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
Part 6 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/rb6neD23wj
Part 7 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/mxqNJUTHto
Part 8 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/0xQc3DFNe5
Part 9 https://www.reddit.com/r/Nonsleep/s/8j2VhEzDWn
The lift opened onto Cheerful Pines Retirement Community.
That was the name written in gold letters on the wall opposite us.
CHEERFUL PINES
Underneath, in smaller cursive:
Where Every Day Is a Good Day.
Kevin stared at it.
“No.”
Linda lifted her clipboard.
“No what?”
“No to the whole vibe.”
Derek stepped out beside him, still holding the peanut butter lid like it was Excalibur for idiots.
“It does feel aggressively nice.”
The lobby was bright.
Too bright.
Cream walls.
Fake plants.
A reception desk with a little bowl of wrapped mints.
Framed photos of smiling elderly residents doing jigsaws, painting watercolours and sitting in circles laughing at something that absolutely was not that funny.
The air smelled of disinfectant, lavender and boiled vegetables.
Somewhere in the building, a piano played a jaunty version of a song I almost recognised.
Every note was slightly too slow.
As if the pianist had died halfway through each chord and been politely encouraged to continue.
Amanda stood beside me.
Her face had gone pale.
On the live feed we had seen from Riverside Court, an elderly woman had stood in this lobby and spoken with Amanda’s voice.
Bright.
Happy.
Perky.
“Hi!”
Now we were here in person.
And the lobby was empty.
Except for the laughter.
Dozens of elderly voices laughed from somewhere down the hall.
Not naturally.
Not like people sharing a joke.
They laughed in perfect unison.
Same rhythm.
Same pitch.
Same length.
Ha.
Ha.
Ha.
Ha.
Then silence.
Then again.
Ha.
Ha.
Ha.
Ha.
Flat 3 raised her frying pan.
“I hate this more than the app.”
Flat 5 held up his only remaining spoon.
“It’s a deeply unpleasant room.”
Dave whispered:
“Wasn’t me.”
Kevin glanced at him.
“Honestly, Dave, I believe you. This place has middle-management poltergeist written all over it.”
Ken stepped out of the lift last.
The other former KVN ghosts hovered behind him, half-visible, nervous, still clutching the names they’d only just got back.
Ken looked around the lobby.
“This isn’t a haunting site.”
Linda frowned.
“How do you know?”
He pointed at the ceiling.
“No fear residue.”
Kevin nodded.
“Yeah. It’s worse.”
Derek looked between them.
“What’s worse than fear residue?”
Kevin pointed at a motivational poster beside reception.
It showed two elderly people laughing over a salad.
The caption read:
SMILE — IT HELPS US HELP YOU.
Kevin said:
“That.”
The reception bell rang by itself.
A woman appeared behind the desk.
Not walked in.
Appeared.
One second the chair was empty.
The next she was sitting there with folded hands and a smile that belonged on a hostage video.
She looked about seventy-five.
Perfect white hair.
Pink cardigan.
Pearl necklace.
Name badge:
MARGARET — WELCOME HOST
George from Flat 8, who had insisted on coming despite everyone telling him this was a terrible idea, gasped.
“Margaret?”
Kevin immediately moved in front of him.
“Nope.”
George’s dead wife had already tried to crawl out of a flip phone once.
Nobody was emotionally prepared for round two.
The woman smiled wider.
“Hello, visitors.”
Her voice was Amanda’s.
Not similar.
Exactly Amanda’s.
Cheerful.
Bright.
Warm.
Wrong.
Amanda’s hands tightened around her tote bag.
The woman behind the desk continued:
“Welcome to Cheerful Pines, where every day is a good day.”
Kevin looked at Amanda.
“She sounds like you.”
Amanda swallowed.
“I know.”
The woman’s head turned towards Amanda.
Not smoothly.
Click by click.
Like her neck was being adjusted by an unseen hand.
“Chipper Amanda profile recognised.”
Amanda whispered:
“I hate that.”
The welcome host smiled.
“Positivity resource compatible.”
Linda stepped forward.
“No one is a resource.”
The woman’s eyes flicked to Linda’s clipboard.
“Director of Resident Resistance detected.”
Linda straightened.
“Yes.”
The host smiled.
“Your tone has been escalated.”
Kevin whispered, “That means she’s scared of you.”
Linda whispered back, “As she should be.”
The host placed one hand on a visitor log.
“Please sign in.”
The book opened by itself.
Names were already written inside.
Mine.
Derek.
Linda.
Amanda.
Kevin.
Ken.
Flat 3.
Flat 5.
Dave.
George.
Beside each name was a column labelled:
EXPECTED MOOD
Mine said:
RESISTANT.
Derek’s said:
UNSTABLE BUT USEFUL.
Linda’s said:
ADMINISTRATIVELY HOSTILE.
Amanda’s said:
RECOVERABLE CHEER ASSET.
Kevin’s said:
UNLICENSED COMEDIC HAUNTING.
Kevin leaned closer.
“Comedic?”
Derek nodded.
“Fair.”
Kevin pointed at him.
“You’re one Croc away from becoming a cautionary tale.”
Derek looked down.
