I’m just drifting off into a deep sleep when I hear the creak of a door, my body jolting from the disturbance.
When I turn to look at the door, it’s firmly closed. My brow crinkles in confusion. Just when I convinced myself I was only hearing things, I see a movement out of the corner of my eye.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I turn and see Zade standing outside my balcony doors, a red cherry pulsating in the moonlight.
Wide awake, I sit up and glare. “How long have you been out there, you creep?” I snap.
Zade opens the doors the rest of the way, smoke billowing from his mouth.
“Awhile,” he answers flatly.
He flicks the butt of the cigarette out over the balcony and then reaches up and pulls his hood down from his head. The moonlight shines directly on him, making him glow beneath the soft aura.
Such a contradiction that something so dark shines so brightly beneath the light.
“Stop littering.”
“You’re much more pleasant when you don’t know I’m around,” he murmurs, his voice subdued as he walks in and closes the doors behind him.
I frown, squinting my eyes in an attempt to see his face clearer. There’s something off about him right now. He’s not his usual smirk-y hoity-toity self at the moment.
He was here just a couple of nights ago, going through more training with me. I finally got the hang of several of the moves he’s taught me.
I’m going to be a badass pretty soon.
“What’s wrong with you?” I snip, though the heat is missing. It’s almost like I’m feeling actual concern right now.
I raise a hand to my forehead and feel for any warmth. I must have a fever and be delirious from the sickness.
He steps from the shadows and comes closer. My body locks as he trudges to the bed and sits down on the edge. It’s not unusual to see his muscles straining against his clothing. I think he purposely shops for shirts and hoodies two sizes too small. But right now, his body looks rigid, and the muscles in his neck and shoulders appear bunched up.
“Just tired today,” he says quietly.
I frown harder, not liking this side of Zade. Or rather, not liking how much it bothers me seeing this side of him.
A battle renders me frozen as I try to decide what to do. Kick him out of my house, attitude be damned. Or pry into his odd behavior and show him that I just might care.
His head rolls, cracking his bones and making me cringe from the disturbingly grotesque noises.
“You uh, gotta lot of tension going on there, buddy,” I say, awkwardness dripping from the words. That makes me cringe harder.
He huffs out a laugh, but the amusement is missing.
Sighing, I relent and push the covers back. With great reluctance, I crawl towards Zade and kneel behind him. His body tenses, and I never thought I’d see Zade wary of me.
That concerns me more than anything.
“Take this off,” I demand softly, plucking at his hoodie. His head turns, presenting me with his side profile.
Very few people have attractive side profiles. That’s something that most people just don’t possess. But Zade looks beautiful, no matter what direction you look at him from.
“Why?” he asks, his tone flat.
Bristling, I open my mouth and begin to snap something at him. I’m trying to be nice, and he’s actually being difficult when this is already hard enough as it is. What’s that saying, don’t bite the hand that feeds you?
But I stop myself, the harsh words dangling from the tip of my tongue before falling to their death. This isn’t about me and how I feel, getting defensive isn’t going to solve anything. It’ll only result in making him feel worse and probably end up leaving. And oddly, that would just serve to make me feel like shit.
It shouldn’t. But it would.
“Because it would make things easier for me,” I say softly.
He opens his mouth, but whatever he was going to say fell to its own death alongside my defensive words.
Relenting, he grabs his hoodie from behind his shoulders and pulls it over his head, dragging up his white t-shirt. I see a glimpse of an elaborate tattoo before his shirt falls back down.
He doesn’t say anything, just rests his elbows on his spread knees.
Balancing my butt on my heels, I blow out a breath and start kneading his shoulder muscles. It feels like pressing my knuckles into a boulder.
“Jesus,” I mutter, pressing harder. He groans deeply, his head dropping low between his shoulders as I dig at the knots polluting his muscles.
We don’t speak. Not for a little while. My hands grow tired, but I don’t complain, nor do I stop. Slowly, he relaxes beneath my touch, his muscles beginning to loosen beneath my persistent fingers.
