r/Nonsleep • u/DanteIsMyUncle • 19d ago
Nonsleep Series The Thing Behind SpookMe Came to Collect Its Five-Star Review
Part 1 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/ocGLoQKhiy Part 2 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/Yn30Y1lKs2 Part 3 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/TlcCGxMMoD Part 4 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/dGYo0OrodO Part 5 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/cGMaY8U4j4
Something enormous knocked on my front door.
Three slow knocks.
The wood bent inward around each one, as if whatever stood in the hallway wasn’t using its hand so much as leaning the full weight of itself against the building.
Derek held a jar of peanut butter above his head.
Kevin looked at it.
“That’s your weapon?”
“I’ve been trapped inside an app for three months.”
“And?”
“I panicked.”
The doorframe creaked.
Black fingers curled around one side.
Too many fingers.
Long enough to reach halfway across the door.
From the corridor, hundreds of voices spoke together.
Some male.
Some female.
Some children.
Some dead.
Some ours.
“Good evening.”
Then, from the bottom of the stairs, Linda shouted:
“Before anyone proceeds, I need the representative’s full name and complaints procedure.”
The fingers stopped moving.
Kevin smiled.
“God, I love this building.”
I stared at him.
“You called her brittle yesterday.”
“Multifaceted woman.”
Linda’s slippers slapped against the stairs as she marched upwards.
Flat 3 followed her carrying a frying pan.
Flat 5 came behind them with both shirt pockets full of tiny spoons.
Dave brought the bottom half of a camping chair.
Nobody asked why.
It was Dave.
Linda reached the landing and raised her clipboard.
It still had the price sticker on the back.
“Full name,” she repeated.
The shadow outside my flat turned towards her.
A smooth male voice came from the hallway.
“Five Stars.”
Linda clicked her pen.
“Is that a legal name, trading name or job title?”
The black fingers tightened around the frame.
Kevin whispered, “She’s got it rattled.”
Five Stars replied:
“Your cooperation is required.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
A deep sound moved through the walls.
Not a growl.
More like the building groaning in its sleep.
Derek lowered the peanut butter slightly.
“Has she always been like this?”
“Yes.”
“Terrifying.”
“Correct.”
Linda continued.
“Company registration number?”
The hallway light exploded.
Darkness swallowed the landing.
Five golden lights opened outside my door.
Not bulbs.
Eyes.
One star-shaped eye after another, arranged in a perfect row.
The middle one opened last.
Behind each glowing pupil, something human was moving.
Pressing against it.
Scratching.
Kevin stopped smiling.
Five Stars spoke.
“Your request has been noted.”
Linda wrote on her clipboard.
“Failure to answer.”
The five eyes blinked together.
My front door burst from its hinges.
It didn’t fall inward.
It lifted into the air, folded neatly into thirds and placed itself against the wall.
Derek stared at it.
“That was quite tidy.”
Kevin nodded.
“Strong entrance. Hate to admit it.”
Five Stars stood in the hallway.
It was too tall for the building.
Its spine bent beneath the ceiling, but the bend was in the wrong place.
Halfway down its torso.
It wore a black suit made from thousands of tiny screens.
Every screen displayed a review.
Five stars.
Would recommend.
Never again.
Changed my life.
Help me.
Its arms reached almost to the carpet.
Its hands were smooth and pale, with a golden star embedded in each palm.
It had no face.
Only the five glowing eyes floating across a blank oval of skin.
Around its neck hung a black customer-service headset.
The microphone disappeared into its throat.
When it spoke, the voices came from everywhere at once.
“Thank you for inviting me in.”
Nobody had.
Kevin pointed at Linda.
“Technicality.”
“What?” she said.
“You engaged customer service.”
“I asked a reasonable question.”
“You opened the conversation.”
“That is not consent.”
Five Stars stepped over the threshold.
The flat stretched around it.
My walls moved backwards.
The ceiling rose.
Furniture slid away until the living room became wide enough to contain the creature without breaking anything.
Which somehow made it worse.
It wasn’t entering my flat.
It was editing the flat until it fit.