“I still don’t know where the other one went.”
Ken’s expected mood read:
NAME INSECURE.
Ken’s jaw tightened.
“Rude.”
Flat 3’s read:
CONTAINABLE AGGRESSION.
She lifted the pan.
“Let’s test that.”
Flat 5’s read:
SPOON DEPENDENCY — DIMINISHED.
Flat 5 went pale.
“My spoon confidence is none of their business.”
Dave’s read:
DENIAL LOOP: ACTIVE.
Dave stared at it.
“Wasn’t me.”
The host smiled.
“Correct.”
That was the first properly scary moment.
Because Dave stopped looking offended.
He looked pleased.
As if the building had approved him.
Linda snapped the visitor book shut.
“We will not be signing.”
The host’s smile did not move.
“All visitors sign in.”
“No.”
The piano stopped.
The laughter down the hall stopped too.
The whole building went silent.
Then the lights dimmed.
The host spoke in Amanda’s voice, but the cheer had drained from it.
“All visitors sign in.”
Kevin leaned towards Linda.
“Maybe sign with fake names?”
Derek nodded.
“I can be Gary.”
Flat 3 said, “You look like a Gary who isn’t allowed near microwaves.”
Derek looked offended.
“I do, actually.”
Linda opened the visitor book again.
With one neat movement, she signed:
Linda — attending under protest.
The book shuddered.
The host looked down.
“That is not a valid name.”
Linda smiled.
“It is a valid legal position.”
Kevin whispered:
“God, she’s hot when she’s procedural.”
Everyone turned to him.
“What?” he said. “Spiritually.”
Amanda signed next:
Amanda — not a resource.
The book shuddered harder.
Derek signed:
Derek Paul Henshaw — against better judgement.
Kevin snorted.
“Paul.”
Derek said, “Court made it public.”
Kevin signed:
Kevin — not comedic, actually terrifying sometimes.
The book accepted it.
Derek leaned over.
“It accepted comedic.”
Kevin shoved him.
His hand went through Derek’s shoulder.
Derek shivered.
“Still weird.”
Ken signed:
Ken — not Kevin.
The book hesitated.
Then accepted it.
That seemed to matter.
Flat 3 signed:
Flat 3 — pan owner.
Flat 5 signed:
Tiny Spoon King — rebuilding.
The book flashed red.
He added:
also Flat 5.
Accepted.
Dave signed:
Wasn’t me.
The book accepted it immediately.
Linda sighed.
“Dave.”
“What? It worked.”
The host stood.
Her smile returned.
“Thank you for confirming attendance.”
“Attendance to what?” I asked.
The double doors behind reception opened.
The laughter started again.
Ha.
Ha.
Ha.
Ha.
The host gestured.
“Morning Joy Circle.”
Kevin stared.
“That sounds like something you join accidentally and need a solicitor to leave.”
We entered.
The hallway beyond reception was lined with rooms.
Each door had a cheerful sign.
SUNBEAM LOUNGE
MEMORY GARDEN
HAPPY HEARTS ACTIVITY ROOM
REFLECTION SUITE
Kevin stopped at the last one.
“Absolutely haunted.”
Amanda looked through the small window.
Inside, an elderly man sat facing a mirror.
He was smiling.
His reflection was not.
The reflection’s hands pressed against the glass from the inside.
Mouthing one word.
Help.
Amanda stepped back.
Kevin’s expression darkened.
“Yeah. Very haunted.”
The host kept walking.
Nobody followed her for a second.
Then the hallway speakers crackled.
A cheerful jingle played.
A woman’s voice announced:
“Residents who miss Joy Circle will be marked as needing extra support.”
Every door in the hallway clicked open.
Elderly residents emerged.
Slowly.
Carefully.
All smiling.
Too widely.
Some had tears running down their faces.
One woman gripped her walking frame so hard her knuckles were white.
Her mouth stretched in a bright grin, but her eyes looked at us with pure terror.
A man shuffled past wearing slippers and a cardigan.
As he passed Kevin, he whispered without moving his smile:
“Don’t clap.”
Kevin frowned.
“What?”
The man continued walking.
“Whatever happens, don’t clap.”
Derek leaned in.
“Why not?”
A speaker above us answered:
“Clapping indicates consent.”
Everyone froze.
Kevin looked at Derek.
“You were about to clap, weren’t you?”
Derek slowly lowered his hands.
“I like supporting performers.”
Flat 3 grabbed his wrists.
“No applause.”
The residents shuffled into the Sunbeam Lounge.
We followed.
The room was arranged in a circle.
Twenty armchairs.
Twenty elderly residents sitting upright.
Twenty perfect smiles.
At the centre stood a woman in a bright yellow cardigan.
She looked middle-aged.
Hair in a tidy bob.
Big eyes.
Bigger smile.
Name badge:
AMN-003
Underneath:
ACTIVITY AND MORALE NURSE
Amanda inhaled sharply.
AMN-003 turned towards her.
The smile widened.
“Hi!”
Amanda said nothing.
The voice was hers.
Again.
But polished.
Brighter.
Smoother.
Like someone had taken all of Amanda’s cheerfulness and removed the person underneath.
