This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BigT_1999 on 2025-07-17 17:30:48+00:00.

I didn’t know what to make of this job when I first took it. It paid too well — which should’ve been my first warning — but I was broke, restless, and desperately in need of something that wasn’t platinum trophy hunting or doomscrolling my life away.

The ad read:

Cinema Host at one of the UK’s only 24-hour cinemas No experience needed Night shift only (10pm–6am) £18 an hour Apply in person at Cineplex 24 — ask for Mr. Clinton

Seemed perfect. Emphasis on seemed.

It took less than twenty minutes into my first shift for my perception of reality to… warp. That’s the word for it. Twisted, smeared, and bent into something I still don’t fully understand.

No one outside this place would believe me — and frankly, I wouldn’t blame them. But I have to get this out. There’s something wrong with Cineplex 24. Something wrong in ways the human brain isn’t designed to name.

And I fear this job might not just last a lifetime. It might be the thing that takes it.

After finishing college, my life had become a revolving door of Red Bulls, pot noodles, and the cold blue glow of my TV screen. My serotonin was rationed between trophy pings and TikToks. I was bored and numb. The kind of numb that gets mistaken for peace.

Then the ad hit my screen.

It autoplayed, a low-quality YouTube pre-roll. A man in a sharp red suit — like something from a cheap Vegas lounge — pointed directly at me, eyes wild behind a too-big grin.

“YOU. YES, YOU. Jobs are scarce in this little nugget of a world, but do I have an EXCITING OPPORTUNITY for you! Cineplex 24 is hiring NOW! Great pay, great perks, all the popcorn you can stomach! So what are you waiting for? Click the link below, or come down and ask for me, Mr. Clinton!”

Then he dove into a vat of popcorn, surfaced grinning with kernels spilling from his mouth, and gave a thumbs up as the Cineplex 24 logo spun into frame.

I was at the cinema twenty minutes later.

Cineplex 24 is beautiful — too beautiful. Like a caricature of a cinema drawn from childhood nostalgia.

Big glass doors, red neon signage, pristine white light board with black film titles, vintage posters stretching down the side walls. It reminded me a bit of the New Beverly Cinema in LA, where we stopped during a college trip to California. A place that feels curated to be comforting. Too pristine. Too clean. Like it was built from a memory.

I folded my CV (badly) into my back pocket and walked through the glass doors.

Inside: a red carpet lobby with golden detailing. Marble staircases sweeping to either side. In the centre, a glowing concession island with glass cases full of overpriced sugar. Little themed buckets. Limited edition cups.

And behind it, a man elbow-deep in the guts of a slush machine.

“Hey, buddy,” I said. “I’m here about the job? Mr. Clinton around?”

The man jerked, startled. His head popped out of the machine — curly brown hair, thick black-rimmed glasses, and a moustache that looked like it was drawn on in biro.

He squinted at me. “Mate, I’ve told you. Your friend’s not here. Stop saying he was killed. We both know there was no evidence, no body, and—”

He paused.

“Wait. You’re not the bloke looking for Rob, are you?”

I blinked. “Uh… no. I’m asking about the job.”

He muttered something under his breath — I caught the words “stupid Nick, not supposed to mention the death” — then slapped his own forehead with a pathetic little whap.

“Oh. Right. Mr. Clinton? He’s in the office. Over there, by the stairs.”

And with that, he returned to the slush machine and began to sob into it.

I didn’t ask. I just walked away. The office door was already ajar.

“YES! Yes, come in!” boomed a voice before I’d even knocked.

Inside was the man from the advert, though… off somehow. He looked like someone had tried to recreate Danny DeVito from memory. His nose looked freshly broken. He now had an extravagant, curled moustache. No glasses. Too many teeth.

He waved me in, gesturing to a chair with exaggerated flair.

“Ahhh, there you are! Sit, sit! You’re here for the job, yes? The night shift?”

“Yes, Mr. Clinton. I—”

I pulled out my CV, but he snatched it mid-sentence, skimmed it for half a second, then crumpled it into a ball and hooked it into the bin like a basketball pro.

“No need for that nonsense,” he grinned. “I want to know you. Not what some paper says about you.”

He gripped my shoulders. Firm. Too firm.

“Now then. Tell me — favourite film. Has to be before you were born.”

“Uh… Reservoir Dogs?”

He leaned in. Inches from my face. I could smell popcorn and something coppery.

“I bloody love a bit of Tarantino,” he whispered, eyes wide with a little glint of madness.