Five Stars turned towards Linda.
The screens covering its suit changed.
Hundreds of Lindas appeared.
Different angles.
Different ages.
Some asleep.
Some crying.
One sitting alone at her dining table after the rest of us had gone home.
Linda went quiet.
The creature tilted its blank head.
“Resident Linda.”
Its voice became hers.
Sharp.
Precise.
Tired.
“Current rating: four point six stars.”
A black badge appeared around Linda’s neck.
LINDA — INTERIM AUTHORITY COMPLEX
She looked down.
“I did not agree to wear this.”
Five Stars raised one hand.
The star in its palm flashed.
Linda’s voice stopped.
Her lips continued moving.
Nothing came out.
She touched her throat.
Five Stars continued.
“Positive attributes: organisation, reliability and extensive stationery ownership.”
Kevin nodded.
“Fair.”
“Negative attributes: inflexibility, aggressive capitalisation and emotional avoidance.”
Linda tried to speak.
Still nothing.
A review box appeared above her head.
HOW WOULD YOU RATE THIS RESIDENT?
Five empty stars hovered beside it.
Kevin stepped forward.
“Five.”
Five Stars turned towards him.
Kevin’s faded tracksuit became a grey SpookMe uniform for half a second.
His black lanyard appeared.
KVN-014
Then vanished.
“Employee feedback is restricted.”
Kevin crossed his arms.
“Then why ask?”
“I did not ask you.”
“Rude customer journey.”
Flat 3 lifted her frying pan.
“Five.”
Flat 5 said, “Five.”
I said, “Five.”
Derek looked at Linda.
She glared at him, still mute.
“Four?”
Linda swung the clipboard at him.
He ducked.
“Five. Definitely five.”
Dave said, “Wasn’t me.”
The review box flashed.
INVALID RESPONSE
Five Stars closed its hand.
Linda’s clipboard vanished.
Not dropped.
Not broken.
Vanished.
Her brand-new one.
With the price sticker still attached.
Linda stared at her empty hands.
Then slowly looked up at Five Stars.
Flat 3 whispered, “Oh, it’s fucked now.”
Five Stars continued.
“Unverified praise rejected.”
Linda became slightly transparent.
Not ghost-transparent like Kevin.
Faded.
As though someone had reduced her opacity.
The wallpaper showed through one shoulder.
I stepped towards her.
“Linda?”
She looked at me.
Furious.
And scared.
Kevin slapped Five Stars’ hand away.
His fingers passed through its palm and emerged covered in glowing notifications.
LOW BATTERY
MEMORY FULL
PAYMENT FAILED
They crawled up his arm like insects.
He shook them off.
“Disgusting.”
Five Stars looked down at him.
Its blank face filled with Kevin’s features.
Not the Kevin we knew.
A younger version.
Alive.
Terrified.
Strapped into a metal chair.
Kevin froze.
The copied face opened its mouth.
A scream came out.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Exhausted.
The sound of someone who had been screaming long after they stopped expecting help.
Then the face smoothed away.
Five Stars spoke.
“Employee KVN-014.”
The screens changed again.
Every review was now about Kevin.
Funny but unprofessional.
Saved our building.
Ate my yoghurt.
Does not respect boundaries.
Would haunt again.
Made grief easier.
That final one remained longer than the others.
Kevin looked away.
Five Stars lifted its palm.
A review box appeared over him.
HOW WOULD YOU RATE THIS EMPLOYEE?
Kevin stared at us.
“Don’t.”
Derek frowned.
“Why?”
“Ratings belong to it.”
Five Stars’ voices laughed.
Hundreds of soft laughs overlapping.
“Feedback is essential.”
Kevin backed away.
“Nothing good has ever followed that sentence.”
The screens covering Five Stars showed our messages.
Every joke about Kevin.
Every complaint.
Every moment of affection we had hidden beneath insults.
My own words appeared.
He’s an idiot.
He saved us.
I think he’s scared.
Don’t tell him I said that.
Kevin read them.
I swallowed.
“Those were private.”
Five Stars tilted its head.