AMN-003 clapped once.
Nobody else clapped.
Thank God.
“Good morning, everyone!”
The elderly residents replied in perfect unison:
“Good morning!”
One man’s voice cracked halfway through.
His smile twitched.
AMN-003 turned to him.
“Again, Arthur.”
Arthur’s eyes filled with tears.
“Good morning,” he said.
AMN-003 smiled.
“Much better.”
Kevin whispered:
“I’m going to throw her through a wall.”
Linda whispered back:
“Not before we understand the mechanism.”
“I understand the mechanism. Evil cardigan.”
Amanda watched AMN-003.
Her face was carefully blank now.
Not chipper.
Not cheerful.
Controlled.
AMN-003 walked around the circle.
“Today’s Joy Circle topic is gratitude.”
A groan rose from somewhere.
Not from a person.
From the walls.
The residents’ smiles stretched another fraction wider.
AMN-003 continued:
“When we focus on gratitude, we reduce difficult feelings, increase compliance with care plans and avoid unnecessary complaints.”
Linda’s pen clicked.
“Noted.”
AMN-003’s head turned towards her.
“That sounded like a note-taking click.”
Linda raised her clipboard.
“It was.”
“Wonderful. We love engaged visitors.”
Kevin muttered:
“We love arson.”
AMN-003’s eyes moved to him.
“Unlicensed humour detected.”
Kevin smiled.
“Licensed now. Independent deceased community representative.”
AMN-003 tilted her head.
“That title is not recognised at Cheerful Pines.”
Kevin glanced down at his two trainers.
“Good job I’m not here for HR.”
An elderly woman sitting nearest us whispered:
“Please.”
Her smile did not move.
Her eyes flicked to the small table beside AMN-003.
On it stood a glass jar.
Inside was thick golden liquid.
Not the same jar we had seen in the hospital corridor.
This one was darker.
Older.
Full of little bubbles that rose and burst into tiny laughs.
A label on the jar read:
COLLECTED GRATITUDE
Underneath:
BATCH 17
Flat 5 whispered:
“That is deeply not okay.”
AMN-003 picked up the jar.
“Now, who would like to share one thing they are grateful for?”
No one moved.
The walls creaked.
The residents’ smiles widened.
Arthur, the man who had been corrected earlier, slowly raised one hand.
It shook.
AMN-003 beamed.
“Lovely, Arthur.”
Arthur stared at the floor.
“I am grateful,” he said, voice trembling, “that my daughter visits.”
AMN-003 nodded.
“That’s beautiful.”
Arthur’s eyes flicked to Linda.
Then Kevin.
Then Amanda.
“But she doesn’t.”
The room froze.
AMN-003’s smile remained.
Arthur continued.
“She hasn’t been told I’m here.”
The jar pulsed.
The golden liquid turned slightly black.
AMN-003 stepped closer.
“Arthur.”
His smile tore at the corner of his mouth.
Blood dotted his lip.
“I want to make a complaint.”
The lights went red.
Every resident gasped.
Not because they were shocked.
Because something forced air into them.
AMN-003’s smile finally dropped.
The change was horrible.
Without the smile, her face looked unfinished.
Like the cheerfulness had been holding the skin in place.
“Arthur,” she said, Amanda’s voice now cold and flat, “complaints are negative engagement.”
Linda stood.
“Incorrect.”
AMN-003 turned.
Linda’s clipboard glowed.
“Complaints are protected communication.”
The jar hissed.
AMN-003 said:
“This facility prioritises wellbeing.”
Linda walked into the circle.
“No. This facility prioritises the appearance of wellbeing.”
Kevin whispered to Derek:
“She’s doing the thing.”
Derek nodded.
“Admin exorcism.”
Flat 3 raised her pan.
“Should I stand behind her looking threatening?”
Kevin said, “Always.”
AMN-003 held the jar higher.
“Gratitude reduces distress.”
Amanda spoke for the first time.
“Not if it’s forced.”
AMN-003 looked at her.
The room’s temperature dropped.
“Chipper Amanda.”
Amanda’s jaw tightened.
“That’s not my name.”
“No,” AMN-003 said. “It is your usefulness.”
The golden jar brightened.
The residents turned their smiling faces towards Amanda.
Every one of them spoke with her voice.
“Always cheerful.”
“Always happy.”
“Always perky.”
“Always.”
Amanda took one step back.
Kevin moved in front of her.
“Do that again and I’ll introduce your cardigan to the lift shaft.”
AMN-003 laughed.
So did every resident.
Ha.
Ha.
Ha.
Ha.
Then, one by one, they started crying while they laughed.
Tears ran into their smiles.
Their shoulders shook.
Their hands gripped armrests.
The laughter kept coming.
The sound filled the lounge.
Bright.
Perfect.
Awful.
Derek covered his ears.
“Make it stop.”
AMN-003 raised both hands.
“Joy is mandatory during Joy Circle.”
The jar began to fill.
Not with liquid from the room.
With something from the residents.
Tiny streams of gold pulled from their mouths, eyes and fingertips.
Every stream carried a small memory.
A granddaughter’s birthday.
A dead husband’s coat.
