The parking lot was eerily empty, save for a few cars left to rust under the flickering light of a single lamppost. You hesitated at the entrance to the indoor waterpark, its neon sign still humming with life: "Splash Haven – Open Daily!" The doors, strangely, slid open with a soft hiss as you approached, and warm, humid air rolled out, carrying the faint scent of chlorine and sunscreen.

Inside, the place was immaculate. Water rushed down slides in colorful torrents, wave machines rumbled in rhythmic bursts, and lazy rivers coiled gently around artificial palm trees. Music played softly over the speakers—a cheerful, summery tune. But there wasn’t a soul in sight.

You called out, your voice swallowed by the vast, echoing space. No answer. The water beckoned, pristine and sparkling under artificial sunlight, but unease coiled in your chest. It felt... wrong. The kind of wrong you couldn’t quite name but instinctively knew to fear.

You turned back toward the entrance, deciding the adventure wasn’t worth it. But the glass doors were gone. In their place stood a solid wall of smooth, featureless tile, as if the exit had never existed. Your pulse quickened.

“Hello?” you shouted, spinning around. The music seemed louder now, and the once-inviting waters shimmered with an unsettling glow. Shadows danced at the edges of the wave pool, though nothing cast them.

Your footsteps echoed as you tried every door, every hallway. They led only to more pools, more slides, more cheerful, empty attractions.

Then, the music stopped. Silence fell, broken only by the steady drip of water. A voice crackled to life over the intercom, warm but somehow... wrong.

“Welcome to Splash Haven. Stay as long as you’d like.”

The lights flickered, and for the first time, you felt the weight of being watched.