Page 37 of Heartless

“Yeah, sorry, friend,” I murmur, distracted. “But I really don’t have time to be threatened.” Barely sparing them a glance, I walk down the hallway, moving to one side to pass the person as they stand in the middle of the walkway. “You’re a little off theme, don’t you think?” I ask absently.

The actor moves, and I jerk to the side just as they grab my wrist to yank me back into the hallway and out of my path toward the door. I spin around, eyes narrowed in frustration. “Can you not?” I demand. “Seriously, I’m looking for?—”

The knife flashes in the strobe light from above us, seeming to move in strange, quick movements between us. But I don’t realize what’s happening at first. At least, not until I feel pain bloom in my arm and a yelp of surprise has already escaped my mouth.

“You…” I look down at my arm outstretched between us and the blood welling up to the surface of my skin. “You’re…” I look up and step back, my arm falling to my side when the person lets go. They tilt their head at me, running gloved fingers up the knife.

I’m frozen in place while blood trickles to the tips of my fingers and drips to the floor below. The person steps toward me, knife coming up seemingly in slow motion, and that’s what snaps me out of my stupor.

I pivot on my foot and run, not knowing or caring where I’m going in the slaughterhouse as long as it’s away from here.

Chapter

Sixteen

My quick footsteps seem to echo in the narrow, dim hallway of the slaughterhouse. When I look over my shoulder, I see the masked person following me, their fingers dragging along the wall as they run.

“Fuck,” I hiss, my heart pounding. I have nothing on me except my phone, and for some reason, I can’t find a single damn person on this end of the haunt.

On a second look around, however, I realize this must be the last part of the building still undergoing work. The walls are unfinished, with planks and sheets of lumber propped up against them or strewn across the floor. I trip over a two-by-four, stumble and hit my knees hard enough that a shockwave of pain shoots down to my feet. But I can’t exactly take the time to moan over it. Instead, I scramble to my feet, my bloody hand sliding against the floor, and carry on sprinting down the hallway while trying not to limp.

I scream. Over and over I scream, but realize pretty fast I won’t get anywhere with that. Not when my screams are just echoes fitting in with the chorus of shrieks from the other people walking through the haunt, and the scare actors’ yells as well.

Unless I can actually find someone, no one is going to know I’m back here and having a really rough time. On a lit table ahead, I see knives scattered in a pile and I stumble to a stop, reaching out and grabbing for the hilts. But they’re plastic, of course.

Everything here is fake except the knife that cut me.

Whirling around again, my chest heaving with desperate breaths, I scan the hallway I came from which led to this more open space.

“Can’t you just find someone else?” I snap when I see the hooded, masked figure prowling toward me. My words make them stop, and the person tilts their head at me once more, as if amused, while dragging the edge of the blade along the concrete wall. The ensuing noise makes my teeth ache, and I look around for anything that might not be fake.

Anything at all.

A new noise makes me look up, and as I watch, the masked stranger bends down to pick up a cord from the floor, twisting it between their gloved fingers. With slow, deliberate movements, they plug the cord into the wall, and immediately I have to close my eyes against the bright, flaring strobe light in my face.

I shriek and stumble back, covering my eyes in surprise and knocking over the table with the fake knives. But I know I can’t just not look at what’s happening. And I’m not about to let a fucking loser in a mask at a haunted house I only sometimes like stab me while my eyes are closed.

Forcing my eyes open, I look around the room, having to squint as the strobe lights blink and flare. “What do you want?!” I yell, turning in a circle to track any movement in the bright moments of light. “Why the hell are you chasing me in a haunted house with a?—”

I barely notice the person lunge at me from the shadows, and my words break off when I’m forced to lunge sideways to get outof their way. I fall into the overturned table, yelping as pain sears up my thigh. But when I push myself up, or try to, I realize that both of my hands are now slick with something that looks black in the strobing white lights.

More blood.

My stomach turns and I look around again, forcing myself to keep my eyes open even as the lights blink in a way that’s already pushing me into a headache. From the corner of my eye, I see the masked stranger against one wall, standing still even though in the strobe lights they appear to be constantly moving. But I don’t turn to face them. Not yet. Instead, I carefully search the walls, until I see the door I glimpsed when I came in here.

After all, the only other way out is the hallway, and I’d have to make it past the lights and the person with the knife for that.

I bolt, mentally crossing my fingers as I reach out for the door and yank on the handle. Expecting it to be locked, I let out a yelp of relieved surprise when it swings open and allows me to stumble out onto the ground behind the Slaughterhouse.

This area is apparently going to become something as well. Or it’s just the dumping ground for renovation equipment, I suppose. Either way, it doesn’t exactly matter as I search the surrounding area with the flashing light of the strobes inside, the sound of screams echoing in my ears.

Just as I hear footsteps behind me, my eyes find a pile of haphazard construction equipment. On another night, I would scoff and make a comment about unsafe storage practices of power tools. But this time, I’m thankful for their lackadaisical attitude toward things.

My hands are still slick with blood as I shove a piece of plywood away from the table. As my heart pounds so hard in my throat it might choke me, I look for anything that will be a suitable weapon for a knife.

Too bad I don’t know where the outlets are out here, I think almost ruefully as I shove a circular saw to the side. If I could plug it in, I’d feel a little better than I currently do. But finally I settle on a hammer, gripping it in my right hand.

I whirl around to face the door where the person had been heading a few seconds ago, only to meet the sight of the empty, strobe-lit doorframe. The lights, even this far away, push and prod at my headache, making me groan and press my left hand to my temple as if I can somehow convince it to stop hurting by sheer will alone.

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