With run-of-the-mill haunted houses and standard Halloween parties anywhere and everywhere, Jack Fancher and Jean Dobbler were looking for something different. So, how could they pass up something called “Sam Haynes’ Self Storage Facility of Horror?”
Their walk from the Allantide City Center, where revelers were coming and going from parties, took them to several side streets. And it was a homemade sign staked by the side of the road that pointed to an out-of-the-ordinary establishment.
The self-storage part was self-explanatory; it was, indeed, a row of several units with rollup doors.
As for the horror, well, muffled screaming and pounding on the inside of the steel doors created a cacophony that was more irritating than frightening. And instead of a shadowy figure ready to greet unsuspecting victims, the host for the evening was none other than the rather dodgy-looking Sam Haynes himself.
Bespectacled, wheezing – a lit cigarette dangled from his lips – and topped by a horrendously-bad combover, Sam motioned Jack and Jean to come closer.
“Evening,” Sam said, taking a drag from his Lucky Strike. “Are you two ready for the most horrifying experience of your lifetimes?”
The couple chuckled.
“We were just looking for something new,” Jean said. “We love the name of the place … but we were hoping you could tell us a little bit about what to expect first. Also, how much are you charging for admission?”
Sam thought for a second.
“You know, I really don’t have a set price … it mostly depends on my mood,” he said. “How about this; I’ll take five dollars a head and if you don’t think the Sam Haynes’ Self Storage Facility of Horror experience is the most frightening of your lives, I’ll double your money back.
“Now, you can’t beat a deal like that anywhere.”
Jack nodded in approval.
“Hell, yeah, my man,” he said. “But Jean and me – we’ve basically seen it all, so I’m pretty sure we’ll be leaving here with 20 bucks between us.”
Sam turned and began walking toward the units.
“Follow me,” he said. “We’re going to No. 7 down here.”
The banging on the closed units continued, along with more screams and wails. Jack and Jean assumed there were some pop scares courtesy of Self Storage Facility of Horror cast members, although they had no idea how such theatrics could be done convincingly in something that was basically a small garage.
When they reached the front of the unit and looked inside, there was only a table, two chairs, two pencils, two sheets of paper, a loudspeaker attached to the wall and what appeared to be a drop box.
“OK,” Sam said. “You two step inside and I’ll close up. Then we’ll get this party started.”
Jean balked.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “Is this some kind of condo sign-up thing? I don’t see anything in there that’s scary – unless, of course, it is some kind of condo sign-up thing. We’re not interested in anything like that.”
Sam unleashed a loud, chunky cough, then unceremoniously spat dangerously close to Jack’s shoe.
“Up to you,” he said. “I can give you your money back now or – if your boyfriend here is right – you can leave with twice what you gave me. I ain’t gonna push you into doing something you don’t wanna do, though.”
Jack looked at Jean and shrugged.
“Come on Jean,” Jack said. “Even if it is some dumb gimmick, we’ll still come out ahead.”
The two walked in the stuffy unit, and Sam then stepped back to pull down the door.
“Just go in, sit down and in about a minute you’ll get instructions from the loudspeaker,” he said. “But give me your cellphones first; they can set off some pyrotechnics prematurely and we sure don’t want that, do we?”
Sam took the phones and then slammed down the door.
Jack and Jean, meanwhile, made their way to the table and pulled out the chairs. They glanced at two pencils, fully sharpened, and two blank sheets of paper, glaring under the tube lighting on the ceiling.
Moments later, the loudspeaker crackled.
“Can you guys hear me?” Sam asked.
“Yes, we can,” Jean said. “So, are we supposed to be scared of sharp pencils and paper?”
The speaker crackled again.
“Well, yeah, kinda,” Sam said. “Have either of you ever heard of something called the Riemann hypothesis?”
There was no response, so Sam assumed they had not.
“According to Wikipedia it says here that the Riemann hypothesis is – and I’m quoting – the conjecture that the Riemann zeta function has its zeros only at the negative even integers and complex numbers with real part 12.”
If this was a joke, Jack wasn’t laughing.
“This is ridiculous, man,” Jack said. “You brought us in here to do math? Just open up and give us 20 dollars.”
There was a short pause before Sam replied.
“No, see, I can’t do that,” he said. “Not unless you can solve the Riemann hypothesis. If you can, you need to put your answer in the drop box. If you can’t, then I guess this is your tomb.”
Jack banged the table.
“Enough!” he shouted. “Let us out, or I’m gonna kick your old ass.”
Sam cackled.
“Son, nobody’s every solved that math problem,” he said. “And that means nobody has ever gotten out of Sam Haynes’ Self Storage Facility of Horror … at least not alive. You can yell and bang and scream all you want – all my other victims have – but everybody screams and makes noise on Halloween an nobody thinks anything of it. Help ain’t coming, and you’ll be out of air in a couple of hours.”
Jack and Jean continued yelling and banging against the wall, draining their energy while increasing their feelings of hopelessness.
“Happy Halloween,” Sam whispered through the speaker. “Did I promise the most horrifying experience of your lifetimes, or what?”