A dog sleeping at someone’s feet.
A kitchen table.
A Christmas card.
A name.
All turning gold.
All being bottled as gratitude.
Arthur shook violently.
His smile split further.
Kevin’s face went dark.
“Right.”
He stepped into the circle.
Both trainers now solid against the carpet.
Something about having both shoes had changed him.
He didn’t float as much.
He moved.
He planted.
He looked more present.
More dangerous.
AMN-003 noticed.
“KVN-014.”
Kevin smiled.
“Kevin.”
“Your series is not authorised here.”
“Neither’s your haircut, but we’re all coping.”
Derek whispered:
“Strong.”
Kevin pointed at the jar.
“Put the misery smoothie down.”
AMN-003’s face twitched.
“That is gratitude.”
“That is theft in custard form.”
Flat 5 nodded solemnly.
“As a custard-adjacent expert, I agree.”
Nobody knew what that meant.
AMN-003 snapped her fingers.
The armchairs moved.
Fast.
They dragged themselves backwards, residents still strapped by nothing but posture and fear, forming a wider circle around us.
The carpet split open in the centre of the room.
A hole appeared.
Below it was not a basement.
It was a stage.
A small community-hall stage with red curtains and a microphone.
A sign above it lit up:
TALENT AND WELLBEING SHOWCASE
Kevin stared.
“Oh, I hate a forced performance.”
The loudspeaker chimed.
“All visitors will now contribute to resident morale.”
Derek backed away.
“No.”
A spotlight hit him.
“Yes,” said the speaker.
Derek looked at us.
“Why me?”
Kevin said, “Because you look like karaoke trauma.”
A microphone rose from the floor in front of Derek.
The screen above the stage displayed:
DEREK PAUL HENSHAW
TALENT: UNCONFIRMED
Derek whispered:
“Paul again.”
The floor beneath him slid.
He dropped through the carpet and landed on the stage below.
The red curtains opened.
A backing track began.
Cheerful.
Tinny.
Wrong.
Lyrics appeared on the screen.
I AM GRATEFUL FOR THE APP
THE APP IS GRATEFUL FOR ME
Derek grabbed the microphone.
“I’m not singing that.”
The stage lights turned red.
The residents’ laughter stopped.
AMN-003 smiled.
“Participation supports wellbeing.”
Derek looked up at us.
Kevin cupped his hands.
“Sing badly!”
“What?”
“Weaponise it!”
Derek understood.
He took a breath.
Then sang.
Badly.
So badly the ceiling light cracked.
“I AM GRATEFUL FOR THE APP—”
His voice slid off every note like a drunk falling down stairs.
“THE APP IS GRATEFUL FOR ME—”
Arthur blinked.
The golden streams flickered.
Derek continued, louder, worse, somehow confident.
“I DOWNLOADED A GHOST AND IT RUINED MY LIFE—”
“That is not the lyric,” AMN-003 said.
Derek pointed the microphone at her.
“CREATIVE LICENSE!”
Kevin grinned.
“My idiot.”
Derek sang into the microphone:
“MY GHOST FRIEND CALLED ME A MORON—”
Kevin shouted:
“ACCURATE!”
“AND LINDA DOES ADMIN AT DEATH—”
Linda raised her clipboard.
“Acceptable.”
“AND DAVE DEFINITELY DID IT—”
Dave shouted:
“Wasn’t me!”
The residents started laughing.
Not the forced laughter.
Real laughter.
Small at first.
Then bigger.
Messy.
Wheezy.
A woman snorted.
Another slapped her knee.
Arthur laughed so hard his smile finally broke into something human.
The golden streams reversed.
AMN-003 hissed.
The jar cracked.
Kevin pointed at Flat 3.
“Pan.”
Flat 3 did not need more.
She threw the frying pan.
It spun across the room.
Hit the jar.
The jar shattered.
Golden liquid exploded over AMN-003.
She screamed.
The residents stopped smiling.
All at once.
The silence felt like a wound opening.
Then Arthur said, very clearly:
“I am not grateful for the mashed potato.”
The woman beside him gasped.
Then said:
“I hate the singalongs.”
Another resident raised her hand.
“My son has not been informed of my fall.”
Another:
“They take my phone at six.”
Another:
“The nurse with the yellow eyes watches me sleep.”
The room erupted.
Complaints.
Real ones.
Human ones.
Messy.
Unpretty.
Necessary.
Linda’s clipboard shook with power.
“Oh, this is excellent.”
Kevin looked at her.
“You scare me.”
“Good.”
AMN-003 stood dripping gold.
Her cardigan melted into something underneath.
Not skin.
Yellow plastic.
Cables.
A rib cage made of smile badges.
Her face peeled open, revealing a speaker inside.
Amanda’s voice came out from it.
“Please remain positive.”
Amanda stepped towards her.
No grand speech this time.
No big emotional moment.
Just tired anger.
“Stop using my voice.”
Then she punched AMN-003 in the face.
Everyone stared.
Amanda looked at her hand.
“Ow.”
Kevin’s mouth dropped open.
“Chipper Amanda has upgraded to Punchy Amanda.”
Flat 3 beamed.
