Episode 08 - Host Energy

The first normal moment came around 11:45 AM.

A soft knock on the front desk—not a Host stomping through, not a grand entrance. Just a polite tap.

Olivia looked up.

A tall woman stood there, probably mid-40s, wearing a soft cardigan over a black and red A-line dress with spiderweb patterns. Her flaming red hair was silvery at the temples, and her makeup was understated, except for a dramatic flick of eyeliner. Her name badge read: “Mistress Peace.”

She smiled.

“Hi. I’m not sure where the check-in sheet is. First time back this season.”

Olivia blinked. “Uh—hi! Right, yes, it’s… hang on…”

She fumbled through a drawer until she found a clipboard labeled “Hosts, but don’t tell them they’re Hosts.”

Mistress Peace leaned on the counter, watching her with an amused but kind expression.

“You must be new,” she said. “Don’t worry. You’re doing just fine. Bernard already sings your praises.”

“He what?”

“Oh, he talks about you constantly,” she said with a chuckle. “You’re the first receptionist to last longer than two weeks since 2020. You’ve got a grounded energy. I like that.”

Olivia stared at her for a beat. “You seem… normal.”

Mistress Peace smiled, but there was something ancient in her eyes. “That’s the trick, dear. The normal ones get in deeper.”

She signed in, carefully wrote a note beside her name (‘Broadcasting pre-recorded segments today – in-studio by 7pm’), and placed a wrapped granola bar next to the sign-in sheet.

“Something tells me you’ve barely eaten,” she said, and then added quietly, “Drink something sweet before the sun sets. The station dips into long-shadow territory around then. Sugar helps.”

And with that, she gave Olivia a wink and walked gracefully into the buzzing heart of the weekend shift.

The second semi-normal moment came about an hour later.

A lanky man in a black three piece suit with a red tie, his face and neck painted painstakingly to look like a skull shuffled up to the desk carrying three pizza boxes and an old film reel. His badge read: “Victor Von Psychotron.”

“You Olivia?” he asked, voice soft but scratchy like he hadn’t spoken much lately.

“…Yes?”

He nodded. “Cool. If anyone tells you to go down to Studio J during a full moon, don’t. It’s not real. Or rather… it is, and that’s the problem.”

He set the pizza boxes down. “Veggie, meat lovers, and something Bernard ordered but refuses to explain.”

Then he turned and wandered off down the hall humming the X-Files theme.

Olivia slowly turned back to the desk.

“…Okay.”

By mid-afternoon, she’d settled into something like a rhythm. Hosts would appear, ask questions that didn’t make sense, compliment her ears, vanish. A pair of them debated whether they were technically dead in front of the vending machine for twenty minutes. No one screamed. No one bled. And Bernard only slimed the front tile once.

It wasn’t normal.

But it was hers now.