“Tell me,” I whisper, attacking a particularly brutal knot that pulls a groan from deep in his chest.
He doesn’t respond right away, and I can feel the internal battle from outside his flesh and bones.
“I lost a young girl today,” he confesses, his voice hoarse and uneven.
I swallow, sadness spearing deep in my chest. He pauses, and I don’t speak. Letting him find the words at his own pace.
“She was very traumatized and wouldn’t stop screaming. I wasn’t in the building yet, I was still working my way in when I heard the gunshot go off.” He pauses, taking a moment to collect himself. “I heard the conversation before I killed them. She was fighting them tooth and nail. It didn’t matter how much they threatened to kill her, she fought anyways.”
His hands fist, and every muscle I worked hard to relax stiffens again as Zade fights against his own demons. I pinch my eyes shut, berating myself for what I’m about to do. But if I don’t… it would be unforgivable. I would hate myself.
Sighing softly, I sit on my butt and wrap myself around him like a koala on a tree. Legs and arms around his torso and my head resting against his broad back.
He doesn’t move, a stone pillar amongst the wreckage of his mind, just like the ruins in Greece.
“Dying isn’t the worst thing that happened to her. It’s just the worst thing that happened to you and her family,” I whisper. I feel the shift of his head, his eyes peering over his shoulder at me. But I don’t meet his gaze.
“The life she would’ve had to live would’ve been far more painful than where she is now.”
“You think it’s a good thing she died?” he asks, his tone flattening.
“Of course not,” I placate, squeezing him tighter. “Being stolen from her life. Her family and friends. And then being put into an incredibly horrendous and fucked up situation. It’s the worst thing that could’ve happened to her.” My voice breaks on the last few words, and it takes a minute to put myself back together.
“But dying? Dying is not, Zade. She was screaming because she was fighting against the life that she was being forced to endure the only way she knew how. It wasn’t his right to end her life. But he did it anyways, and I… I hope he suffers for it. But after what they did to her, I know that she is more at peace now than she would’ve been alive.”
He stays silent, and I’m not sure if I’ve made him feel worse or better. But I told him what I believe to be true. Sometimes people just aren’t meant to live through that trauma. A shell of who they could’ve been. Broken and fighting every day not to die.
I think if she had lived, she could’ve learned to be happy again. I think everyone who suffers from internal demons can find that. We’re all capable. But sometimes, unseen forces take it out of everyone’s hands, and maybe that just means they were meant to find their happiness in the afterlife instead.
I unwrap myself from Zade and move away. His head drops, and he looks almost disappointed. He stands, and aims for the door, but he doesn’t make it two steps before I’m snatching his hand and tugging him back.
He looks back at me, silent and confused.
“I still hate you,” I mumble, and the lie tastes chalky on my tongue. “But I want you to lay down with me, Zade.”
I peel back the covers, indicating for him to get in. It takes tremendous effort to look away from him as he kicks off his boots and climbs in next to me. He makes it a point to stay on top of the duvet, part of me resenting him a little for that.
I’m nervous. Up until now, every encounter Zade and I have had was forced upon me. And now that I’ve made the decision for him to be here, I don’t know what to do.
“Why were you on my balcony?” I blurt. He chuckles, facing me and urging me to do the same. Stiffly, I roll to my side and try not to faint from the intensity of this man.
“I wanted to watch you,” he confesses. And then he tacks on with dry amusement, “In peace.”
I snort. “So sorry for being so disruptive to your stalking. Next time I’ll strike a couple poses for you.”
I’ll never admit how his answer gives me chills. Both ice cold and fiery hot. He smirks, and it makes me sad that it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I’d appreciate that,” he murmurs distractedly. His eyes are tracing my curves like they’re scripture, and he’s a sinner that is searching for proof of a God that he no longer can hear.
“You need space from me while wanting to be close. Sounds like a marriage,” I deadpan.
“It will be.”
It’s instinct to deny that. I still want to and do so in my head. But I don’t give voice to it. Not tonight, I won’t.