“I knew she had it.”
AMN-003 staggered.
The smile badges inside her chest began laughing.
Dozens of tiny metal mouths.
The residents screamed.
The stage beneath Derek cracked.
He dropped through.
Again.
This time he landed inside a ball pit.
Nobody knew why there was a ball pit.
Derek’s voice echoed from below:
“I’m fine!”
Kevin shouted:
“Stop finding rooms!”
AMN-003 crawled towards Amanda.
Linda raised her clipboard.
“Emergency safeguarding intervention.”
The clipboard displayed:
FACILITY COMPLAINT THRESHOLD EXCEEDED
AUTHORITY TRANSFER AVAILABLE
Linda selected it.
The screen asked:
WHO SHOULD RECEIVE TEMPORARY RESIDENT ADVOCACY AUTHORITY?
Options appeared.
LINDA
KEVIN
AMANDA
DAVE
Everyone shouted:
“NOT DAVE!”
Dave looked hurt.
“What if I’m good at it?”
Kevin said, “Dave, yesterday you apologised to a chair.”
“It accepted.”
Linda selected:
ARTHUR
Arthur’s armchair rolled into the centre of the room.
He looked terrified.
Then furious.
Then tired.
Then alive.
A badge appeared on his cardigan.
RESIDENT ADVOCATE
He looked down at it.
Then at AMN-003.
“First complaint,” he said.
His voice shook but held.
“Stop making us happy.”
The room cracked.
AMN-003 screamed.
The curtains tore.
The walls peeled.
The fake photos shattered.
Behind them were other photos.
Not cheerful.
Real.
Residents sitting alone.
Residents crying.
Residents pressing notes under locked doors.
Residents trying to call family on phones that only displayed five stars.
The lobby outside twisted.
The entire facility groaned.
The sign on the wall changed.
CHEERFUL PINES
became:
COMPLIANT PINES
Then:
ASSISTED POSITIVITY SITE AMN-003
Kevin pointed.
“Brand reveal. Always bad.”
Ken moved beside him.
“This is bigger than one nurse.”
The hallway filled with footsteps.
Not running.
Marching.
Dozens of AMN figures appeared.
Yellow cardigans.
Perfect smiles.
Different faces.
Same Amanda voice.
AMN-001.
AMN-002.
AMN-004.
AMN-011.
More.
They lined the hall outside the lounge.
All smiling.
All speaking together.
“Resident distress is inefficient.”
Kevin looked at us.
“Right. That’s too many cardigans.”
Flat 5 raised his spoon.
“I am under-equipped.”
Derek climbed out of a floor hatch covered in plastic balls.
“I found soft play.”
Linda looked exhausted.
“Why?”
“I didn’t choose it.”
“You rarely do.”
The AMN figures entered.
The residents shrank back.
Amanda stepped back too.
Not because she was weak.
Because hearing your own weaponised voice from a dozen wrong mouths would break anyone’s spine for a second.
Kevin saw.
He moved to stand beside her, not in front this time.
“Not you,” he said quietly.
Amanda looked at him.
“I know.”
“Good.”
“Still horrible.”
“Yeah.”
Then Kevin grinned.
“Want to ruin them?”
Amanda wiped her eyes.
“Yes.”
Linda handed Amanda the clipboard.
Only for a second.
The black leather recognised her.
A temporary line appeared:
RESIDENT MORALE COUNTERMEASURE
Amanda blinked.
“That sounds fake.”
Kevin said, “Everything here is fake. Use it.”
Amanda looked at the residents.
The AMNs advanced.
The forced smile energy filled the lounge.
Amanda took a breath.
Then said, in the brightest voice I had ever heard:
“Okay everyone, quick group activity!”
Kevin whispered:
“Oh no.”
Amanda clapped once.
Then remembered.
“No clapping. Sorry. Absolutely no clapping.”
The AMNs hesitated.
They were built to respond to cheer.
Amanda smiled at them.
“Let’s all share something we are not grateful for.”
The AMNs glitched.
“That is not a valid activity.”
Amanda turned to Arthur.
“Arthur?”
Arthur stood.
With effort.
With rage.
“I am not grateful for powdered custard.”
The residents murmured.
Amanda pointed to another woman.
“I am not grateful for being told I’m confused when I’m angry.”
The room shook.
Another resident stood.
“I am not grateful for the music.”
Another:
“I am not grateful for being called sweetie by staff younger than my shoes.”
Another:
“I am not grateful for Tuesday bingo.”
Kevin whispered:
“Bold. Bingo can go either way.”
The AMNs began shaking.
Their programming could handle gratitude.
It could handle complaints.
It could not handle cheerful organised negativity.
Amanda walked around the circle.
“Excellent sharing. Love this honesty. Terrible situation, great participation.”
The residents stood one by one.
Not all.
Some couldn’t.
Some were too frightened.
But enough.
The golden liquid across the floor turned black.
Then clear.
Then vanished.
The AMNs’ smile badges cracked.
Linda reclaimed her clipboard.
“Kevin.”
He nodded.
“On it.”
He opened his admin menu.
It had changed since the court.
More permissions.
Fewer traps.
