“Each new resident of Purgatory gets their own room,” Molly says, glancing suspiciously at the row of buttons beside the old elevator attendant. “So far we’ve had to code four new floors onto the hotel to accommodate everyone. The thing is, we don’t even need to sleep … or eat, or drink, or anything, for that matter. It’s just nice to have your own space.”

“What do you mean you don’t need to eat or drink?” Malachai asks.

“We’re all dead,” Molly replies.

“I’m sorry,” Malachai half laughs as the dial above the door swings to seven, then eight, then nine. “Did you say we’re all dead?”

“Yes,” Molly replies, “in the real world, we’re dead.”

“You’re going to have to explain that more—” Malachai starts, but his words are cut off as the lights in the elevator begin to flicker and then go dark.

“Oh shit,” Molly mutters.

I hear the creaking of the old cable that is holding us up, and then a snapping sound, and we’re plummeting downward.

“Fuck!” Malachai screams as we’re thrown against the roof of the plunging elevator.

The lights of each floor flicker through the gaps in the door as we fall faster and faster, illuminating our terrified faces as we drop. Except, it’s just Malachai and me who are terrified; Molly looks bored.

I scream, waiting for the impact.

And then it comes. Our bodies slam against the floor and the world turns gray.

But I don’t feel any of this.

The initial shock of falling had scared me, but there was no real sensation other than the psychosomatic impression of dropping brought on by the visuals. And when we hit the ground, I could feel myself mentally tensing for the impact, but it didn’t really come.

I open my eyes. The world is still in black and white, but now the words GAME OVER are floating in red across my field of vision.

“What the f—” I begin, but then suddenly I’m snapped back to the hotel bar.

“Sir, would you like a drink, sir?” the drawling voice of the bartender asks.

I whip my head around and look at the elderly barman with the gray hair.

The jazz music swells, and the double bass plays a descending run.

“Dammit,” Molly says from farther along the bar, “I hate it when that happens.”

Malachai comes storming into the room from his respawn point. “What the hell was that?” his exasperated voice calls out.

“Come on,” Molly replies, walking back toward the lobby.

Malachai and I look at each other, shrug, and then follow.

“So, what was that?” Malachai asks again as we walk quickly to catch up.

“Purgatory Hotel was a horror game,” Molly says. “There are still some elements we haven’t been able to take out yet: monsters under beds; faces at tenth-story windows; the elevator failing one in every ten times you use it.”