Page 62 of First Impressions of You

It’s when I notice the blood stains on the cameras that a chill run downs my spine. I forget I’m in a maze, and I want to run away as far as I can, when my brain catches on to what my eyes are seeing. The massacre wasn’t part of the movie being shot here. It happened to the crew. While they were filming it.

This is fake. All of this is fake. I have to keep reminding myself. There was no crew. This isn’t a real movie set.

I’m trying to remind myself that none of this is real over and over again when an earsplitting scream and the sound of shattering glass makes me jolt and cover my ears. A second later, a body falls from the sky onto the bed. And I jump higher than I ever thought possible, one hand flying to cover my eyes, and other searching around for something to hold onto. I grab the closest person and feel a bulk of muscle under my touch.

When I finally make myself stop screaming and open my eyes, I find Winter rolling his lips inward, trying to keep himself from smiling or laughing at me.

I let go of his arm and smooth off inexistent wrinkles off my cropped sweater.

I’m glad I didn’t listen to Olivia when she suggested I wear a dress tonight. I don’t know how many people would’ve already seen my underwear after so many jump scares. The wide-leg jeans I chose are proven a much better option for this experience.

We move on to the next room, and I recognize it as a dressing room. The only light comes from the few light bulbs that are still working around the mirror. There’s makeup spread all around, a wig left forgotten on the floor, toiletries spilling out of a torn bag on the chair.

Suddenly, the lights turn off, and we’re left in pitch-black darkness. I’m not the only one who screams this time.

When the lights turn back on, there’s a fucking clown standing behind us, looking right at us in the mirror, a diabolical smile on his face.

The sound that comes out of my mouth isn’t human.

This time, I don’t use just one hand to grab onto someone for help. I full-on wrap both my arms around the person standing next to me, who just happens to be Winter again, of course. I only let go when I’m sure I’m not having a heart attack.

This time, he doesn’t hold his smile in.

I try to prepare myself mentally before we walk into the next room. I will not be startled. I’m a grown woman. I am not a scared little girl.

Repeating that over and over in my mind, I follow the group to the next scene. We’re now in the middle of an award show. Actors playing dead sit at round tables that are set up with fancy silverware, crystal glasses, and flowers that probably once looked gorgeous. Now they’re as dead as the attendees, petals falling on the linen tablecloths.

The music playing overhead feels almost ghostly. Static interrupts the rhythm here and there, but contrary to the first two rooms, this one isn’t set up to look like it’s been abandoned for ages. No. This looks like a party just happened. And that something terrible was the reason for it to end.

A spotlight appears on the stage, casting an eerie glow over the lonely microphone stand. Just like it happened in the dressing room, we’re plunged into darkness for just a second before the spotlight flicks back on, and a dead-looking woman is standing right under it, her bloody hand wrapped around the mic.

She opens her mouth and lets out a chuckle that gradually evolves into a manic laugh.

“I told you this trophy was mine,” she screams from the stage, pulling an Oscar-looking statuette from behind her frail body.

As soon as she says her line, the entire room rises from the dead screaming and running towards the stage, eyes set on her, a thirst for revenge in their expressions.

I pat myself on the back for not being scared. Okay, that scared. I think I’m getting better at surviving this maze.

We continue on to the next room. An editing booth. There are computer screens displaying editing software, as if they were abandoned in the middle of a job. In front of it all, a huge TV shows raw footage of what’s supposed to be the movie they were working on.

I’m watching the scene, trying to understand what’s going on. There’s a couple of doctors meticulously working on an open-chest surgery. Three nurses work with them, handing them tools, and helping along.

Then, suddenly, the actor whose back is to the camera stops. The others keep looking at her, asking her what’s going on, why she stopped.

Slowly, she lifts a scalpel. Everyone else steps back, their eyes glued to her. The doctor’s head does an impossible 360 on her neck, and the camera catches a glimpse of her blacked-out eyes, a second before all hell breaks loose, and she starts stabbing her costars. She leaves the nurse next to her to last, sinking the sharp tool right in her jugular. When she pulls it out, blood squirts out, clogging the view from the camera. At the same time, a splashing liquid comes off the wall as if the blood is right there in the room with us. We all scream and turn to leave, only to be met with the killer doctor blocking the door, scalpel at hand.

“Who needs surgery?” she asks in a sickening voice.

My hands fly to Winter’s arm again, and I turn my face to hide behind him. A double door opens on the side opposite where we entered, and the group starts to run in that direction.

When I try to let go of his arm, he places his much-larger hand on top of mine. I eye him, but he doesn’t say anything, just holds my hand there, letting me use him for support.

I walk the rest of the maze glued to his side. When we get to the last room, my body is tired of so much tension. All my muscles are tight, my shoulders up to my ears. I don’t think it can get any worse, until the last number they pull threatens to scare my soul away from my body.

The doors finally open into a souvenir shop, and the lights hurt my eyes after so long in the dark. The sound of people chatting and laughing about their experience in the maze is music to my ears.

“Oh god, there are pictures!” Olivia notices people gathering around a counter to check the images taken inside the maze. “Let’s find ours.”

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