Chapter 26
The fact Miscreant Manor sits behind a large, festive pumpkin patch with happy scarecrows holding signs with information on where to buy apple cider feels…
wrong. It’s a very autumn-themed property, with orchards and a corn maze, though I only glance warily at the swaying, brown stalks I can barely see under the moon.
My headlights illuminate a tractor hooked up to a wagon stacked with bales. Also on the wagon is Gloria, sitting perched on the rail. She’s not looking at me, however. She’s staring up at the moon, which washes out her features as she kicks one leg back against the trailer under her.
This is a mistake. Every part of me is rebelling against this, telling me I shouldn’t be here.
I know this is an awful idea, but I’m at my wit’s end this year.
A messy combination of my family and the comments and posts being made about me online has driven me to do something to stop the onslaught from at least one side.
And since it would be easier to move a mountain than to get my parents to accept my choice of career or to stop hounding me about it, here I am, hopeful that my attendance at Miscreant Manor will stop the online harassment.
The way my heart races in my chest is unpleasant at best. At worst, it’s downright foreboding as I get out of my car, with my phone and keys in the pocket of my jeans.
I suddenly wish I hadn’t eaten so much pasta at the restaurant, even though it was really delicious ravioli.
Not that my stomach cares as nausea climbs my throat, giving me yet another sign that I shouldn’t be here.
“Craig thought you’d chicken out.” Gloria still isn’t looking at me. “That’s my brother. He thought you were all talk when you signed that waiver.”
Mentioning the waiver does nothing to reduce my nausea, but I don’t reply.
The night has cooled off, and I’m chilly enough that I shiver and shove my hands into the pockets of my hoodie I changed into once I was out of the restaurant and away from civilized company.
If I’m going to do this, I’d rather be comfortable and warm, at least.
“Is this all for show?” I gesture with my chin at the pumpkins, the orchards, and the playgrounds. “Just like, a really elaborate set?”
Gloria shakes her head. “Nah. We can’t survive off just the haunt.
” The words are surprisingly vulnerable and almost human enough that my stomach considers loosening one of the many knots it’s worked itself into.
“We do different seasonal things here. My mom opened it back when we were kids.” She goes quiet again, and the only sounds are the wind through the corn and the banging of her feet back against the trailer once more.
“You scared?” There’s a silence in the air that I don’t love, and I don’t answer right away.
I am scared, but not for the reasons I want to be.
There’s a difference between seeking out fear in a healthy way, in a way that I know will be fun instead of whatever it is Gloria and her brother sell with a waiver attached.
But I’m also too proud, too fucking arrogant to let her see my fear. I tilt my head back to look at the moon as well, and take a breath to say, “No. I’m not afraid of Miscreant Manor.”
From the corner of my eye, I can see her smile. “Glad to hear it, Scaredy Cat. It’s going to be fun to change your mind.”
As if on some unspoken signal, two men suddenly crash out of the corn, both wearing burlap sacks over their heads. One of them carries an empty sack, the other a rope, and it takes everything in me not to run right back to my car.
But this is what I signed up for.
“Your safety phrase is Scaredy Cat,” Gloria drawls as one of the men suddenly grabs me by my hoodie to yank me forward and off my feet. “I thought about changing it for you, but…” She laughs ruefully as my hands are roughly yanked behind my back. “It seems fitting. Say it, and we’re done.”
I’m not going to say it. I will not let myself say it, I promise myself, as the sack is thrust over my head, plunging me into utter darkness.
How am I supposed to walk? I wonder worriedly, at least until I’m hoisted up by one of the men and thrown unpleasantly over his shoulder with a huff.
My jaw knocks into his back, bringing a pained hiss to my lips, and I feel incredibly unsteady while the man jars and jostles me along.
Corn crunches under his feet, and all I can see are bits of light from the moon through the rough sack scratching my face.
People actually sign up for this?
“She really came, huh?” One of the men laughs. “What a fucking mistake, little girl.” I hear him spit in disdain, but I don’t answer. “Gloria’s been drooling over the idea of getting you here for ages. You think she’s going to let you leave without you safe wording out? That’s funny.”
My stomach twists and nausea crawls up my throat again, but I remind myself this is just an act. It’s just for my benefit. It isn’t real.
