Page 13 of Scaredy Cat
The man in a Santa beard who jumps out at me makes me giggle, though I clap a hand over my grin. “Sorry,” I apologize. “It’s automatic.” But he doesn’t answer; he just follows me through the house, past a whimpering girl rocking in a corner with a cleaver in her hands. Surrounding her are open presents filled with body parts and the tree with lights that twinkle garishly in the small building.
Once I’m outside on the back porch, Santa vanishes with a grumble, leaving me to navigate the winding trail leading toward a rickety bridge. Night has well and truly fallen now, and evenwith all the walking I’ve done, I’m still chilly and shiver a little, crossing my arms for warmth.
A man dressed like a bloody doctor perks up as I near him, cleaning a scalpel between his fingers. “All alone?” he coos. “And shivering already? I bet I could give you something to shiver about? Or”—he mimes slicing down his own arm with the scalpel—“I could take away the ability to shiver at all.”
“That’s so kind,” I reply, still trudging along, though he follows me across the wooden bridge that spans the width of the creek. Fog billows up from under it, with only a few red lights providing a bit of illumination. “But that might take a while. Surely you have places to be.”
“The only place I have to be is here, welcoming poor, lonely girls to my asylum.” He paces beside me, making a dramatic welcoming gesture toward the small, square-shaped building in the woods. “We had to make a place for all thosecousinsto go when they get a little too excited.” Before I can walk through the door, he slams his hand against the wall in front of me, forcing me to a stop.
“Might be dangerous for you to be in there all alone.”
“Yeah? You think so?” I turn to look at him again, still unable to hide my grin as I look over his blood-spattered scrubs. “Question? Are you a doctor or a nurse? I’m not judging either way. I think?—”
He removes his arm with a faux scoff, feigning offense. “Never mind,” he tells me. “You go right in. Forget my warnings. I’m sure the cousins will just love to see someone they can tear apart as easily as you.” With that, he prowls back across the bridge, waiting for the group behind me that’s still screaming their heads off in the barn, by the sound of things.
Finally, I trudge inside the asylum, its walls covered haphazardly in messy paint and what looks like fake-stoneunderneath it. A stool sits empty right beside a cage, which strikes me as a perfect place for a scare actor to lie in wait.
Maybe he’s off duty. Or maybe he’s just busy being somewhere else. The fog in here is thicker than outside, with strobing lights and cages against the walls filled with animatronics and prop bodies.
But no one jumps out at me.
Disappointment makes me frown and slow my pace, and I wonder if this really is just more of a ‘scene’ than a scare, though normally Nightmare Ridge is better about not doing that like some of the other haunts I’ve been to. I remind myself that the rest of the haunt has been spectacular, so this is just a low point. I round the corner to enter a hallway with broken cells on either side, and strobe lights as the only illumination.
A flash illuminates the actor I’ve been expecting, standing perfectly still at the end and wearing some kind of skeletal mask.
“I thought maybe you were taking the night off,” I call with a grin, striding down the hallway with one hand out against the fake bars to keep my balance, thanks to the unsteady light of the strobes. The fog is heavy enough to be cloying in my nose, and the actor is so still that I suddenly wonder if he’s just a prop as well.
At least, until he starts mirroring my steps. As I get closer, he does too, until we meet in the middle of the hallway and he’s close enough for me to see the skeletal canine mask covering his face, a cowl obscuring his hair and matching his black jacket, black jeans, and boots.
He doesn’t really look like he fits in here in the mental asylum of the haunted trail, but I’m willing to play along. “Hi,” I greet, tilting my head to the side. He mirrors me, but doesn’t reply. At his sides I can see the man’s hands flex, and I give him a bit of a perplexed look.
“No weapon? Just you? Staring menacingly at me?” My smile grows wider, a little goofy, and definitely a little overconfident. But at my words, the man reaches beside him to an overturned chair in the hallway and picks up a long, shiny blade. As I watch, he tugs off one glove, then runs his finger along the knife to smear the fake blood over his skin. I watch, and I’m shocked when, a second later, he reaches out to suddenly grab my hand, causing his fingers to stain mine.
“Oh wow, that’s so nice of you.” My nose curls, but my smile persists. I’ve never known Nightmare Ridge to be a touch haunt, but I’m certainly not complaining. Still, the fake blood is sticky on my skin, especially as the man curls his fingers with mine to lift our hands between us.
His mask tips to the side, and I get the feeling he’s surveying our hands behind his mask. Then without warning, the actor steps forward, and walks me back until my shoulders hit fake bars, causing them to shake in whatever foundation was made to hold them.
I don’t have a comeback for this. Nor do I have one for how he drops my hand and leans down to grab something else from the tipped-over chair, though I can’t see what it is. “You could have this back?” I manage, fingers splayed wide as the blood starts drying, sticky and warm on my skin. “You could—Oh!”My words falter when he comes back with a large, cheap plastic syringe filled with red. I swear I can sense the smile behind his mask as he steps forward again, trapping me where I stand. As I watch, he picks up my hand in his, turning it over so it’s palm up, and depresses the plunger, pouring enough dark red fake blood over my palm for it to pool and seep between my fingers.
My heart flutters a little in my chest, and I can’t look away. Not when he drags his bare fingers over my skin to paint blood over my fingers.
Not when his hand curls around my wrist.
I have no idea what he’s doing, especially when I feel his thumb stroke my pulse point, causing my chest to tighten and my words to get caught somewhere in my windpipe. Then the actor suddenly pulls my hand upward until it collides lightly with my face, pulling a shocked gasp from my throat. With my eyes wide on his mask, I can feel more than see him slide his hand against mine, spreading fake blood across my cheeks and over my jaw.
“I…” My voice falters, anything I might have said trailing off as I watch the mask and the eyes I can’t see behind the black mesh. A shiver goes down my spine as the actor drops my hand, though he doesn’t move away. Instead, his bare fingers come up to trace through the blood on my face.
I barely see him pick up the knife. The blade shines in the light like it’s really metal, and for the first time, the way my stomach clenches is more fear than anticipation. I glance sideways, lips parted, but I can’t find the words to say.
I don’t even know where tostart.
Sucking in a breath, I clench onto the bars behind me, my right hand sticking to the plastic as my eyes remain on the knife. His breath huffs out against it as he drags the blade along his mouth under the skeletal shape of the mask, and yet again I look for words that aren’t there.
Is this what being scared at a haunted house feels like?
Laughter breaks the intensity of the moment, along with loud, excited voices approaching the ‘asylum.’ The actor sighs suddenly, glancing toward the entrance before looking back at me. I swear he holds my gaze, even though I can’t see his eyes, before he takes a step back, flipping the knife between his fingers.
“You, uh, don’t really match the decor here, you know?” I call, finally finding my words. “Are you supposed to be…” Hestops, not facing me but unmoving, waiting for the rest of my question.