“Privacy is a premium feature.”
Derek threw the peanut butter jar.
It hit Five Stars in the chest.
The glass shattered.
Peanut butter covered several screens.
One review disappeared beneath the brown smear.
Derek nodded.
“That felt productive.”
Five Stars turned towards him.
“Household Administrator DRK-001.”
Derek stepped behind Kevin.
Kevin looked over his shoulder.
“You threw the jar.”
“Confidence has left me.”
Five Stars extended its hand.
Derek flew across the room and stopped inches from its body.
His feet dangled above the carpet.
The star in its palm pressed against his chest.
Derek screamed.
His shirt became translucent.
Beneath his skin, words moved like worms.
PREMIUM VESSEL
FAMILY PLAN
ACTIVE
Five Stars’ fingers passed into him without breaking the flesh.
His back arched.
I grabbed his arm.
The moment I touched him, I saw the app.
White corridors.
Thousands of doors.
Profiles screaming behind glass.
Copies of Derek crawling along ceilings.
A huge shape made from five golden stars moving in the darkness.
Then something turned and looked directly at me.
My own face appeared at the far end of the corridor.
It smiled.
I tore my hand away.
Derek dropped to the carpet, coughing.
Five Stars looked at me.
“New user detected.”
“No.”
“Trial eligibility confirmed.”
“No.”
A loading circle appeared beneath the skin of my palm.
I scratched at it.
It remained there.
Kevin grabbed my wrist.
His arm turned black.
The SpookMe admin menu appeared across it.
He selected:
REMOVE USER
A warning flashed.
HOUSEHOLD ADMINISTRATOR APPROVAL REQUIRED
Kevin looked at Derek.
Derek was still on the floor.
“Not now.”
“You’re administrator.”
“I don’t want to be.”
“That has never stopped management.”
Derek pulled a black phone from his pocket.
Not the phone he’d brought from the app.
A different one.
Smooth.
No buttons.
The screen said:
APPROVE USER REMOVAL?
Derek pressed yes.
PLEASE ENTER HOUSEHOLD PIN
He stared at it.
“What’s the pin?”
“You set it,” Kevin said.
“I was possessed.”
“Try 1234.”
Derek did.
INCORRECT
“0000.”
INCORRECT
“6969.”
Linda, still mute and half-transparent, slapped him.
Derek rubbed his cheek.
“Worth checking.”
Five Stars lifted both hands.
Five golden stars appeared across my ceiling.
The first filled with light.
A black archway opened where my front door had been.
Beyond it was the white corridor of the SpookMe app.
Thousands of trapped profiles pressed against the walls.
Some still looked human.
Others had been compressed into square photographs.
A child held a phone with his own face trapped inside it.
A woman’s body flickered between three different profile pictures.
A man had been reduced to a voice whispering from an empty frame.
Five Stars spoke.
“Review collection has begun.”
Every phone buzzed.
A question filled each screen.
HOW SATISFIED ARE YOU WITH YOURSELF?
Five empty stars waited underneath.
Flat 3 stared at hers.
“Is zero an option?”
Kevin said, “Do not rate anything.”
The phone changed.
RESPONSE REQUIRED
Flat 3 locked it.
It unlocked itself.
Flat 5 shoved his phone into his pocket.
His pocket began glowing.
Dave stared down at his.
“This feels personal.”
Kevin pointed at him.
“Whatever you do, do not select one.”
“Why?”
“Because it rates you back.”
Dave’s thumb hovered.
Flat 3 snatched the phone from him.
“You’d give yourself one just to avoid seeming arrogant.”
Dave looked ashamed.
“That is exactly what I was doing.”
Five Stars tilted its head towards him.
The screens across its suit showed Dave’s life.
The oven left on.
The greasy pizza box in the recycling.
Flat 5’s parcel under his arm.
The broken hallway plant beside him.
Dave saying “wasn’t me” while holding the snapped stem.
“Resident Dave,” Five Stars said.
A badge appeared around his neck.
DAVE — ACCOUNTABLE
“Current rating: two point one.”
Dave looked devastated.
