as if it had never happened. If this was some kind of horrible prank, fine, I was going to believe for as long as I could.

I licked every bit of cream and fruit from my fork as we discussed everything from the vacations we never got to take to our high school experiences. even those questions that you never think to ask your partner until it's too late like what's your favorite memory we had together a tiny bell rang second course the oily male voice announced i gotta go now babe rosalie sighed i'll see you in time what i gasped wait no i reached out wildly but found only empty darkness hey rosalie hey i stood blindly and started to wander away from the table, until I noticed the heavy silence. Even in the dark, I could feel the eyes watching me. You felt like there were hundreds of them.

Have a seat, please, sir. When I tried to protest, gnarly fingers as long as my arms pushed me back into a seated position, nails dug into my skin. And please, enjoy the second course. A rich, charred odour sizzled up from the plate in front of me, mixed with caramelized onions and a sour tang of beer. This time, I didn't even need to take a bite to recognize the meal.

They say smell and scent has the closest ties to memory, and I remember this smell very well indeed. October 1990s, I was five or six years old on a camping trip with my father. It took us forever to set up the ancient, complicated tarp tent and get a fire going, and my stomach was rumbling by the time the stakes came out of the cooler. Dad cooked them right on the fire and made a sauce from the meat drippings, onion, black pepper, mustard and a splash of beer. Unbeknownst to me, Dad had also buried some potatoes with garlic wrapped in tinfall under the fire as a side.

I burn my tongue on everything and it was glorious. It was also the last time my father cooked for me. The heart attack came a few days later and it was all downhill from there. I was too young to understand or unresolved. remember most of it, but that last camping trip together still stands out in my mind. There might be some ashes in the potatoes, my father's voice said from across the table, but they should taste okay anyway. How is this happening? I whispered, filing blindly again and feeling nothing.

Well, uh, you just wrote the potatoes in foil and bury them around the fire. It's not that complicated. Are you okay, kiddo? No No I sobbed No I definitely am not

Dad listened for a solid 20 minutes While I explain everything That had gone wrong in my life How lonely I'd been in high school How I never really took advantage Of my time in college My regrets about choosing nursing as a career

How hard it was just to make ends meet How bleak the future seemed Rosalie's accident He was a good listener He made a comment here or there But mostly just gave me room to vent. When the words ran out, I dug into my steak and potatoes with gusto, wondering about the

presence that waited patiently in the dark on the other side of the table. The bell sounded. This time, I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye. Be good, kiddo. You turned out all right. With that, my father, or whoever was across from me, stepped back into the absolute blackness and was gone. Dessert is served.

My spoon touched the rim of an elegant glass dish. I wondered who my dining partner would be this time. After all, I wasn't close to anyone else who died. I could tell other diners were having conversations, but they were always just a bit too faint to understand. Some definitely weren't in English, and others were sounds that I'm not sure you could call a language at all. I didn't want to speculate about what some of them might be eating or discussing.

and I had a feeling that if I could hear what was going on around me, I'd be too terrified to move. Hurry up, man, I slurred so Calvoiced said from across the table, well the ice cream's going to melt. I was stumped. I had no idea who this person could be. Something about the tone felt vaguely familiar, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

I dug into the ice cream to gain some time. It was typical, cheap chocolate soft. serve that you could get for 99 cents at a gas station within walking distance of my old university. University, that was it. My freshman year, I had a roommate from Southern California. We took a couple of night walks to a gas station for a 1 a 1 a.m. snack. Todd Wollitzer, I ventured.

The very same man, I could tell the figure on the other side of the table was excited that I'd remembered. What are you doing here? I didn't mean to be rude, but I was dumbfounded and a little disappointed that an ex-roomate who I barely remembered was about to be my last interaction here and the otherworldly darkness of the lights-out experience.

I had so many more things I wanted to ask Rosalie, so many stories I wanted to hear from my dad just one more time. Hey, yeah. I could almost imagine Todd scratching his neck awkwardly like he used to. It's kind of complicated, man. The more Todd stalled, the more I felt my anger building.

Now I remembered what Todd was like. The guy never took responsibility for anything, not for cleaning the room, not for his schoolwork, not even for his own life. He'd been such a downer, and here I was, stuck with him again. What? I groaned. I guess I just wanted to say thanks, Todd sighed. Everybody always bailed on me, man,

ever since I was a little kid. Dad bailed for a job in Seattle. Mom stayed but got lost in the bottle, which is just another way to bail, I guess. The only friends I had in Cali were only my friends until somebody better came along. You were the only one who ever invited me someplace and meant it.

I blinked. This definitely wasn't what I'd expected. Dart went on. Look, I get that we only hung out a few times, but you were always real with me. I dropped out later but you gave me this idea This idea that you'd go for a nightwalk with a stranger And they might really talk to you

And they might even listen if you talk to them And then you both could just chill and have an ice cream And just look at the moon or whatever It was My pleasure I didn't know what to say But now that I thought about it I actually had kind of enjoy those rambling

Aimless walks with Tartu It gave me hope kept me living for a while at least. Well, I guess about four years and eleven months to be exact. But anyway, they were a good four years. I came out of my shell, parted with some wild people, started drawing. Hey, I actually became a big name in the graphic world back out west. Pretty cool, huh?

You might have worn one of my t-shirt designs without realising it. Isn't that trippy? Yeah. I couldn't help but smile. Pretty trippy, man. Hey, look, I got a bounce, but stay real, okay? I'll try, Todd. I was already imagining the P sign he was probably throwing me, despite the darkness.

And it was, uh, good to see you again. Good to see you too, man. What was left of the ice cream melted. I jumped a little when I felt a silk cord slide into my hand. If you'll please come with me, sir. We need to get your check and prepare this table for the next customer. It was a blind woman from earlier. Why hadn't heard the clacking over heels?

Had I been that lost in thought? Following her to the exit, a subtle change had taken place. Despite the strangeness of absolute darkness, the dining sounds and conversations around us now seemed normal. No eldriot abominations gnawing unforgotten bones. No more vampires sucking their dinner dry. No more conversations with ghosts, demons or the dead. It was a normal restaurant.

lost in total obscurity. Once back by the well-lit front desk, I began to wonder if sensory deprivation had made me hallucinate the whole thing. Then I got a look at the bill. It was printed in the same gimmicky circus font as the facade outside, but instead of a price,

I just saw a large, fancy number three. What's this? I held at the paper, confused. That's the number. number of appearances you owe us. Diner's who you will entertain here at lights out as a payment for your own experience. Some will be others who you want to talk to. Others will be those who will want to talk to you. The reception is smiled. And I suggest you put your affairs in order, sir. According to our records, your first experience is due to be... next Tuesday.