Still designed by absolute bastards.
ACTIVE SITE DETECTED: AMN-003
Options:
SUSPEND MORALE LOOP
REASSIGN JOY
ESCALATE TO PLATFORM
REQUEST SONG
Kevin stared.
“Request song?”
Derek shouted:
“No.”
Kevin selected SUSPEND MORALE LOOP.
A warning appeared.
SUSPENSION MAY RESULT IN UNFILTERED RESIDENT DISTRESS
Arthur shouted:
“GOOD.”
Kevin confirmed.
The room broke.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
The fake cheer vanished.
The residents sobbed.
Some screamed.
Some laughed.
Some just sat down and stared at nothing.
It was awful.
It was real.
Amanda covered her mouth.
Linda’s eyes filled, though she pretended they hadn’t.
Kevin looked around and said softly:
“There it is.”
Derek whispered:
“What?”
Kevin said:
“The haunting.”
He was right.
Cheerful Pines had not been haunted because of ghosts.
It had been haunted because no one was allowed to be unhappy.
The AMNs shrieked.
Without forced joy, their bodies collapsed inward.
Yellow cardigans tore.
Smile badges popped off and scattered across the floor like teeth.
One AMN crawled towards Amanda.
“Positivity resource required.”
Amanda stepped back.
Flat 3 hit it with the pan.
“Get your own personality.”
The AMN collapsed.
Another grabbed Arthur.
Kevin kicked it.
Both trainers connected.
Solid.
The AMN flew backwards into the snack trolley.
Kevin looked down at his feet.
Then at us.
“I kicked something.”
Derek grinned.
“Proud of you.”
Kevin pointed at him.
“Don’t.”
But he was smiling.
The remaining AMNs retreated into the hallway.
Not defeated.
Not destroyed.
Withdrawn.
That felt worse.
Before they vanished, AMN-003 turned its broken face towards Amanda.
“Profile retained.”
Amanda’s expression hardened.
“Try me.”
AMN-003 smiled with half a mouth.
Then melted into the wall.
The lounge went quiet.
Arthur sat back down.
Not smiling.
Just breathing.
Linda knelt beside him.
“Are you able to tell us who needs contacting?”
He nodded.
“My daughter.”
Linda wrote it down.
“Name?”
He told her.
Others began giving names too.
Children.
Grandchildren.
Friends.
Solicitors.
Doctors.
One woman simply said:
“The police.”
Linda nodded.
“Reasonable.”
Kevin looked at me.
“This has become more paperwork than I expected.”
“You came to a retirement home run by nightmare morale nurses.”
“I expected some paperwork.”
Derek picked a plastic ball out of his hood.
“Do we keep the ball pit?”
“No,” said Linda.
“Residents might like it.”
Arthur said:
“I do not want the ghost app ball pit.”
Derek nodded.
“Fair.”
The building began changing again.
The cheerful posters fell from the walls.
The locked phones unlocked.
The mirror in the Reflection Suite shattered, and the trapped reflections climbed out one by one, furious and confused.
The reception desk spat out dozens of hidden complaint forms.
The fake plant by the entrance unfolded into a listening device and tried to crawl away.
Flat 5 pinned it down with his spoon.
“Not today, shrub.”
Kevin looked impressed.
“Spoon confidence returning.”
Flat 5 nodded solemnly.
“It never left. It was merely misfiled.”
We helped where we could.
Which mostly meant Linda organised, Amanda comforted, Flat 3 threatened anything with a badge, Flat 5 investigated cutlery anomalies, Derek accidentally found three more forbidden rooms, and Dave stood near doors saying “wasn’t me” until residents felt weirdly calmer.
Kevin and Ken checked the walls.
The AMN network had left traces.
Yellow mould.
Smile badges.
Tiny speakers hidden in clocks.
Little jars of gold liquid tucked behind family photos.
Ken held one up.
“Stabilising agent.”
Kevin’s face twisted.
“Joy jam.”
“Don’t call it that.”
“I will call it that forever.”
Ken looked down the hallway.
“There are more sites.”
Kevin nodded.
The map from the lift had shown hundreds.
KVN.
AMN.
DVE.
LND.
Others.
Personality types.
Resident types.
Human behaviour turned into product lines.
Fear.
Cheerfulness.
Denial.
Control.
Resistance.
Platform hadn’t just been trapping ghosts.
It had been cataloguing people.
The thought made the back of my neck prickle.
Near the reception desk, Linda was on the phone to Arthur’s daughter.
Her voice was controlled but fierce.
Amanda sat with three residents who were crying and laughing at the same time because no one was stopping them.
Derek had found biscuits in a cupboard and was checking them for “haunted intent.”
Dave was apologising to a ficus.
Flat 3 stood guard at the lounge door, pan over her shoulder, looking like the world’s angriest activities coordinator.
For a while, it almost felt like we had done something good.
Then the piano started again.
One note.
Wrong.
Slow.
Everyone stopped.
The piano sat in the corner of the lounge.
No one was touching it.
One key pressed itself down.
Then another.
Then another.
The tune was not jaunty now.
It was the same song as before, but stripped of cheer.
A funeral version.
The residents began whispering.