So, I swallow the words and let him dream.
We fall into silence, but it’s weighed with sadness, guilt, and anger. He’s swarming in the emotions like a beekeeper holding a nest. I’m getting stung by it, and it’s making my skin burn.
“Kiss me,” I whisper. If it could only ease the burn in both of us. He stills, and my bravery is slipping, so I lean forward and make a move instead.
I capture his lips within my own, relishing over the different type of burn that blooms from our connected lips. He doesn’t hesitate to kiss me back, but it’s slow. While it’s no less intense, it lacks his usual ferocity.
And that’s something I didn’t realize how much I’ve missed until now.
Getting nearly desperate, I nip at his bottom lip before sucking it into my mouth. His hands grip my waist in a tight hold, and for a moment, I think he almost pushes me away.
But then he breaks, his resolve shattering, and finally—finally—he feasts on my lips. Tasting me like he’s licking ice cream out of a cone.
My hands dive into his hair, exploring the soft strands as his own bless my body with the same honor, slipping beneath the duvet and roaming my curves. His tongue battles against mine, creating a tornado of passion and a million pent-up emotions.
The duvet feels heavy and suffocating on my body, but when I try to wriggle loose, Zade traps me further. I yank away from him, and he follows, making escape futile when his lips are impossible to deny.
“Let me out,” I gasp between a nip of his teeth.
“We’re not taking it past this, Addie,” he declares with finality.
“Why?” I breathe, and the logical part of me rallies against the stupid question. I should be relieved.
“Because the first time I fuck you, I want you to have all of me. Not just bits and pieces.” He takes a breath. “I’m not whole right now. And I can’t worship you when all I see is her.”
Reaching up, I trace his scar, and a breath shudders out of him in response.
“Okay,” I whisper. I get it. He’s suffering right now, and I’m only a temporary distraction. It doesn’t bother me when I know the girl occupying his mind is a little girl that is now dead. A death he blames himself for.
“I’m sorry, you’re right. But I just want you to know that it’s not your fault. The what ifs will plague you as long as you let them, Zade. But you need to remember all the girls that you did save. Don’t forget to remember them, too.”
He doesn’t deign me a verbal answer. Instead, he leans in and skates his lips across mine. I let him explore, our kiss much calmer. The burn is a low sizzle, bubbling beneath the surface but depleted of oxygen to allow it to grow.
Sex isn’t something either of us needs right now. He’s not in the right mindset, and I don’t know if I ever will be. This thing with Zade—it’s confusing.
And eventually, I’m going to have to put a stop to it.
Just not tonight.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I sigh when I see it’s my mother. Despite my brain screaming at me not to, I click the green button and slap the phone on my ear.
“Hey, Mom,” I greet, trying to keep my voice from betraying how I actually feel.
“Hello, honey. How are you doing?” she asks, her prim voice tightening my body into stone. It’s a trained reaction when passive aggressive insults are being slung my way most of the time.
“I’m good, just getting ready for the fair,” I answer, glancing over at Daya.
We’re in my room getting dressed, a heady sense of anticipation in the air.
Satan’s Affair is tonight, and we always have the best fucking time. I know tonight won’t be any different. I’ll finally have a night where my headspace isn’t filled with dangerous men and a murder gone cold.
Or maybe a particularly dangerous man I haven’t seen in a week.
“That haunted fair you go to every year?” she asks derisively. “I don’t understand why you like going to those things. I swear there’s a mental condition associated with finding enjoyment out of horror.” She mutters the last part, but not quiet enough for it to clearly transmit through the phone.
Pesky radio signals.
I roll my eyes. “Was there a reason you called, Mom?”
Daya snorts, and I shoot her a glare.
“Yes, I wanted to know what your plans are for Thanksgiving. I expect you and Daya will be visiting?”
I suppress the groan working its way up my throat. Daya and I are like a married couple and split holidays between our families.