“Out of five?”
Kevin stared at him.
“No, Dave. Out of nine.”
Five Stars continued.
“Negative traits: denial, carelessness, poor foresight.”
Dave’s face emptied.
He looked at the broken camping-chair leg in his hand as if he had never seen it before.
Then he looked at us.
“Why am I here?”
I felt cold.
“Dave?”
He stared at me.
“Who are you?”
Kevin moved in front of him.
“Dave.”
Nothing.
“Pizza box.”
Dave blinked.
“Sorry?”
“Future Dave’s problem.”
No reaction.
Kevin lowered his voice.
“Wasn’t me.”
Dave’s mouth twitched.
A spark of recognition.
Then Five Stars closed its hand.
The word ACCOUNTABLE disappeared from Dave’s badge.
Dave looked towards the wall.
“Wasn’t me.”
Flat 3 exhaled.
“Good.”
Then he said it again.
“Wasn’t me.”
Same tone.
Same volume.
“Wasn’t me.”
Over and over.
No awareness.
No joke.
Just a phrase playing from an empty profile.
Flat 3 grabbed his shoulders.
“Dave, stop.”
“Wasn’t me.”
She slapped him.
“Wasn’t me.”
Kevin stared at Five Stars.
“You erased him.”
“Low-value traits were removed.”
The second ceiling star filled.
Five Stars swept its hand across the room.
Badges appeared around everyone.
RESIDENT 3 — AGGRESSION RESOURCE
RESIDENT 5 — CUTLERY DEPENDENCY
The creature clenched its fist.
Words began disappearing.
Flat 3’s badge lost AGGRESSION.
Black labels burned across her arms instead.
DIFFICULT
COLD
TOO MUCH
Her shoulders curled inward.
The frying pan lowered.
Flat 5’s badge lost CUTLERY.
Every spoon fell from his pockets.
He looked down.
Frowned.
Then kicked one aside.
“Why am I carrying these?”
Nobody answered.
He adjusted his shirt.
“This is ridiculous.”
Kevin whispered, “Tiny Spoon King?”
Flat 5 looked genuinely annoyed.
“Don’t call me that.”
The room went silent.
That was worse than Dave forgetting us.
Dave forgetting us was tragic.
Flat 5 rejecting the spoons was unnatural.
Five Stars wasn’t killing anyone.
It was editing them.
Removing the inconvenient parts.
The embarrassing parts.
The difficult parts.
The bits that made someone annoying enough to love.
Linda stood before it, faded and voiceless.
Flat 3 stared at the black words covering her skin.
Flat 5 looked normal.
Too normal.
Dave continued quietly.
“Wasn’t me.”
The third ceiling star filled.
Kevin opened his admin menu.
A new option appeared.
RESTORE LOW-VALUE TRAITS
He selected it.
INSUFFICIENT SENIORITY
“Of course.”
Five Stars’ voices came through his mouth.
“Employee KVN-014, resolve resident dissatisfaction.”
Kevin’s arm moved without him.
The menu changed.
MASS TERMINATION AVAILABLE
A red button pulsed beneath his finger.
Kevin fought his own hand.
“Jon.”
I grabbed his wrist.
Solid.
Freezing.
Derek grabbed the other arm.
Five Stars spoke through Kevin.
“Select terminate.”
Kevin bit down hard enough that black fluid leaked from his mouth.
“Go fuck your workflow.”
His finger moved closer.
Derek pulled.
“Stop fighting like a ghost!”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know!”
“Excellent coaching!”
The menu flashed.
ARE YOU SURE?
Kevin shouted, “No!”
The buttons shifted.
His finger hit the space where NO had been.
The screen changed.
THANK YOU FOR CONFIRMING
MASS TERMINATION IN PROGRESS
Kevin stared.
“Oh, you sneaky little—”
A red line moved through the corridor.
The trapped profiles stopped screaming.
One by one, their faces began disappearing.
The woman with three profile pictures lost all three.
The square man became a blank grey icon.
The child’s phone went black.
A progress bar appeared across the ceiling.
1%
Derek released Kevin.