But it certainly feels real when I’m dropped hard on concrete, my legs not having the chance to catch me before I’m on my knees with a gasp.
My hands being bound keeps me off balance, and when the sack is torn off my head, I find I’m in what looks like a rural workshop with a hard, stained concrete floor.
It’s totally supposed to look like blood.
Blinking in the brightness, it takes a minute for me to notice Gloria standing against a wall of cages next to a man of similar age.
He shares her dark eyes and permanent sneer, though with his short-cropped black hair, that’s where the similarities end.
He looks me over with disdain on his twisted mouth, and snorts.
“Not very mouthy now that you’re here, are you?” he mutters. “Sort of underwhelming.”
“That’s not very nice. Maybe the cat just has our Scaredy Cat’s tongue. Would you check that for us?” She looks at one of the men who’d carried me here, and as I watch, he grabs a pair of pliers off of a nearby tray before approaching me once more.
With the sack still over his head, his breaths sound harsh in my ears, and I hate how my insides clench when he leans forward and jerks me to my feet with his hand twisted in the front of my hoodie.
The other man grips my arms, forcing me to stay on my feet, and leaving the one in front of me free to dig his fingers into either side of my mouth hard enough to draw a yelp out of me that’s from pain rather than fear.
“What—” He takes advantage to dig his fingers in harder, forcing my teeth against the sides of my mouth.
My words become a whimper, and with his other hand he shoves the pliers into my mouth, forcing me to taste the dirty metal that I really hope was sanitized in between uses.
I nearly choke when it pinches my tongue, forcing me to stick it out of my mouth to avoid more pain.
“Seems to be just fine.” The man chuckles, though he tightens the pliers enough to pull another pained sound from me before letting go.
“Want me to check her teeth too?” Gloria barely answers before he’s jamming the pliers back into my mouth, cutting my gums more than once as he makes a show of examining my teeth.
This was definitely a mistake. But I clench my hands behind my back, shoulders dropping in relief when he finally pulls away and lets go of my mouth. Then the man behind me shoves me, sending me forward onto my knees, and Gloria’s brother scoffs.
“Crying already?” he sneers when tears roll down my cheeks unbidden.
This time, I can’t keep quiet. “What can I say? I don’t have a very high tolerance for shit that tastes that bad in my mouth.” I look pointedly at the man in front of me, then down at his hands that are now empty, as if to say that his hands are worse than any pliers.
“Oh, poor thing.” The dark-haired man strides across the room and grabs the front of my hoodie, only to stop and look at the design.
“This is cute,” he coos. “Did Nightmare Ridge give you this for free? You sure do sing their praises a lot. Was this their bribe?” Without warning, he grabs both sides of the zip-up hoodie and rips it down the middle, the zipper pull flying free to land somewhere on the concrete.
“Oops.” His words barely cover my gasp as I look up at him, both offended and stunned.
“Oh well. I guess you’ll have to whore yourself out to them again to get another one. ”
“Is this what people pay for?” I roll my shoulders, trying not to show my tension and the way my whole body wants to be anywhere but here.
This was an exceptionally bad idea. This doesn’t feel like a haunt at all.
Just a torture session. I’ve seen enough videos of this place to know there’s a whole fucking haunt attached to this workshop, but for some reason, they’re not taking me through it.
That realization makes me even more uneasy, and I force my fingers to unclench. Their ‘special performance’ feels like it’s a lot less for the sake of convenience, and a lot more geared toward hurting me.
“Do they pay to be insulted? Is that the big-scary thing about Miscreant Manor?” I look around as if I’m unimpressed, though in reality I’m horrified and wishing I could just go home.
You can do this, I tell myself fervently. You can do this. All you—
He grips my t-shirt and drags me upright again with an unfriendly sneer.
“Since we’re about to get real acquainted, I’m Craig.
Gloria’s my little sister.” He shifts his hand to get a better grip before grabbing my face with the other, trying to pry my mouth open.
“You have so much to say about us, like my sister said, and I want to see where that comes from.”
My eyes narrow, and I fight his grip for as long as I can before my mouth is forced open and I drag in a pained breath between my lips.