She has a large family, and they’ve always welcomed me with open arms. Their get-togethers are loud with laughter and games, and I die of bliss every time I eat their food.
While my family is small and stiff. My mother has mean cooking skills, but she lacks the warmth and comfort, and I usually end up going to bed early and leave in the morning.
“Yep,” I confirm. I roll my lips, contemplating doing something very stupid now that I have her on the phone.
“Hey, uh, Mom?”
“Hmm?” she hums, a note of impatience laced in her tone.
“Can I ask you a few questions about Gigi’s murder?”
Daya’s eyes widen almost comically, and she mouths, “What are you doing?”
She knows as much as I do that Mom might not take well to us investigating Gigi’s murder. But I have to ask.
She might have some valuable information, and getting in an argument with her might be worth it if there’s a possibility of learning something new.
She sighs. “If it’ll convince you to move out of that place.”
I don’t deign her a response to that, letting her believe what she wants if it gets her talking.
“Did you know Grandpa John’s best friend? Frank Williams?”
She’s silent for a beat. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time,” she says. “I didn’t know him personally, but your Nana spoke of him.”
“What did she say about him?”
She sighs. “Just that he was around a lot up until Gigi was murdered, then he kind of disappeared.”
I roll my lips. “Do you know about Grandpa John’s gambling habits?’ I push, incapable of keeping the hope out of my tone. Unfortunately, she detects it.
“Why are you asking, Addie?” she deflects with a tired sigh. She’s always weary when it concerns me.
“Because I’m interested, okay? I met Frank’s son,” I admit. “Mark. He talked to me about Gigi. He remembered her, and he brought up some interesting things about John’s gambling.”
I don’t admit that I’m investigating her case myself. I’d prefer she assumes that we happened to have a connection and spoke on it, nothing more.
“How did you even come into contact with a man of that social standing? God, Addie, please tell me you didn’t sell yourself to him.”
A fly could buzz into my mouth, and I wouldn’t notice. My mouth hangs open, and all I can feel is hurt.
“Why… why would you think I’d ever do something like that?” I ask slowly, the heartbreak evident in my tone. I can’t keep it hidden—not when my mother just accused me of being a prostitute.
She’s silent again, and I wonder if she realized she went too far. “Well, then how did you meet him?” she finally asks, deflecting a question I’d really like to know the fucking answer to.
I sniff, deciding to let it go. It doesn’t matter why she thinks it, just that she does.
“Daya has friends in high places. We met at a dinner party and he said I looked familiar, so I told him who I’m related to, and he connected it from there,” I lie, working to keep my voice even. Daya quirks a brow but doesn’t comment.
It feels like an arrow has been shot through my chest—the sensation tight and sharp.
“Your Nana said that John put them in a dangerous situation with his gambling, but not too long before Gigi’s death, it all seemed to go away. He stayed out late and came home short-tempered just to fight with Gigi about whatever he was pissed off about that day.
“Frank was a sponge for their relationship. With their marriage failing, I think he was put in the middle of it a few times. Nana spoke of one incident sometime before Gigi died where she and Frank got in a fight. Nana didn’t remember much about what happened, just that Frank had grabbed Gigi and pushed her on the ground and said something about a betrayal. That’s all I know,” she explains stiffly, as if reciting a verse from the Bible.
That was her apology. And though the tightness in my chest hasn’t receded, I take it anyway.
I mull that over, curious as to why Frank was so upset because Gigi was cheating on John. Maybe because Frank was often put in the middle, he grew tired of it. John’s behavior was steadily declining, and it seemed to start when Gigi’s attitude changed towards him after she began falling in love with Ronaldo. It’s possible Frank blamed Gigi for John’s behavior and the fact that he was losing his friend to a dangerous addiction.
“Just one more question,” I barter, sensing her need to hang up. She called to ask about Thanksgiving dinner and got roped into an honest conversation with her daughter. “Do you remember Nana going up in the attic all the time? Do you know why she did?”
“Yeah. That was where she’d go for alone time when I was a kid. I don’t know the reason why, she had only ever said that’s where she went to think. We were never allowed up there. Why do you ask?”
