Arcade - 8bit Horrors

If Pac-Man had affected us as kids, we’d all be running around in dark rooms, munching pills and listening to repetitive electronic music

― Marcus Brigstocke

The neon sign buzzed intermittently, casting sickly pink light across rain-slicked pavement. Galaxy Games had been Marcus’s sanctuary since childhood, but tonight something felt different. The familiar electronic symphony seemed discordant, almost mournful.

“Closing in ten,” called Jerry from behind the counter, his voice oddly strained. The old man had run this place for decades, but his usual cheerful demeanor had soured recently. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his hands trembled when he counted quarters.

Marcus fed another coin into Pick-man Model One, his favorite since discovering it tucked away in the arcade’s darkest corner. The cabinet was older than the others, its wood veneer warped and screen perpetually dim. Yet something about it called to him—the way the stars seemed to pulse with their own rhythm, the haunting soundtrack that played even when the game was idle.

Tonight, he was close to breaking the high score. The initials “R.Y.” had held the top position for longer than anyone could remember, with a score so impossibly high that most players assumed it was a programming glitch. But Marcus had been chipping away at it, session by session, drawn deeper into the game’s hypnotic pull.

The digital stars wheeled past his ship as he navigated asteroid fields that seemed to shift and breathe. Each level grew stranger—constellations that formed impossible geometries, planets that whispered in languages that hurt to hear. His score climbed higher than ever before: 2,847,650… 2,847,700… 2,847,750…

“Kid, you need to leave,” Jerry’s voice cracked behind him. “Now.”

Marcus didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. The screen had begun to flicker, not with electrical malfunction but with something deeper—as if reality itself was glitching. The stars weren’t moving correctly anymore. They were spelling out words in arrangements that made his eyes water.

2,847,800… 2,847,850…

Behind him, he heard Jerry’s footsteps retreat rapidly, then the front door slam shut. The locks clicked with finality, but Marcus barely noticed. He was so close now, closer than anyone had ever come to understanding what Pick-man Model One truly was.

The score ticked over: 2,847,900… 2,847,950…

The whispers from the screen grew louder, more insistent. They spoke of vast emptiness between stars, of things that swam in cosmic darkness, of a realm where the boundaries between player and game dissolved like sugar in rain. Marcus’s fingers moved across the controls without conscious thought, guided by something vast and patient that had been waiting in the circuits for decades.

2,847,999…

The screen went black.

For a moment, silence filled the arcade. Then, slowly, new letters appeared:

HIGH SCORE: 2,848,000 PLAYER: M.A.

Marcus tried to step back from the machine, but his legs wouldn’t respond. Looking down, he saw his hands were still on the controls, but they appeared translucent, flickering like a bad reception. The realization hit him with cold horror—he was becoming part of the game, another high score guardian waiting in the dark.

The next morning, Jerry found the arcade empty except for a single customer: a young woman feeding quarters into Pick-man Model One. She was close to the high score, he could tell by the intense focus in her eyes, the way she leaned into the screen as if it were calling to her.

“Miss, we’re closing soon,” he said weakly, knowing it was futile.

She didn’t respond. The score on the screen read 2,847,850 and climbing. Jerry locked the front door and walked away, leaving his keys on the counter. He’d done this too many times before, and he couldn’t watch another player join the high score list.

Behind him, the neon sign flickered one final time before going dark forever.