The Krusty Krab is unusually silent, the rhythmic hum of the grill replaced by an oppressive, heavy air that feels thick enough to choke on. You notice, too late, that no one seems to be around aside of you. Suddenly, the fluorescent lights overhead begin to flicker with a violent, erratic rhythm,a sequence orchestrated by a spectral force far more malevolent than Nosferatu’s usual pranks.

The phone on the cashier begins to ring, a sharp, piercing sound that echoes into the empty kitchen,but when you lift the receiver, there is nothing but the faint, wet sound of heavy breathing from a ghost who hasn't spoken since he was fired at his own funeral.

Outside, a rusted, spectral bus, resembling a red submarine with periscopes and a shrimp-like tail, screeches to a halt in a cloud of green mist that smells of ancient grease and the abyss. A tall, shrouded figure steps off the curb, ignoring the road entirely as he marches toward the glass doors with a stiff, unnatural gait.

The door creaks open, and the smell of old grease and cold sea-water fills the room, chilling the very water in your lungs. The figure stands in the doorway of the underwater Krusty Krab, his silhouette illuminated by the streetlamp, a rusted spatula glinting where his left hand should be. He doesn't say a word, but the glowing red pinpricks of his eyes lock onto you from beneath his dark sillhuete. He begins to move toward the counter, the spatula scraping against the wood with a sound that sets your teeth on edge, leaving deep, jagged gouges in the floorboards.