My heart plummets to my stomach as an unwanted thought intrudes.
I don’t feel comfortable telling her what I found. So instead, I shrug and say, “I thought I remembered her going up there a lot, too, but couldn’t be sure. Just curious.”
“Okay, well, if that’s all, I have to cook dinner for your father. I’ll text you the details,” she says.
“Bye,” I grumble before hanging up the phone.
“What did she say?” Daya asks softly, but I know what she’s really asking. What did my mother say to make me look so damn wounded.
I scoff. “She thought I might’ve prostituted myself to Mark.”
Her mouth drops, but she quickly picks it back up. “That’s terrible, Addie. I’m so sorry,” she apologizes, her face twisting with empathy. Daya’s always had a wonderful family, but she’s been around long enough to understand what growing up with my mother is like.
I wave a hand. “She’s said worse.”
“What did she say about Frank?”
I reiterate everything Mom told me, and when I’m done, she just stares at me with wide eyes. I got the same reaction after I told her what I found out from Mark about Ronaldo and John.
“All I know is Gigi started a lot of shit by falling in love with Ronaldo,” I finish on a sigh.
Daya rolls her lips. “Speaking of stalkers… are you not going to tell your mom about Zade?”
I shoot her a look. “That’s like asking if I’m going to tell her about how one time, I let a guy fingerbang me in the middle of a concert.”
She snorts. “Yeah, okay, you win that one.” Hesitation flashes across her green eyes, and I know the question that’s coming. I straighten my spine, preparing for it.
“He hasn’t said anything else about what he does for a living? Or why he’s involved with Mark?”
That last question right there is exactly why I can’t tell her who Zade is. He had said no one else knows about Mark and what he’s really involved in except the few people who assist him.
I shake my head, refusing to give voice to my lie.
Daya nods, accepting my answer without thought, and the guilt that resides within me is almost unbearable. I lied to her face, and she didn’t even question it.
She pours a shot of rum and hands it to me. “Here, this will cheer you up. Pregaming before a haunted carnival is like, law.”
I accept the shot and gulp it down. When I lower the glass, the smile is back on my face. Alcohol won’t cure the guilt, but at least I’m not mad about my mom calling me a prostitute anymore. She snorts when she sees my face.
“What do you think the haunted houses will be like this year?” she asks, patting some shimmery brown eyeshadow on her eyelid.
She’s going to look dangerous when she’s finished. The eyeshadow will bring out her sage green eyes to hazardous levels and attract all the monsters.
“I don’t know, it’s always hard to guess. It’s like trying to guess the next theme for American Horror Story.”
The houses in Satan’s Affair usually all follow the same theme. One year, most of the haunted houses were set up like prisons, and in each house, you had to figure out how to escape.
That’s still one of my favorite themes thus far. That was also the same year Daya peed herself.
She brings an extra change of clothes now, and I tease her every time.
“You ready?” she asks, swiping at her eyelashes one last time with her mascara wand.
“Girl, I was born ready. Let’s go pee-body.”
“Bitch,” she mutters, but I barely hear it over my evil cackling.
Satan’s Affair is one of my favorite places in the world. At night, the fair comes alive with laughter, peals of screams from terror and excitement, and moans of joy from the fried food.
Walking into the field full of haunted houses, carnival rides, and food trucks is like walking into pure static energy.
Daya and I immediately get sucked into the crowd. It’s five o’clock, pitch black already, and some of the monsters are already starting to trickle into the crowd.
My eye snags on a girl dressed up as a broken doll, sitting on the bench and happily eating a philly cheesesteak sandwich. I nearly groan, the scent of grilled meat making my mouth water.
I nudge Daya and point her out. “She’s dressed as a doll.”
Daya hums, and both of our eyes track over the houses. They’re not lit up yet, but some of them make it obvious what the theme is.