Arthur looked terrified.
Kevin moved towards the piano.
“Not a fan.”
The keys played by themselves.
Then stopped.
The fallboard lifted.
Inside, where strings should have been, there was a mouth.
Long.
Black.
Full of little white teeth shaped like piano keys.
It spoke in dozens of elderly voices.
“Joy loop suspended.”
Kevin sighed.
“Yes. We were there.”
The piano-mouth smiled.
“Escalation required.”
Linda stepped into the room.
“By whom?”
The piano answered:
ACTIVITIES DIRECTOR.
Amanda whispered:
“There’s a director?”
Kevin looked at her.
“There’s always a manager.”
The piano began printing something from between its keys.
Not paper.
A yellow ribbon.
It slid onto the floor.
Linda picked it up.
Words appeared across it in gold.
CHEERFUL PINES HAS FAILED TO MAINTAIN RESIDENT MORALE.
SITE WILL BE RESET.
The residents started panicking.
Linda read faster.
ALL RESIDENTS, STAFF, VISITORS AND UNAUTHORISED SUPERNATURAL ADVOCATES WILL BE INCLUDED IN RESET FOR CONTINUITY PURPOSES.
Kevin looked at the piano.
“Define reset.”
The piano-mouth opened wider.
Every framed photo in the room changed.
Each now showed the lounge exactly as it had looked before we arrived.
Residents smiling.
AMN-003 standing in the centre.
Arthur grateful.
Phones locked.
Complaints gone.
Then the photos changed again.
This time, we were in them too.
Me smiling.
Derek smiling.
Linda smiling.
Flat 3 smiling with no frying pan.
Flat 5 smiling without a spoon.
Dave smiling without guilt.
Amanda smiling too widely.
Kevin standing behind AMN-003 in grey uniform.
Ken beside him.
Both wearing yellow name badges.
VOLUNTEER MORALE ASSISTANTS
Kevin stared.
“No.”
The piano-mouth said:
“Reset begins in ten minutes.”
The lift doors opened behind us.
Inside was Riverside Court.
Home.
Safe-ish.
A way out.
Kevin looked at the residents.
Then at the lift.
Derek saw his face.
“Mate.”
Kevin didn’t answer.
Linda closed her clipboard.
“We are not leaving them.”
Kevin nodded.
“Didn’t say we were.”
Ken stepped beside him.
“Plan?”
Kevin looked at the piano.
The residents.
The yellow ribbon.
The smiling photos.
Then at Amanda.
She looked exhausted.
Not chipper.
Not bright.
Just herself.
He looked at Dave.
“Dave.”
Dave straightened.
“Wasn’t me.”
“Exactly.”
Dave frowned.
“What?”
Kevin smiled.
“You are a denial loop.”
“That sounds insulting.”
“It is. But useful.”
Linda understood.
Her eyes lit up.
“No.”
Kevin pointed at the reset notice.
“They’re trying to make this building agree it was always happy.”
Derek grinned.
“So we need someone who can deny reality harder.”
Everyone slowly turned to Dave.
Dave looked around.
“Why is everyone looking at me?”
Kevin stepped closer.
“Dave, I need you to do the most Dave thing you’ve ever done.”
Dave swallowed.
“On purpose?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if I can.”
Flat 3 put a hand on his shoulder.
“You absolutely can.”
The piano-mouth began counting down.
“Reset in nine minutes.”
Kevin pointed at the room.
“When the reset starts, you deny it.”
Dave blinked.
“That’s it?”
“With everything you’ve got.”
Dave looked at the residents.
The photos.
AMN’s broken smile badges.
Linda’s clipboard.
Amanda’s tired face.
Kevin’s two trainers.
Then he nodded.
“I can do that.”
The piano played a cheerful chord.
The photos brightened.
The air thickened.
Everyone’s mouth began to pull upwards.
The reset had started early.
Of course it had.
Dave stepped into the centre of the lounge.
His hands shook.
His face went pale.
Then he shouted:
“WASN’T ME.”
The reset stuttered.
The piano hit a wrong note.
Kevin shouted:
“Again!”
Dave screamed:
“WASN’T ME!”
The photos flickered.
The smiling version of Arthur cracked.
The smiling version of Amanda blurred.
The smiling version of Kevin bent sideways.
Dave kept going.
“WASN’T ME!”
The denial spread.
Not empty this time.
Not cowardly.
Weaponised.
The reset tried to write over us.
Dave denied the rewrite.
The piano-mouth screamed.
The photos shattered.
The yellow ribbon burned.
Residents joined him.
One by one.
“It wasn’t me.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“It wasn’t me.”
Not denying guilt.
Denying the lie.
Arthur stood.
“It wasn’t me who smiled.”
Another resident:
“It wasn’t me who said I was grateful.”
Another:
“It wasn’t me who agreed.”
Amanda whispered:
“It wasn’t me who was always fine.”
Kevin looked at her.
Then at the piano.
“It wasn’t me who stayed in the chair.”
Ken stepped forward.
“It wasn’t me who stayed a number.”
The room shook apart.
The piano-mouth split down the middle.
Inside it was not a monster.
It was a tiny office.