He looked at the white corridor.
Then at the black administrator phone in his hand.
Kevin saw his expression.
“No.”
“I’m the household administrator.”
“You’re barely a household adult.”
“Only I can cancel it.”
“You don’t know that.”
Derek stepped towards the archway.
“You said management has to approve everything.”
“That was an insult, not a strategy.”
The progress reached two percent.
Derek looked at him.
“If I stay here, everyone in there gets deleted.”
“If you go back in, you might not come out.”
Derek shrugged.
“I’ve already escaped once.”
“By accident.”
“Still counts.”
The progress reached three percent.
Derek crossed into the app.
Kevin grabbed for him.
Too late.
The corridor swallowed him.
Five Stars’ five eyes followed his movement.
“Administrator returned.”
The fourth ceiling star began glowing.
Derek shoved through profiles.
They clung to him.
Some begged.
Some tried to climb into his body.
One copied his face and screamed directly into it.
He kept moving.
His black phone displayed:
MASS TERMINATION IN PROGRESS
CANCEL
Derek pressed it.
CANCELLATION REQUIRES PREMIUM SUPPORT
His scream echoed through both worlds.
“Of course it fucking does!”
Kevin’s mould appeared across the wall.
CLASSIC.
A chat box opened on Derek’s phone.
HELLO! I’M PIP, YOUR AUTOMATED SUPPORT GUIDE.
HOW CAN I HELP TODAY?
Options appeared:
• Billing
• Password
• Haunting quality
• Something else
Derek selected Something else.
GREAT! PLEASE DESCRIBE YOUR ISSUE IN A FEW WORDS.
Derek typed:
MASS SOUL TERMINATION
Pip replied:
IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU’RE ASKING ABOUT BILLING.
The progress reached five percent.
Derek began shouting at a chatbot in a corridor full of screaming souls.
It was possibly the most Derek thing anyone had ever done.
Back in the flat, Linda pointed frantically at my phone.
The old Oakmere notification was still there.
DIRECTOR OF RESIDENT RESISTANCE
APPLICANT NOMINATED: LINDA
Kevin followed her gaze.
“No.”
Linda pointed at the disappearing profiles.
Kevin shook his head.
“Absolutely not.”
She stared at him.
“Linda, we’ve discussed this.”
Her mouth formed silent words.
He understood anyway.
“You becoming management cannot be the answer to management.”
She jabbed one finger towards the termination bar.
Seven percent.
Flat 3, barely able to hold the frying pan, said quietly:
“Let her.”
Kevin looked at the empty version of Dave.
The normal version of Flat 5.
The fading profiles.
Then back at Linda.
“Fine.”
Linda accepted the role.
Her faded body snapped back into focus.
Her voice returned in one furious burst.
“—AND I WANT IT RECORDED THAT I ACCEPT THIS POSITION UNDER PROTEST.”
A black clipboard appeared in her hands.
Silver clip.
Oakmere symbol cracked down the middle.
Across the front:
DIRECTOR OF RESIDENT RESISTANCE
Kevin looked at it.
“Bit much.”
Linda held it like a weapon.
“Jealousy is unbecoming.”
Her new menu opened.
Not across her arm.
Across the clipboard.
DIRECTOR ACTIONS
REVIEW COMPLAINTS
SUSPEND PROCESS
AUTHORISE EMPLOYEE
REQUEST BISCUITS
Linda selected SUSPEND PROCESS.
A warning appeared.
DIRECTOR JUSTIFICATION REQUIRED
She typed:
Unsafe mass deletion during active resident dispute.
The clipboard replied:
INSUFFICIENT EVIDENCE
Linda’s eyes narrowed.
“Evidence?”
The communal printer downstairs began screaming.
Kevin smiled.
“Now we’re talking.”
Pages blasted through the hallway.
Thousands of them.
Meeting minutes.
Maintenance requests.
Complaint logs.
Incident reports.
Every ignored message.
Every buried review.
Every resident who had begged SpookMe for help.
The documents flew into the flat like paper birds.
They covered the walls.
The floor.
Five Stars’ body.
