Hi, My name's John, John Ackley. I am seventeen years old and work in a nail parlor. An odd job choice for a guy, I know, but it has good pay and the workers are all very kind, not to mention women, that's a plus. Another reason I took this job was because one of the workers there was my friend, Angela Barbuto, but she's not important in this story.

The parlor was a comfortable, relaxing place. Paintings of women in dark, soothing colors were mounted on the walls and there was always some sort of soft, quiet melody playing over the radio.

Now, again, this was a parlor, not a spa, and it was very odd to have spa music playing as someone painted your nails, but most workers ignored the melodies and went on with their jobs, straightening out and painting messy nails.

The one thing, over all the rest that I found odd about the place was the manager.

Bentley Croffit, our manager, was a tall man, at about fourty to fifty years of age. His hair, however, made him look older, what with the grey color and large balding spot in the center. He was beer-bellied and always wore a wide grin that stretched, unnaturally across his face.

When somebody quit, and there was a job opening, he would fill it until somebody came along to take it. What was odd though, is that, whenever a worker was hired, he would tell them to never, under any circumstances, go into the back room.

We were all told this one sentence when we signed up. We were allowed anywhere else in the building but that one room.

I would occasionally catch glimpses of Bentley sneaking into the back room after hours, looking thoroughly paranoid, glancing over his shoulders to make sure that he was not being followed. I always dismissed it as the place where he kept all his money, like a vault of some sort, but never once in all my life had I seen even a glimpse of the room or any vault resembling the door to it, so I couldn't verify my statement properly.

It didn't bother us much, seeing as we had access to every other part of the building, which was huge I might add, but it still peeked our curiosity.

In our free time, we would always speculate what was behind that door. Some said that there was a whole shooting range back there and Croffit was just afraid that one of his workers would steal his guns. Others speculated that there were millions of freaky mannequins lying all over the floor. What he would need those for, we had no idea, it was still a possibility though.

One particular slow day at the parlor, Croffit told us to yell for him if we needed anything and walked into another room. After a couple minutes, a customer walked in, requesting shellac. I accepted the job and asked what color she wanted. Unable to decide, she asked if she could see the full selection of colors. I nodded and took out about fifteen bottles of shellac nail polish, all in different shades and colors. None of them seemed to interest her, requesting one that would pop and sparkle in the light. I nodded again, explaining that there was one she could see that had those qualities, and dug around in the desk.

After a couple minutes of searching, I told her to wait while I called the manager. She nodded as I stepped out from behind the desk.

I went to his office first, where he usually is but he wasn't there. Next, I checked the break room. Finding no sign of him there, I finally convinced myself to open the metal, back room door.

I hesitated, my hand wavering over the shiny, metal door knob. There was something about this door that just...unsettled me. I shook my head quickly, telling myself that it was nothing, and turned the handle.

It was dark. Pitch black, and there was a putrid, metallic smell. I stepped into the room, feeling around the wall for a light switch. As I walked around, I kicked something long and soft. I brushed it off as a long pillow of some sort and continued feeling my way around the room.

Finally, I felt a light switch. I quickly flipped it, turning on a singular, flickering light bulb in the center of the ceiling. I wasn't prepared for what I saw.

In the center of the room was a pile of severed women's arms, each hand's fingernails painted in a different color. I reeled back in horror, realizing that the thing I kicked wasn't a pillow, but a rotting arm.

Shaking, I put one of my hands up to my mouth. I felt the sub I'd eaten earlier climb up my throat in the form of an acidic, chunky liquid. I could do nothing but stand there in shock.

I couldn't take it anymore. Not even bothering to shut off the light, I ran out of the room and watched as the chunky liquid spiraled down the bathroom sink. Why would he do this?

The next day, I quit my job. I didn't hear any word from the parlor after that. It was eventually closed down for health defects after some customers and workers admitted to smelling a horrid stench emitting from the back room.

Word of advice, if somebody tells you to not open a door, listen. They might just be saving your sanity.