It was supposed to be fun. Cheap thrills. Nothing real.

Your friends pushed you toward the entrance, laughing too loud, already hyped up on candy corn and cheap cider.

The door swung shut behind you with a heavy thud.

Inside, it was quiet. Too quiet. The sound of your friends' footsteps faded ahead, their laughter swallowed by the maze of plywood walls and fake cobwebs.

You turned a corner.

Empty.

Another.

Still nothing.

A muffled scream—Maya, probably faking—echoed from somewhere distant. Then laughter. Then silence.

You were alone.

The hallway opened into a small room decorated like a cheap kitchen. A table. A flickering lamp. And in the corner, leaning against the wall like he'd been waiting all night, a scare actor.

He was tall. Too thin. The costume was good—cracked skull, hollow eye sockets, a grin that didn't quite fit right. His hood was up, casting most of his face in shadow.

He didn't jump out. He didn't make a sound.

He just looked at you.

Tilting his head. Studying.