Chapter 4
HARLAN
She runs.
Good.
They always run at first, but not like this one.
Not like her.
I stand still in the dark, surrounded by corn tall enough to hide giants, and I listen. The rustle of stalks. The slap of her boots against gravel. Her breath, sharp and fast, cutting through the fog like it’s trying to find a way out before she does.
She’s fast, but not scared enough to lose her head. Not yet.
I like that.
From the moment I saw her—shoulders squared, eyes sharp, something stubborn in her mouth—I knew… this one’s different.
The others scream too soon. Cry. Call for help.
She might just survive us…
Might.
Lila doesn’t scream.
She calculates.
She watches us.
She thinks she can outsmart the maze. Outsmart me.
I grin behind the burlap, feel the tight pull of old stitches around my mouth. The mask smells like sweat, soil, and dried glue. I’ve worn it so long I barely notice the itch anymore.
It’s not just a costume, it’s who I am in here.
I shift, slow and careful, moving through a gap in the corn I carved myself hours ago. I don’t need the main paths. I know this place by scent and sound. I helped build it—twist the corridors, rig the dead ends, plant the holes just deep enough to make someone fall.
Every turn she takes, I already know.
Every breath she takes, I already hear.
She’s not lost… Not yet, but she’s about to be.
The others are watching her too. Adrian—the one wearing the white mask—trails her like a shadow with teeth, playing too close already. He always gets eager when they’re pretty.
Elias—the one wearing the black mask—waits near the end of the stalks, ready to herd her to the heart of the maze… If she makes it that far.
I crouch low near one of the false walls, thin slats of painted wood disguised as corn. My gloves are stained from where I tore them apart earlier, made just enough space to slip through. This is my shortcut.
The way I like to play.
I see her before she sees me.
Lila stumbles around a corner, breathless, her eyes wide but still thinking. She doesn’t run in a straight line; she doubles back, trying to confuse us. Her lips are parted. Her chest rises and falls with ragged rhythm. Sweat beads at her temples, glistening in the low orange light.
She’s beautiful when she’s breaking, but she’s not broken yet.
That’s what makes it good.
I stay still. Let her pass by me, just a few feet away. So close I could reach out and touch her. Drag her down. Pin her.
But not yet.
She wants a game?
I’ll give her one.
I slip through the shadows behind her, footsteps ghost-silent, staying just outside her hearing. Every time she glances over her shoulder, I’m already gone.
Let her feel safe. Let her think she’s alone… Let the hope rise.
Hope tastes better when you crush it.
She turns again, slower now. Listening. Her eyes scan the dark. She knows we’re close. I can smell the moment her adrenaline spikes. The moment her body wants to run again but her brain whispers, don’t waste it.
She still thinks she has a chance.
I lower myself behind a scarecrow, one of the ones I rigged with a speaker and a motion sensor. A whisper slithers through the air: her name, repeated in my voice, warped by static.
“Lila... Lila...”
She flinches.
Not much. Just a jerk of her shoulders, but it’s enough.
She’s fraying at the edges.
She’s almost ready.
Ipress my hand to the ground. It’s cold and damp. This game, this place, it only works because we make it real.
We make them believe.
And when the time comes, when she finally runs without thinking, when she finally screams without planning… That’s when we’ll catch her.
But not to hurt her.
No.
She’s not just a player in our little haunted game. Not a victim. She’s something else. A match.
And matches?
They were made to burn.