“Our childhood,” I murmur, noting the dollhouse dubbed Annie’s Playhouse alongside a house called the Tea Massacre. The entrance is a massive teddy bear with a missing eye, a torn ear, and blood splattered across its fur while a bloody knife is gripped in its hand.
It gives life to a memory from my own childhood, alongside millions of other little girls, sitting at a table full of stuffed animals and empty teacups.
That house won’t be a pleasant tea party, but one full of killer stuffed animals and creepy monsters.
“This is going to taint every single one of our childhood memories, isn’t it?” I conclude.
“Oh yeah,” Daya says, her lips twisted with both excitement and dread.
I grab Daya’s hand and lead her towards the food trucks. We like to eat first before we get harassed by monsters. It makes it awkward when a corndog is shoved halfway down my throat while a creepy monster is standing over me and breathing down my neck.
“What sounds good?” I ask, my eyes roving hungrily over the endless options.
“How can you even choose?” Daya whines, sharing my dilemma.
“We have to at least get a mean hot dog and the truffle fries. Oh! And the fried veggies. Oh, and maybe—”
“You’re not narrowing it down like you think you are,” Daya interrupts, her tone dry.
“Okay, fine. That broken doll over there is eating a philly steak. What about that and some fries for now?” I ask.
“Lead the way,” she says, throwing her hand out in an impatient gesture.
I don’t even laugh—I take food just as seriously when I’m hungry.
By the time the lady in the food truck is handing me my food, I’m ravenous and shaking with the need to sink my teeth into something of substance.
Grease sizzles on our fries as we shove them into our impatient mouths, forcing us to suck in air as they singe our tongues. And by the time we find an empty bench, my fries have already been devoured, and I’ve taken several delicious bites of my sandwich.
Daya’s even further done than I am—probably because the wench has been relying on me to find the spot to sit.
Finally, I sit down and shove the sandwich in my mouth, not caring about the juices dribbling down my chin.
In the back of my mind, I wonder if Zade is here. Watching me like he usually does. Would he be disgusted by my lack of manners?
I fucking hope so.
Then again, the prick would say something about how he likes me dirty, and then I’d want to vomit in his face.
Liar.
Just as we finish our food, the haunted houses come to life, the lights switching on and signaling that it’s time for guests to get in line.
Daya and I rush over to Annie’s Playhouse first, nabbing a spot pretty close to the front.
We’re leaning against the rails when an icy feeling tingles at the base of my neck, traveling down my spine. It feels like holes are being drilled into my back.
“Addie?” a voice calls from behind me along with a soft tap on my shoulder, just as I’m getting ready to turn around.
My eyes widen, and I whip around, coming face to face with Mark.
Oh, fuck me.
“Mark!” I exclaim in surprise, forcing a smile onto my face. I’ve never been very good at acting, especially when I have to pretend to be glad to see a pedophile standing behind me.
Make that four pedophiles.
With him is Claire, and three other elderly men. I vaguely recognize them, and assume they’re politicians of some caliber as well.
“What are the odds? I didn’t know you came here,” Mark says, his eyes consistently straying to Daya. “Who’s your friend?”
Daya smiles, though she doesn’t even try to make hers seem genuine. “Daya,” she answers for me.
Sensing her indifference, Mark flashes a tight smile. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you. Addie, these are my colleagues. Jack, Robert, and Ben.”
We exchange pleasantries, all the while inching up in the line.
“So where is Zack?” Mark asks, peering around me as if a man well over six feet would be hiding behind me.
“He went to find a bathroom,” I lie. I don’t know why I do, there’s no reason to. But I have a gut feeling that if Mark thinks Daya and I are here alone, that maybe he’ll pull something shady.
“Speaking of Zack,” Brad cuts in. “I heard you two are quite the lovebirds. How did you meet?”
My heart drops, and for a moment, I think maybe Mark might’ve found out about the movie theater incident. But then I remember Zade assured me the cameras have been wiped when he drove me home.
Brad looks like he needs to be carrying an oxygen tank around with him. Mark is well into his eighties, and I’m sure the other men aren’t far off, but Brad in particular seems as if he’s defying gravity by standing upright.
