Page 26 of Pick Me Up On Tuesdays

°*°

Inside, the hotel-restaurant was even creepier than the outside. Dim lighting. Heavy velvet curtains. Candle chandeliers that dripped wax onto old wooden tables. And, of course, a whole section of the wall dedicated to vampire-themed memorabilia.

Portraits of long-forgotten counts with blood-red eyes watched from their dusty frames. A mannequin in the corner wore a Victorian gown stained suspiciously at the collar, and next to it stood a glass case filled with antique silver crosses and vials labeled ‘Real Blood.’ The air smelled of cloves and aged wood, with an undertone of something metallic—like rust, or worse.

Every time the floor creaked, it felt intentional, like the building itself was whispering secrets. A broken phonograph hissed softly in the background, looping an old waltz that never quite reached its final note.

The staff didn’t help either. The waiter, a pale man with a permanent smirk and a voice like dry leaves, offered the menu with a flourish. “Might I suggest the Bloody Rare Ribeye, or our house favorite—Garlic-Free Gnocchi, for those with... sensitivities?”

Somewhere deeper in the restaurant, something clattered. A door creaked open and then slammed shut on its own.

And yet, despite the sinister ambiance, the place was nearly full. Guests whispered over their meals, some dressed in darkcapes and dramatic makeup, like they were all part of a cult—or worse, the dinner course.

It was the kind of place where you weren’t sure if the fangs were props or prosthetics.

I shuddered before squinting at a menu titled "Feast of the Night."

"Why is everything blood-themed? 'Bloody Rare Steak,' 'Garlic-Free Pasta,' 'Dark Desire Soup'?"

This whole place felt like it had been decorated by Dracula's event planner and managed by a team of method actors who never broke character. I mean, who in their right mind orders “O-negative Sangria” without flinching?

I half expected the waiter to offer me a complimentary neck massage—followed by a discreet bite.

As I flipped through Feast of the Night, the dishes only got more... questionable.

1.Marrow Mousse on Bone Shards

2.Stake Tartare (yes, spelled stake)

3.Sunset Skewer – “A final meal before the eternal night,” the description whispered.

I leaned in toward my companion, Joy—because of course I wasn't going to walk ahead alone, I wasn’t that brave or that dumb—and murmured, “This place is either a horror-themed diner… or a trap for the genre-savvy.”

She grinned, unbothered. “Relax. Worst case scenario? We’re dessert.”

Mia, recording everything, zoomed in on a painting of a very pasty-looking man with fangs. "Wow, historical accuracy."

Joy smirked. "I dare you to ask the waiter if they're a vampire."

"What if they are?"

"Then we finally know why this place is so cheap."

Ethan picked up a goblet filled with something deep red. "Ooh, grape juice."

Shun leaned over. "What if it’s not?"

Ethan paused. "…I have regrets."

We filled the hotel, slumping into the, obviously, red chairs.

Lunch itself was a blur of actual food, excessive garlic bread jokes, and an extremely awkward moment when Fred accidentally knocked over a candle and almost burned a curtain. Mr. Dax warned us all to write an essay on "Why Being a Public Menace is Not an Achievement."

After paying, we stumbled back outside into the daylight, where our bus gleamed proudly, free of rotten egg stains.

"At least the carwash part of this place was normal," I admitted, appreciating the lack of egg-scented suffering.

Everyone piled back into their seats, full and satisfied. I settled down, took out my tablet to go over our expenses, and immediately felt my soul leave my body.

---