He stepped back and rifled through a drawer, pulling out a thick file.

“So, Will — do you like the place?”

My name isn’t Will. Never has been.

But I said, “Yeah, it’s great. I love the—”

“SMASHING, Will! You’re hired!”

He handed me the file.

“You start tomorrow. Eleven sharp. Use the back door. Never the front after 11pm. Ash, our other night employee, will let you in.”

He ushered me toward the exit, clapping me on the back.

“Oh, and if that deranged man is outside again, do not — and I mean do not — speak to him. He’s… lost. And the police are sniffing around about some Robert fellow again, so I need to make a few calls…”

The door slammed behind me with a loud CLACK. Then came the bolt. Then the chain. A series of locks. Too many locks.

I stood in the lobby with the file in my hands, trying to process what the hell had just happened. The file seemed standard at first — health and safety sheets, emergency contacts, all the usual corporate nonsense.

But near the back, nestled between photocopied training sheets, was a single white page in bright red ink:

FOR NIGHT WORKER EYES ONLY

The first page looked handwritten. Sloppy. Panicked.

To the poor unfortunate soul who’s got the pleasure of working with me… Welcome. The job isn’t what you think, so here are some rules you’d do well to follow if you want to keep your bones inside your skin.

Then came the list. Typed exactly as written:

Screen 14 doesn’t exist. If anyone asks for it, take their money. They’ll find their way. At 2:57am, a man in a green coat will appear in the lobby. Don’t acknowledge him. Leave a small popcorn on the counter. He’ll leave at 3:00. Lobby speakers don’t work. If you hear static, turn off all lights and hide beneath the concession cabinets. Stay quiet. This usually lasts 90 seconds. Usually. If you hear someone calling from Screen 2 between 12–1am, ignore it. No matter the voice. Do. Not. Enter. If a customer asks for a film that doesn’t exist, issue them a ticket to Screen 5. Do not engage in conversation. The emergency exit upstairs isn’t real. Never open it. If you see yourself walk through the lobby doors, run out the back. Immediately. Your co-worker will know what to do.

That’s all I have for now. Sadly, that’s not all there is. Stick to the rules. Keep your head. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll survive long enough to regret it.

Good luck. —Ash

I laughed. Genuinely laughed.

I figured it was just hazing. A spooky little initiation to mess with the new guy. I was actually looking forward to meeting Ash. They clearly had a sick sense of humour.

But even then — buried somewhere beneath the disbelief and sarcasm — was a quiet, flickering instinct.

I should take this seriously.

I turned up for my first shift at 10:58pm, standing in the pissing rain behind the back entrance of Cineplex 24, holding the folder like it was going to protect me from the cold — or the creeping sense that I’d made a terrible mistake.

I almost left. I really did.

Then the steel door swung open.

A figure stood there in the uniform: red trousers, waistcoat, crisp white shirt. Not what I expected. Definitely not unpleasant.

Short, thick black hair streaked with blue. Tattoo sleeves that spiralled with chaotic stories — snakes, pocket watches, fragments of eyes and flames. Piercings glinting beneath the flickering back-alley light.

“You’re the new guy,” they said, stepping aside. “Come in.”

Their voice was low and half-asleep, the kind that’s spent years staying up too late. I was ushered into a tiny concrete room barely wider than a hallway. Ash — that had to be them — pointed to an old metal scanner beside the wall.

I pulled out my ticket:

Admit One – Cineplex 24 Film: NIGHT SHIFT Starring: [My Name]

Slid it through.

A mechanical ka-chunk sounded from somewhere behind the wall. I wasn’t sure if that was the scanner or something… Ash gave me the world’s most apathetic tour.

They explained the tills. The break room. The broom cupboard that “might be bigger inside depending on the time.” The popcorn machine had a dent in it — apparently from someone trying to attack it when it “started crawling.”

Everything was accompanied by a shrug or a “meh.” Like they were describing a particularly disappointing Tesco shift, not a place with seven paranormal workplace safety rules.

We were halfway through counting change when the lobby speakers behind us clicked.

Not the usual soft click. This was sharp, unnatural — like someone slapping two bits of bone together.

Ash froze.

“Oh f— not now,” they whispered.

I laughed. “What, is this the part where you try and scare the new guy?”

I didn’t finish the sentence.

Ash shoved me to the floor, killed the lobby lights with one swift flick, and dragged me under the concession stand.

I opened my mouth again, but A…

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