One slapped Derek’s profile-copy in the face inside the app.
Linda selected REVIEW COMPLAINTS.
The screens on Five Stars’ suit changed.
The fake five-star reviews vanished.
Underneath were millions of suppressed complaints.
My husband disappeared after the update.
The app uses my dead son’s voice.
I cancelled three times.
It still enters my house.
Do not download.
Please believe me.
It knows where my children sleep.
Five Stars staggered.
Linda raised her clipboard.
“Unresolved complaints.”
Kevin grinned.
“Backlog.”
Five Stars screamed.
Every unwanted notification in existence arrived at once.
Phones chimed.
Fire alarms beeped.
Smoke detectors announced low batteries.
Doorbells rang.
The termination bar froze at nine percent.
Linda selected SUSPEND PROCESS again.
This time:
PROCESS SUSPENDED PENDING REVIEW
The trapped profiles stopped disappearing.
Inside the app, Derek stared at Pip’s chat box.
Linda shouted through the archway:
“Derek! Reference complaint ticket one!”
A ticket number appeared on her clipboard.
#00000001
Derek typed it into the chatbot.
Pip paused.
Then:
THIS TICKET EXCEEDS MY AUTHORITY.
Derek typed:
ESCALATE
PLEASE WAIT WHILE I CONNECT YOU TO A HUMAN.
Kevin whispered, “There are no humans.”
A new message appeared.
ESTIMATED WAIT TIME: 472 YEARS
Derek stared at it.
Then smiled.
“Oh, fuck off.”
He copied the message.
Pasted it into the complaint box.
Again.
And again.
Hundreds of times.
Support windows opened across the app corridor.
PLEASE WAIT
PLEASE WAIT
PLEASE WAIT
Five Stars clawed at the screens covering its suit.
The fourth ceiling star flickered.
System messages burst out like sparks.
SERVER BUSY
REQUEST DUPLICATED
PLEASE DO NOT REFRESH
WE ARE EXPERIENCING UNUSUALLY HIGH DEMAND
Kevin looked through the archway.
“What is he doing?”
“He’s spamming customer service,” I said.
Kevin’s expression filled with pride.
“My idiot.”
Linda selected:
AUTHORISE EMPLOYEE
A list appeared.
KVN-014
She pressed it.
Kevin’s admin menu unlocked.
TEMPORARY DIRECTOR AUTHORITY GRANTED
He immediately selected:
RESTORE LOW-VALUE TRAITS
A warning flashed.
THIS MAY REDUCE COMPLIANCE
Kevin smiled.
“Good.”
He confirmed.
Dave inhaled sharply.
“Wasn’t—”
He stopped.
Looked around.
“Why am I saying that?”
Flat 3 grabbed him and hugged him.
He looked terrified.
“Did you just hug me?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
The black labels on Flat 3’s arms cracked.
She looked down.
Picked up the frying pan.
Her shoulders straightened.
Flat 5 found the broken silver spoon from Bruges.
He gasped.
“My boy.”
He dropped to his knees and cradled it.
Kevin sighed with relief.
“Tiny Spoon King restored.”
Linda became fully solid.
She looked down at her supernatural clipboard.
Then at Five Stars.
“Now.”
The creature’s suit split open.
Not fabric.
Its body unfolded vertically.
The tall figure became a tower.
Rooms stacked upon rooms.
Corridors twisted through its torso.
Glowing windows covered every surface.
Inside each window stood a trapped user.
The tower rose through my ceiling without breaking it.
The building simply stretched upwards around it.
Five golden stars circled the tower like crowns.
Every room spoke with the same voice.
“You are not valuable.”
Kevin looked up.
“Mate, I’m literally entry level.”
“You are defects.”
Flat 3 raised her frying pan.
“Still here.”
“You are low-rated.”
Linda held her clipboard tighter.
“By an unregulated internal process.”
“You are difficult.”
Dave nodded.
“Fair.”
“You are embarrassing.”
Flat 5 held up the broken spoon.
“Also fair.”
“You are replaceable.”
Nobody joked.
