Chapter Three
Three
Josie
We get out of there so fast my heel slips on the sticky, wet floor—how’d they get real blood for this party, anyhow? Did they rob a Red Cross? Honor catches my elbow, and we both start giggling nervously as we head down the dark hallway.
“Fucking Axe MacKenzie,” I breathe. “He scared the living shit out of me.”
“Oh, it was all so fake,” says Honor. “Scary, but fake.”
“Yeah.” I exhale. I press my palms against my cheeks, trying to cool the burning heat spreading across my face—an unfortunate side effect of any encounter with Axe.
Why can’t the dude just be, I don’t know, normal for once?
Or at least as normal as a smokin’-hot multimillionaire tech wunderkind with an ego the size of his bank account can manage to be.
“The energy of this place is strange. Do you feel it, too?” I ask. Honor shrugs.
“I don’t have your powers, oh young one,” Honor says.
I’m only a year younger than Honor, but as my boss and a fiercely independent woman, she’s always felt like an authority figure.
Once she told me she suspects I might have a touch of extrasensory perception.
Which is hilarious, because I don’t think I have ESP—I just think I’m open to the universe’s weird possibilities, and sometimes that means I pick up on things others miss.
It’s more like a learned skill than a superpower.
Like finding the perfect minidress in the clearance section at T.J. Maxx.
“I’m serious! Maybe it’s because so many sad stories happened here.
The pain is in the walls, you know?” Just saying it out loud, my arm hairs stand on end.
It’s like muscle memory. I’ve spent a lifetime in hospitals—still do, thanks to endless health struggles—and every time I step into a doctor’s office, even for a checkup, I get this same prickly feeling.
“They used that room for actual lobotomies,” Honor says. “Though Strike and Axe didn’t have to be so extra.”
Extra is the understatement of the year.
I can still hear echoes of that poor guy’s screaming, but whatever.
Tech bros are into weird shit. Strike runs a feminist erotic-gaming empire, and Honor’s one of his best artists.
Axe is doing something revolutionary with AI. No surprise, they’re horror fans.
“I’m glad I got to see the inside of this place in person finally—but it’s freaky to be here. Very different from seeing it on TV,” I say. We’re back out in the main party area, and the crowd is a slight comfort.
Honor agrees with a nod. “When we were kids, Gracie and I would hold our breath when we rode our bikes past this place. Like whatever was happening was contagious and we would catch it if we breathed in the air.” Her eyes look so sad, the way they always do when she talks about Gracie, her twin sister, who was murdered last year.
I don’t know much about Honor and Grace Stone’s lives before we met.
When Honor hired me to help in their store, aptly called Grace I just hadn’t been ready to face them.
That Wheel of Fortune card spins in my head: Everything is going to change.
“Okay, hang on. Be right back.” Honor gives a warning look to the random dude dressed as Freddy Krueger, who has reappeared and is circling us a little too close for comfort. Could be he’s being paid by Axe to scare us, too.
Honor’s held on to her big-sister energy for me, even though I’m an only child, and she’s always fussing over my diabetes.
She’ll probably come back with a drink and snacks—and yeah, I probably do need something.
I’ve got my insulin pump stashed in my purse, ready for any emergency, but honestly, I’ve hit my drama quota for the night.
I find a chair that’s not too coated in spiderwebs—likely bought in bulk from a Spirit Halloween—away from the party ruckus. I sit and steady myself.
While I’m alone with my thoughts, Bryan resurfaces like the smell of bad milk.
The red flags were all there. For starters, he’s a Libra with a Cancer rising, and I’m a Cancer with a Scorpio moon—astrologically doomed from day one.
We never should have moved in together, gotten engaged, or dropped a five-figure deposit we didn’t have on a wedding.
Plus, he always loved his Xbox and the Philly Flyers way more than me.
Every once in a while, when I went down on him, he’d pat my head and say, “Achievement unlocked,” and when he came, he’d throw his hands up and shout, “Score!”
How did I ever think any of that was cute?
It shouldn’t have taken a “boys’ weekend” to Atlantic City—where Bryan gambled away our Honeyfund—for me to figure out who he really is. I should’ve dumped him ages ago, like after our first date, when he took me through the McDonald’s drive-through for two Happy Meals.
Honor says my “dreamy” nature is her favorite thing about me.
But is dreamy just code for totally clueless?
Maybe it’s not so charming to look at the world through rose-colored glasses, assuming everyone’s doing their best. Or to say yes when your boyfriend proposes with a “temporary” ring shaped like the fuzzy Philly Flyers mascot.
“Hey, Red. Haunt here often?”
I can feel Freddy’s creepy gaze on me before I even look up.
His beat-up hat dangles from his razor fingers.
He’s objectively unattractive, but it’s his eyes that really make me shrink into my seat.
Why does being a woman alone at a party feel like being a sitting duck?
My arms are crossed, legs are crossed—I’m practically screaming leave me the fuck alone.
Yet somehow, this guy still thinks he’s got a shot. That, or he wants to fillet me.
“My date is coming back any minute,” I tell Freddy. “So yeah, no. Not doing much haunting.”
“Is your ‘date’ the hottie in the black velvet? Because, damn, I’d happily be the third.”
Ugh. “Sorry, dude. I’m just really not feeling it,” I say. Freddy is way too tall, especially now that he’s looming over me while I sit.
