Chapter 6 #3
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 to start.
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…” He stops, not facing me but unmoving, waiting for the rest of my question.
“A scary warden?”
The actor scoffs at that, and doesn’t turn. Instead, he keeps walking, finding a door behind one of the cells and dipping through it, just as I hear a high cackle from the direction of the entrance, and the screams of the group behind me.
But I don’t hesitate for much longer. I don’t want to be around the screaming teenagers who most likely will ruin the vibe with their ear-piercing shrieks and constant conversation.
So I start walking, my stride quick and hand held out at my side with my fingers splayed to keep fake blood off of my clothes until I can find somewhere to wash it off.
The older, half-bald man sitting at the table looks bored with his job, and the spreadsheets in front of him.
When he looks up at me, his brows furrow as he takes in the dried blood on my face and hand, but he doesn’t remark on it.
“Did you have a good time?” he asks, picking up a pen and leaning on his elbows.
“Just like every year,” I promise, shifting my weight to one foot. I always forget how much walking I have to do here, and my feet are so tired that I’m almost dreading the shower I’ll be taking when I get home. “This is my favorite haunt to visit annually.”
The man looks up at me with a grateful, if tired, smile on his face. “Then you know how this works. What was your favorite part? Favorite character?”
“Mental Asylum,” I answer instantly. “The guy in the wolf-skull mask who gave me this wonderful gift.” I wiggle my blood-stained fingers in the air before dropping my hand carefully to my side again.
The man looks up at me, suddenly perplexed, his pen scratching a tally beside the asylum but then hovering in mid-air. “Who?”
“You know? The warden of the asylum or whatever? Dressed all in black, had a knife. Maybe it wasn’t a wolf-skull mask, but—”
“The only character in the asylum is the inmate. In the straightjacket,” he interrupts, suddenly looking at me like I’ve possibly lost my mind. “There’s no one there in black with a mask.”
“Oh.” Well, since the blood on my hand is certainly not real, I can’t help wondering if this guy just isn’t up to date on the new roles for the year.
Especially with it being their opening weekend.
“Yeah, that’s probably who I mean.” I shake it off with a grin, not wanting to make it a big deal.
My eyes scan the area, and I zero in on the water bottles for sale at the concession stand.
Seeing as Nightmare Ridge only has porta-potties, a bottle of water feels like it might be the best bet to clean off my hands. “Thank you again!” I say to the man in my best polite content creator voice.
He sees me off with the usual, “Thanks for visiting Nightmare Ridge,” though I notice him eyeing the fake blood before writing something down on his paper in addition to the tally mark.
But it’s not my business if the guy with the mask had gotten a little handsier than their rules allow.
I’m certainly not complaining. I just march straight for the concessions stand, ready to get this blood off my face before I can drive home, shower, and maybe post before collapsing into bed for the night.