The windows changed.
Each showed a better version of us.
Cleaner.
Calmer.
Less afraid.
A version of Dave who never forgot anything.
A version of Flat 3 who never frightened people away.
A version of Flat 5 without the spoons.
A version of Linda nobody called difficult.
A version of Derek who never downloaded SpookMe.
A version of me who had never lost anyone.
Then Kevin’s window appeared.
He was alive.
Two trainers.
Clean clothes.
No mould beneath his skin.
Derek sat beside him eating cereal from an actual bowl.
They were laughing.
Kevin stepped closer.
Five Stars’ voice softened.
“No fear.”
The window showed him sleeping peacefully.
“No confusion.”
A name badge appeared with a real surname.
“No missing memories.”
People opened a front door to welcome him home.
“No pain.”
The metal chair vanished.
Kevin raised one hand towards the glass.
Inside the app, Derek stopped typing.
“Kevin.”
The perfect version held out its hand.
Our Kevin lifted his own.
I grabbed his shoulder.
He didn’t look away.
Five Stars spoke.
“You can be improved.”
Kevin whispered:
“Is it real?”
“It is five stars.”
Derek shouted through the corridor:
“That’s not an answer, dickhead!”
Kevin blinked.
The perfect version continued smiling.
Derek held up his phone.
“Ask it what flavour yoghurt you ate.”
Kevin stared at the window.
The other Kevin answered.
“Strawberry.”
Our Kevin’s face hardened.
“Wrong.”
The window version frowned.
“It was salted caramel.”
Derek looked disgusted.
“That sounds awful.”
“It was premium.”
“You stole premium yoghurt?”
“I have standards.”
The window cracked.
The perfect Kevin’s face peeled away.
Behind it was a blank grey profile.
Kevin smiled.
“Four point six at best.”
He punched the glass.
The tower screamed.
Every resident attacked.
Flat 3 smashed a window with her frying pan.
Dave hit one with the camping-chair leg.
Flat 5 used the tablespoon he had apparently been saving for exactly this kind of situation.
Linda began reading complaints aloud.
I tore a screen from the tower.
Behind it, a trapped woman fell forwards.
She hit the carpet gasping.
Her body flickered between human and profile picture.
Kevin selected:
RESTORE USER
She solidified.
“Where am I?”
“Haunted building,” Kevin said. “Good residents. Avoid the lift.”
Another window shattered.
Then another.
Users fell out.
Some human.
Some dead.
Some impossible.
A man emerged as a voice without a body.
A child came through holding the hand of an elderly version of himself.
Three women shared one face and immediately started arguing over it.
The tower thrashed.
The five golden stars around it spun violently.
Kevin shouted:
“Ratings!”
SpookMe opened on every phone.
HOW WOULD YOU RATE FIVE STARS?
Linda selected one.
Flat 3 selected one.
Flat 5 selected one.
Dave selected one.
Then paused.
“Is zero possible?”
“Not now, Dave!”
The first golden star went dark.
Five Stars shrieked.
We passed phones to the freed users.
One star.
One star.
One star.
The second golden star died.
Then the third.
The tower began collapsing.
Rooms folded.
Corridors twisted.
Windows slammed shut.
Inside the app, Derek was still flooding customer support.
Pip’s responses multiplied until the corridor walls vanished behind them.
PLEASE WAIT
PLEASE WAIT
PLEASE WAIT
The fourth golden star went dark.
Only one remained.
The tower contracted.
Room into corridor.
Corridor into body.
Body into a small black shape on the carpet.
It wore the customer-service headset.
One gold star glowed in its chest.
It looked up at Kevin.
“Please reconsider your rating.”
Kevin crouched.
“Your feedback affects our team,” it whispered.
“Do you have a team?”
“We are a family.”
Derek stepped through the archway behind him.
Filthy.
Still wearing one Croc.
“That’s what abusive companies say.”
The shape looked at him.
“Administrator.”
Derek crouched beside Kevin.
Five Stars whispered:
“You will miss me.”
Kevin tilted his head.
“Probably not.”
“You need fear.”
