Page 8 of Haunt

Especially on my own.

The room is remarkably less overwhelming than the circus tent. I’m surprised to find I’m in a child’s bedroom, or what looks like one, with a wrought iron bed in one corner and a table holding a dollhouse in the middle as the main feature of the room. A light bulb flickers above us, and when Doll Mask tugs me further into the room, I nearly stumble when my sneakers sink into the soaking wet carpet.

Looking down is a bit of a mistake, though. I bite my lip to stifle a gasp when I see blood bubbling to the surface of the plush fabric, streaking along my sneakers. I follow the puddles of blood, seeing that they end near the bed.

I’m not sure I want to know why.

“Come see.” Doll Mask doesn’t give me much of a choice. She drags me over to the dollhouse, showing me the side that opens, which immediately makes me gasp in surprise.

It’s covered in blood, and what looks like entrails are draped garishly over it like streamers or fairy lights. But my new friend doesn’t even hesitate. She picks up a string of gore, running it between her dainty fingers before holding it out to me.

“N-no, I—” She doesn’t give me a choice. She reaches out, looping the stringy mass around my wrist, her hands slipping in blood as she tries to tie them in a bow to form a little bracelet.

It’s not real.

The warm, slick slide against my skin turns my stomach. It’s so hard to remember none of this is real when another scream rings through the building, and both of us look toward the door.

“Ooh, I didn’t realize she was still alive,” Doll Mask comments. “Let’s go see.” She grabs my fingers in hers, skin slick with blood, and tugs me to the door. Subtly I pick at the ‘bracelet,’ dropping it to the floor with a shudder.

Not that Doll Mask even stops to notice. She heads for a black door and pushes it open, dragging me inside as I brace myself for something just as bad as the last two rooms.

But what I get is so, so much worse.

Dalton sits in a chair in the middle of the room, covered in blood and sobbing. When he sees me his eyes go wide, and he struggles in the chair where his arms are cuffed to the rails beside him. “Help me!” he screams, rattling the cuffs. “This isn’t fucking fake!Help me!”

Dread settles in my chest and I look at the man behind him, the one in the scarecrow mask. He stares back at me impassively, then leans down to pick up a chainsaw from the concrete floor.

Fuck, I hate chainsaws in haunted houses.

“Help me!” Dalton screams again, unable to see what Scarecrow is doing. “It’s not—These guys are fucking insane! Ivy’s dead, and—” The chainsaw revs and he stiffens, a look of pure terror going through his eyes.

“S-so safeword out,” I stammer, unable to take my eyes off of the chainsaw. “Just say?—”

“I fucking tried! Fair’s fair! Fair isfucking fair!” He’s hysterical with fear and panic, and I glance between the two actors, expecting them to stop, to untie him. To do…something.

But Scarecrow just revs the chainsaw again, despite Dalton’s screams of protest. With Doll Mask’s hand tightly holding mine, I can’t even look away as Scarecrow strides forward. He reaches out, stroking bloody fingers along Dalton’s face, and leans in to whisper something to him I have no chance of hearing.

Whatever it is, though, has the man in the chair looking floored, disbelief in his eyes as he turns his head to look at the masked man. “No, I…how do you…” he trails off. “It’s not my fucking fault!” he sneers, struggling with renewed urgency. “It’s not my fault!”

He screams the words as Scarecrow pulls the string on the chainsaw, starting it effortlessly. I stare at it, watching it vibrate in his hand as my heart tries to escape the cage of my ribs by any means possible, making my chest ache with the ferocity of its pulse.

“Fair’s fair,” I whisper, unable to tear my eyes away. I watch as the chainsaw comes down and makes contact with Dalton’s outstretched left arm just below his elbow.

“Fair’s fair,” I breathe again, as the chainsaw pressesdown, down…the revving of the motor unable to completely drown out Dalton’s screaming.

I’ve never heard someone scream like that before, or seen blood spray and arc while someone tries to rip free. I can see the cuff on his other hand cutting into the skin of his wrist as he tries in desperation to break out of the chair.

I fuckingwatchwhen the chainsaw sparks against the metal of the chair, severing Dalton’s arm and making him slump backin the chair. His forearm is still cuffed to the chair, but falls to hang by the wrist, almost touching the floor.

That’s what does it, for some reason. The sight of his arm justhangingthere, like a prop, while blood sprays from his elbow, has me ripping my hand free of Doll Mask and turning to sprint to the door. I can’t do this. It looks too real, and I absolutely have to get out of here. My hand goes for the doorknob, and it takes me a few seconds longer than it should to rip it open to the hallway beyond.

Only I find my path blocked by the man in the skeleton mask. Ravage. I remember his ‘name,’ after the impression he’d made out in the lobby.

“Fair’s fair!” I gasp, panicked as he just leans against the doorframe as casually as if we’re about to discuss the weather. “I-I can’t do this. I want out, and?—”

“You want out?” He reaches up, fingers wrapping around my throat to drag me closer until I can see the glint of his eyes in the dim light. “Princess, where do you think youare?”

“I’m…” I start to look over my shoulder, until I hear the revving of the chainsaw again, along with another choked off scream from Dalton. “We’re at Grim Descent. The extreme haunt.” My words come out almost like a question, and I hate the way his eyes narrow in amusement.

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