I spin the same made-up story that Zade did in Bailey’s, hoping that the knives usually in my eyes when dealing with my shadow are replaced with hearts.
Claire asks a few questions of her own, her voice demure. Like how long we’ve been together, and if we’re planning on getting married soon.
Sweat lines my hairline, the lies spilling from my mouth like the fantastical worlds from my fingers when I write. Luckily, it takes only a few more minutes to come up to the front of the line, and we’re free of Mark and his creepy friends.
Even though we’re walking into a stuffy haunted house, it feels lighter in here.
The house is adorned in pink, with white wooden floors, frills everywhere, and dead little girls giggling all around. Down the hall, I swear I spot a four-foot doll crossing the hall, her body distorted from the colorful smoke and her face bloody.
She’s gone before I can tell for sure.
Daya and I huddle together, looking left and right—not quite sure which direction to go. A man with a peeling, bloodied face slips out from the shadows before us, and another girl dressed up as a demented doll comes out, a bloody knife in her grip.
It’s so sudden, I jerk back. Daya’s screams pierce my ears as they give chase, pushing us towards a living room with a blue couch and a mannequin giving birth to a child.
I don’t get the chance to look long enough before another monster is jumping out at us.
I laugh through a scream, running away from a mechanical mannequin that resembles a Grim Reaper.
Daya’s nails dig into my arm. An assortment of monsters and dolls jump out at us, getting in our faces and scaring the living daylights out of us.
One reason that Satan’s Affair is so popular is that they carefully pick their actors.
They’re too good at their job. Not only do they have the best makeup, but they know exactly what to do to scare the absolute shit out of you.
We swing around back to the foyer, but this time, we’re chased up the stairs. Daya trips on one of the steps, and her curses are swallowed up by my cackling.
“Fuck off,” she squeals through laughter, her eyes still wide with fright as she continues to fall up the stairs to get away from the monster.
We finally make it to the top, nearly sprawling on the floor as we’re overcome with a mixture of laughter and terror.
The monster leaves us be as we right ourselves and make our way down the hallway, the flickering strobe lights creating a trippy effect. The smoke is heavier up here, making it harder to see.
At the very end of the hallway is a massive mannequin, its skin burnt so severely that it’s bubbled up in boils. An unnaturally wide bloody mouth, and big yellow eyes top off his grotesque features. We veer into the closest room, avoiding that monstrosity.
We enter into what looks like a doll’s bedroom. More pink and white décor, a twin bed filled with deformed, creepy dolls, and a mirror in the corner of the room that I’m almost sure is going to show something standing behind me.
It looks innocent in here, but the strobe lights flash ominously, while the blue, purple, and pink smoke swirls around us like wicked fingers, and the music in the backdrop creates a dangerous vibe.
And then, out crawls a demented looking doll from under the bed, her body twisted oddly as she comes skittering towards us.
Daya’s and my screams pierce the air as we trip over each other to get out of her way. We run towards the other exit door and are led out into another room.
It takes all around ten minutes to get through the rest of the house. My adrenaline sinks lower and lower, leaking down in between my legs as monsters chase after me.
It’s my favorite aphrodisiac, and something I can never assuage until I’m home alone afterwards.
On the way down the stairs leading towards the exit, I hear a faint screech. It sounds like someone yelled out the name “Jackal” but it’s too loud in here to tell.
When we’re out of the house, we breathe in deep, fresh air. The chill of the air is a soothing balm to our lungs. The only downside is it does get incredibly stuffy in the houses.
The next several hours are spent running around to all the rides in between haunted houses. It breaks up the constant adrenaline rush with a different kind of thrill.
I’ll never get tired of the feeling of flying through the air at a breakneck speed. It’s one of the few times where I feel like nothing can get me. Nothing can touch or hurt me.
Nothing can catch me.
It’s one of the cheapest thrills I can get nowadays that doesn’t cost me my morals and sanity.