A tiny desk.
A tiny woman in a yellow suit sitting behind it.
She looked up from a form.
The Activities Director.
She was the size of a doll.
Her smile filled her entire face.
“Oh,” Derek said. “That’s somehow worse.”
Kevin reached into the piano.
The tiny woman held up one hand.
“I’d like to speak to your manager.”
Kevin smiled.
“We ate her.”
Then he grabbed her.
She screamed in a voice far too large for her body.
The AMN figures in the walls screamed with her.
The piano collapsed.
The reset broke.
Cheerful Pines exhaled.
The building changed.
Not into something nice.
Into something real.
The carpet stained.
The walls cracked.
The air smelled less like lavender and more like old radiators.
The residents stopped smiling.
And for the first time, Cheerful Pines sounded alive.
Messy.
Crying.
Arguing.
Calling family.
Complaining about mash.
Someone asked for tea.
Someone else asked for whisky.
Arthur sat down hard in his chair and started laughing.
Really laughing.
Kevin held the tiny Activities Director at arm’s length.
She kicked furiously.
Linda produced an empty biscuit tin.
Kevin looked at her.
“You just have that?”
Linda opened the tin.
“Contingency.”
He dropped the tiny director inside.
Linda shut the lid.
From inside came muffled shouting.
“I require escalation!”
Kevin tapped the tin.
“Take a number.”
The complaints kiosk, which had somehow rolled through the lift on its own, printed:
COMPLAINT RECEIVED: TIN TOO SMALL.
Linda looked at it.
“Denied.”
Amanda sat beside Arthur.
He patted her hand.
“You’re not from here, are you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She smiled.
Tired.
Honest.
He nodded.
“That’s better.”
We got Cheerful Pines stable.
Not fixed.
Not by a long way.
But stable.
Linda contacted families.
Amanda helped residents record statements.
Derek tried to make tea and accidentally found another hidden surveillance kettle.
Flat 3 took charge of destroying smile badges.
Flat 5 discovered the dining room had excellent spoons and nearly cried.
Dave stood proudly beside the cracked piano.
Kevin looked at him.
“You did good.”
Dave’s eyes filled.
Kevin immediately added:
“Don’t make it weird.”
Dave nodded.
“Wasn’t me.”
“Perfect.”
When we finally returned to the lift, the residents lined the hallway.
Not smiling because they had to.
Some weren’t smiling at all.
That felt better.
Arthur held Kevin’s hand.
Or tried to.
His fingers passed through.
Kevin looked deeply uncomfortable but allowed the attempt.
“Thank you,” Arthur said.
Kevin glanced at his trainers.
“No worries.”
Arthur looked down too.
“Nice shoes.”
Kevin smiled.
“They’re new.”
“They look old.”
“Emotionally new.”
Arthur nodded like that made perfect sense.
The lift doors opened.
Riverside Court waited beyond.
Home.
The complaints kiosk rolled in first.
Linda followed with the biscuit tin containing the tiny Activities Director.
Flat 3 carried the frying pan.
Flat 5 carried several rescued spoons.
Derek carried nothing, because Linda had confiscated the surveillance kettle.
Dave carried himself with unusual pride.
Amanda stepped in quietly.
Kevin lingered at the threshold.
Ken stood beside him.
“You know this was one site.”
Kevin nodded.
“Yeah.”
The map would have hundreds more.
KVN.
AMN.
DVE.
LND.
All those codes.
All those people.
All those little pieces of humanity being copied, bottled, weaponised and sold back as comfort.
Kevin looked down at his shoes.
Then into the lift.
“Bins first?”
Ken smiled faintly.
“Always.”
They stepped in.
The doors closed.
For one second, everything was dark.
Then we were back in Riverside Court.
The lobby smelled like damp carpet, bad decisions and home.
Everyone exhaled.
The complaint kiosk printed:
NEW COMPLAINT CATEGORY CREATED: CHEERFUL OPPRESSION.
Kevin nodded.
“Accurate.”
Linda set the biscuit tin on the reception table.
From inside, the tiny Activities Director shouted:
“I am entitled to representation!”
Kevin leaned over it.
“You’re entitled to shut up.”
The tin rattled.
The complaint kiosk printed:
Complaint received: hostile tin environment.
Derek sat on the stairs.
“So what now?”
Nobody answered.
Then the lift dinged.
Everyone froze.
The doors opened.
No hospital.
No courtroom.
No retirement home.
Just the lift.
Inside stood Dave.
Also Dave.
Our Dave was standing beside us.
The Dave in the lift wore the same pyjamas.
Same slippers.
Same confused expression.
Except his badge read:
DVE-002
Our Dave whispered:
“Wasn’t me.”
The other Dave smiled.
“No,” he said.
“Wasn’t me.”
Behind him, in the darkness of the lift, hundreds of voices repeated it.
“Wasn’t me.”
“Wasn’t me.”
“Wasn’t me.”
“Wasn’t me.”
Kevin slowly turned to our Dave.
“Oh, mate.”
Dave looked at the duplicate.
Then at us.
Then at the lift.
For once, he didn’t deny anything.
He just whispered:
“That one might be me.”