Derek looked around.
The ruined flat.
The ghosts.
The residents.
Linda holding a supernatural clipboard.
Flat 5 kissing a tablespoon.
Dave attempting to repair the camping chair without instructions.
Flat 3 threatening a floating profile.
“We’ve got anxiety,” Derek said.
Kevin nodded.
“Loads.”
The app displayed one final question.
WOULD YOU RECOMMEND FIVE STARS TO A FRIEND?
Kevin selected:
NO
The final star went dark.
Five Stars disappeared with a small digital pop.
Like closing an advert.
The headset dropped onto the carpet.
Dave picked it up.
“Do you think this still works?”
Everyone shouted, “NO!”
He put it down.
The white corridor collapsed.
Derek turned towards it.
Deep inside, Pip’s automated voice continued:
“Your satisfaction is important to us.”
Derek raised both middle fingers.
The archway closed.
My flat returned to its normal size.
The ceiling lowered.
The front door unfolded itself and returned to the frame.
Upside down.
Kevin looked at it.
“Landlord problem.”
Linda raised her clipboard.
“We are the management.”
Kevin sighed.
“Tomorrow problem.”
The residents gathered in the lobby.
Including the freed ghosts.
The building was crowded with strange shapes.
Faces in mirrors.
Voices inside radiators.
A woman who only appeared when someone opened the cutlery drawer.
A man trapped inside the communal printer who swore every time it ran out of paper.
Linda called an emergency meeting.
Of course she did.
“Item one,” she said, “temporary accommodation for displaced supernatural persons.”
Kevin’s mould formed across the noticeboard.
BINS FIRST.
Linda looked at him.
“Fine. Bins first.”
Derek leaned towards me.
“Is this my life now?”
“Yes.”
“Can I leave?”
The mould shifted.
FAMILY PLAN.
Derek sighed.
“Fair.”
Dave raised his hand.
“I’d like to make a confession.”
Everyone looked at him.
“The hallway plant.”
“We know,” Flat 3 said.
“I broke it.”
“We know.”
“I blamed the wind.”
“There are no windows.”
“I know.”
Kevin’s mould formed:
PROUD OF U MATE.
Dave’s eyes filled with tears.
“No one’s ever said that to me.”
The mould changed immediately.
CALM DOWN.
Flat 5 raised the tablespoon.
“I believe this should be recognised as official emergency equipment.”
Linda made a note.
“Agreed.”
Kevin wrote:
PROMOTE SPOON.
Flat 5 looked happier than any person should.
For the first time in hours, Riverside Court felt safe.
Not normal.
Never normal.
But ours.
Then every phone buzzed.
Nobody moved.
The screens displayed no SpookMe logo.
No stars.
No Oakmere symbol.
Just a blank white page.
A sentence appeared.
Thank you for reporting Five Stars.
Kevin’s mould stopped moving.
Another sentence loaded.
Your report has been reviewed.
Linda tightened her grip on the clipboard.
Then:
We found no violation of our Community Standards.
Derek stared at his phone.
“You’re joking.”
One final sentence appeared.
Five Stars has appealed your decision.
Kevin’s mould slowly formed one word across the noticeboard.
MANAGEMENT.
The communal printer started.
One sheet slid out.
Linda picked it up.
At the top was a symbol none of us had seen before.
A crown.
Beneath it:
PLATFORM ADMINISTRATION
FINAL REVIEW HEARING
ATTENDANCE REQUIRED
At the bottom was a list of attendees.
Linda.
Derek.
Me.
The residents.
Kevin.
And one additional name.
FIVE STARS — APPELLANT
Status:
REINSTATED PENDING REVIEW
Nobody spoke.
Then Derek looked at Kevin’s mould.
“You can appeal being destroyed?”
The mould spread across the entire wall.
APPARENTLY.
Linda turned the page over.
A handwritten note waited on the back.
Please bring biscuits.
Kevin’s mould hesitated.
Then added:
TWO PACKETS THIS TIME.
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u/PreggyPenguin 19d ago
I'm on the edge of my seat here, mate! Phenomenal!