I decide to stand up, which creates a whole other weird vibe in our body language standoff.
“Oh, come on,” he continues, stepping closer.
His breath is as strong as it is bad. Pickles and mustard and a hard blast of cheap rum.
I can’t step back, because the chair is already pressing against my calves.
I could sit down again, but that feels like defeat.
“We both know you don’t have a boyfriend.
Girls who have boyfriends don’t dress like that. ”
What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I look around, hoping for eye contact with anyone who can rescue me in case this guy gets handsy. Zero people.
“I…I do have a boyfriend. A fiancé, actually. Sorry,” I say.
My second sorry in two minutes. Also, I’m deeply wishing I could pluck my engagement ring out of Bryan’s chicken-fried steak.
A ring on my finger would have hinted that there was a large, buff man coming to my rescue—when in reality, Bryan was a delicate five feet five and got winded carrying groceries.
That sensitive topic is also why I haven’t bought a pair of high heels in years.
I can’t believe I let that guy dictate my shoe game.
“Come on. We could find better ways to entertain each other somewhere private. Be my partner in crime, Red?”
He’s too physically intimidating to be funny. He has at least fifty pounds on me and a knife hand that’s rubber but could probably still do some damage if he’s provoked.
“Look,” I say firmly. “I’m not feeling great.” I’m not kidding—my sudden shakiness and prickling sweat make me even more nervous. Am I having a diabetic emergency?
Please, God, not now.
He smirks like he hasn’t heard a word I said. I start to move, quick and unsteady, toward the first door I spot—not sure if I’m shaky from low blood sugar or straight-up fear—but he cuts me off, his body starfishing to fill the entire door, blocking me from reaching the handle. Fuuuuuck.
“Let’s not play games,” he says.
“Agree. Game over,” I tell him. Then I knee him in the balls as I yank open the door, enjoying his baby squeal of pain as I slam it behind me.
I find myself in the small stairwell that leads to the back exit of the asylum, where the noise outside tells me it’s packed.
Good way to lose this loser. I’ll need to tell Honor where to meet me.
Last thing I want is for her to end up alone with this jerk.
He knows we’re together, and I’m sure he’ll be out for revenge.
Breathing deep—you are okay, Josie, no attack—I step out into the cold air and am surprised to find a total vibe change in the yard.
It’s less horror, more horrible Halloween party.
Morticia the DJ is enthroned on an LED-embedded platform stage, and the writhing bodies below all seem connected in one pulsating disco delirium on a temporary dance floor.
I blink, dazed. It’s a futuristic fantasy; gamers and coders and techies are either dancing or lounging on giant pillows.
I push my way past a group of neon-painted dancers and a couple making out on a beanbag.
The air feels thick and hazy and weirdly warm, probably thanks to the fog machines and outdoor heaters and not an indication I’m about to faint. Right?
I should really find something to eat.
I feel Freddy’s rubbery grip on my arm before I see his face. Panic floods my system, and I swing around, but he’s quicker this time. His expression is a twisted mask of rage.
“You think you can just walk away from me like that, you bitch?” His voice is a low growl, and he yanks me closer, causing me to lose my balance. I try to scream, but the sound is swallowed by the pounding music. I struggle against his hold.
“I’ll do worse,” I gasp, pulling away and making a frantic dash toward the bar.
Honor and I were supposed to take a self-defense class at the Y last month, but we kept flaking.
Too late for that now. I stumble through the crowd, my heart beating double time.
Everything around me warps—neon lights cast twisted shadows that feel like old, half-forgotten nightmares.
Suddenly, I’m back in Miracle Solutions Hospital, small and vulnerable.
Dr. Don looms over me, his face obscured by bright lights and a surgical mask, a witness to all my worst trauma.
Antiseptic fills my nose, there’s a distant beeping of heart monitors.
I’m a child, terrified and alone, each shadow a potential threat.
The overwhelming fear from those days surges through me, blurring my vision, making it hard to breathe.
I reach the bar and grasp its edge, the cool surface grounding me momentarily in the present. The bartender shoots me a concerned look, but before I can ask for help, a rough hand clamps down on my shoulder. I whip around, and Freddy’s furious face is right there, inches from mine.
For a split second, in my dazed state, past and present blur together, and he morphs into Dr. Don, with his pale eyes, greasy shoulder-length gray hair, sweaty hands, and pitying smile. Dr. Don was the stuff of my nightmares—perfect for this House of Horrors—but he was one hundred percent real.
For a second, I can’t tell where I am—and then Freddy’s voice jolts me back to the present.
“Let’s find somewhere we can talk, babe.
” His hand roughly grabs my wrist, his fingers locking me in like a vise, and I feel my bag drop.
To anyone in the crowd, it might look like we’re dancing—the way he’s got his arm around my waist, his smile wide like it’s all in good fun as he swiftly hauls me toward the asylum.
But nobody’s looking, not even the bartender.
“Stop!” My words are swallowed by the pounding dance music and oblivious crowd. My heels scrape against the floor, my entire body resists, but Freddy is stronger.
He pulls me back inside through the door and down a dark hallway, pinning me against the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of me.
“Finally, some privacy,” his says, and the fact that his voice is so calm, almost relaxed, is somehow worse. “All I want to do is get to know you better.”
When I open my mouth to scream, his hand clamps down on it. And that’s when it hits me—this may be a fake House of Horrors, but I’m in real danger.