Page 34 of Terror Tuesday
The stout man dressed in all black near the row of cottages moves deliberately—like a predator stalking prey. Or perhaps like it’s a chore to move fast.
And Olivia, bright and unaware, is aiming straight for his trap. I didn’t expect something like this. Thought I could be safe just watching out for her…
Panic coils through my veins. I have to get to her. Now.
Because once she steps into the game…
I might not get the chance to save her.
ten
Leaveit to the president ofOmegato be late and not catch up to her group in time.
My dress snags on the splintered threshold as I pass into the first room. The fabric pulls tight, then tears with a soft hiss. Of course! Sora will be so mad. Probably already drafting a formal apology to the seamstress in her head.
I glance around and immediately recognize the theme—Alice in Wonderland. Perfect. A wide-eyed girl trapped in a world full of manic creatures and quiet malice. How fitting for me.
Down the rabbit hole, I guess. Except this wonderland has more blood and fewer tea parties.
The floorboards creak beneath my heels as I step forward, into a too-red hallway trimmed in warped white paneling. A grandfather clock ticks from a crooked angle on the wall—2:33. Or maybe 9:55. The hands are bent. I think I remember this one from sophomore year.Iotaused it for theirPurge-themed maze. Everything gets recycled here eventually.
Hopefully, it won’t take me long to get through this, and then I can slip out early. I’m not in the mood for more of this performative terror tonight.
Part of me wonders what Elliot is up to... What do people who aren’t in this world do with their time? Freedom and friends?
A ping of jealousy stabs me in the ribs, sharper than expected. I picture him somewhere cozy and far too intimate with people who laugh easily. Skinnier ones with blonde hair. He’s not a player, is he?
What does it matter, Olivia? You can’t be with him!
As I finish the first clue with ease, a frustrated grunt escapes my lips. They always make the first room solvable in under five minutes to lull you into confidence. It’s all psychological.
Aiden better let me out of here before too long. Being big sister to the president ofThetahas its advantages. There’s no way he’d make me spend the night in their dungeon. If some initiates try to take me down there? I’ll only need to tell them who I am, and then I’d get a free pass from my brother.
Distant screams bleed through the door to the next area. That’ll be theThetapledges wearing cheap masks, lurking in dark corners, waiting for the chance to jump out and scare someone.
My stomach tightens as the door clicks behind me.
The change in atmosphere is instant. Dank, oppressive. A cannibal’s kitchen scene, complete with a woman laid out on the butcher block island, her midsection carved open like a turkey. Blood pools around her waist. The knife still stuck in her side gleams under the flickering overhead light. Perhaps a piece of her fake entrails is cut into a triangle shape, but I try not to look directly at it.
I squint to scan her body. “Good makeup,” I mutter, but she doesn’t flinch.
A deep inhale steadies my nerves. The room carries a sour odor, like copper and spoiled meat. My fingers twitch when I slide one under my nose to cover the smell.
The cabinetry is painted retro green, peeling at the edges. A rotten pie sits on the windowsill with plastic cockroaches stuck in the crust while a blender still hums on low.
A little too immersive this year…
With a sigh, I find the first clue. As I lift the card, I catch a camera in my periphery as it blinks red, recording me. I narrow my gaze and lift my middle finger at it. Cute.
Probably my baby brother, Henry, monitoring my movements to make sure I get through.
To solve the next part, I have to stand directly underneath it. When I glance up to smile at Henry, I freeze. The entire front looks as if it’s been painted over… There’s no glow from the lens.
Despite my annoyance at solo participation and wanting to do anything but party tonight, a sense of dread slithers under my skin. The silence in this room isn’t a show—it’s loaded. Scripted, but not rehearsed. Like someone forgot to tell the actress what the play was about.
My eyes flick back to the woman on the counter just as the doorknob to the room I left rattles.
I blanch.
