3. Hunt
Hunt
The scent of fear travels through my mask, infiltrating my hidden nose and mouth. This place is a buffet of asinine mortals wetting themselves for a chance to be scared. Those who are so eager for terror have never known true fear.
They’ve never experienced anything like us before.
For most, a chance meeting with any one of my kind is a first and last encounter. Those who miraculously survive do everything in their power to avoid being that scared again for the rest of their lives.
There must be hundreds lined up to get inside Reaper’s Playroom. A haunted house renowned for its realistic and horrifying rooms. A reputation earned through brutality and a relentless pursuit of horror.
These humans are soft, though—inexperienced in the ways of true terror. I’m confident those who survive the night will be left with something to remember me by.
“So many juicy morsels.” Madness’s maniacal laughter ghosts up from behind me as I peer out a side door.
The tip of my chainsaw taps the chin of his neon-green-and-pink clown mask. “Don’t fucking sneak up on me.”
He cackles again, throwing his hands in the air. “Accident, accident.”
“Get back to your room,” I order him. “They’re about to open the gates.” Madness takes his leave as I return my gaze to the ever-growing line.
My hunts have always taken me to remote places.
I enjoy finding people alone. When no one else is around, I can take my time.
Milking every last drop of fear from a single soul fills me up in a way that’s so different from the quick scrapes of top-layer fright that are emitted by those who race through these painted rooms.
That’s how I found Reaper’s. One year it was an empty field in the middle of nowhere. The next time I passed this way, there was a full-sized scare house.
They’d done an okay job. It would have competed well against your standard animatronic-filled attraction. Things changed once we found it.
Choosing a body was easier than expected.
The very fears we embody are reflected in multiple rooms of Reaper’s Playroom.
I stepped into the body of the chainsaw-wielding hunter with ease.
He’s a fan favorite. We only borrow our bodies for a few days a year.
The real humans are still in here, floating in the back of their subconscious.
When we return the bodies, they wake up with enough memories of scaring and screaming to keep from asking questions.
If I’ve learned anything about humans, it’s that those who choose to scare for a living crave power.
Eliciting screams and triggering fight-or-flight responses gives these mortals a sense of importance and control that they don’t find outside of the darkness and their masks.
For three years now we’ve slipped into these human skins and gorged ourselves. Those few hours on Halloween weekend are pure paradise.
Our influence leaves a mark. Even on weekends we’re not present, the workers have become more ruthless. We’ve inspired such morbid creativity in their endeavors to terrify the masses.
New waivers went into effect last year, understandably.
The owner is a greedy, money-hungry mortal.
After the first incident, he saw an opportunity: have the visitors sign away their free will.
A watertight NDA removes their ability to file a suit.
Instead of reluctance, visitors actually find it thrilling.
We’ve had limited interactions with him.
He knows something is different with us, but has never peered in too closely.
He doesn’t even set foot in this place. That’s how I know he’s smart.
All he cares about is money. Which means we can do as we please as long as it keeps a line out the front door. Oh how easily mortals are corrupted.
The weekend of Halloween is the scariest, of course. Those paying for entry must assume that extra work goes into this weekend but it’s quite the opposite. We’re here on Halloween weekend. The rumors and lines have grown substantially larger.
Accidents are unavoidable when demons are at work.
Even with the contracts, if we eat, kill, or maim too many people, the Playroom is bound to get shut down.
If we had more control in this type of environment, we’d run this kind of shit year-round.
We’re here for fear. That’s it. The others know that.
Eating and maiming are optional luxuries reserved for individual hunts. Slipups jeopardize this opportunity.
On the flip side, previous slipups have given Reaper’s such a fearsome reputation that we’re never short of snacks.
Scaring out in the open like this is risky. We’ve always capped it at a few days. I might be able to last longer, but the others are a different matter.
Masks help conceal our true forms. We do our best to blend in with the humans who work here.
Idiots who think jumping out and yelling “boo” is enough to get the job done.
I have to give them moderate credit. Our tactics have triggered their creativity.
The rest of the rooms have gotten darker, scarier, over the years.
They are learning from the best, after all.
When the weekend ends, it’s back to scaring on our own. I don’t mind going back to solo hunts. Too much time in crowds can make a beast of us all.
The clown still lurking behind me is as unpredictable and lost as his name insinuates. He usually needs extra help staying on task and in his human skin.
“Madness.”
He pitches into a handstand, staring at me from upside down. “Yeah, Hunty Hunt?”
“Keep your fucking skin on.”
“It’s not us you have to worry about tonight. Someone is hungry. White eyes and big teeth. Chomp chomp.” His laughter follows him out.
Dammit, I should have checked in on Gator. When’s the last time he devoured more than fear? It’s not something that’s necessary for his survival, but he’s so accustomed to it that it’s second-nature. Even in his human disguise.
An intoxicating fear releases through here when he takes a bite out of someone, but it’s a fucking mess. Dismemberment equals shutting down the house for the night.
One bite isn’t worth a whole evening of lost terror.
A techno rendition of the theme song from Dracula blasts over the speakers as the gates are thrown wide. People funnel in, pushing and shoving their way toward the entrance.
It’s too late now to check in on Gator. I swear, if he eats anyone and fucks this up before I get my fill, I’ll disembowel him.
A bittersweetness mixes with my bloodlust. The final night has begun. My room is all the way at the back. The twinges of fear that float through the fog-filled air set my mouth watering.
The worn handle of my chainsaw sits ready and familiar in my palm. How quickly we fell into our roles. As if they were made for us. Perhaps they were. Crafted from nightmares passed from generation to generation.
I’ve learned there are a few standard scares in any haunted house. Easy to mimic, though no one does the classics like us.
Screams shred the air. There’s always a shift when they enter a demon’s room. Madness and his clown room are the first they meet of the three of us. It’s a perfect fit for that whacko. Humans hate clowns but are fascinated with them. I’ve never seen a haunted house without a clown room or funhouse.
Gator claimed the title of the butcher. He’s set up with an over-the-top collection of knives in some swamp-ass cabin.
I have no idea why rickety bayou shacks are a staple of haunted attractions.
Gator’s has a meat shop attached to it. That part is easy to understand.
Meat hooks and slaughtered animals always put people on edge.
As for me…
My first group of the night enters the pitch-black room, completely unaware I’m hiding in its shadows. This is the last space they cross before exiting. The scent of sweat and arousal slap me so hard I think my burlap mask may fly right off. I shake out my legs. Let’s fucking go.
Three men and two clingy girls stumble through the black curtain.
I wait until they see the glowing red exit sign, savoring the way they relax slightly once they think they’ve finished the house.
I don’t enjoy feeding off stale fear or Madness and Gator’s leftovers.
I prefer to let people think they’re safe.
Their heart rates slow. Adrenaline dipping to allow a slight drop in pulse.
That’s when I sweep in and give them a whole new rush.
“That wasn’t that scary,” the front man jokes.
“Dude, you screamed like a girl when that clown popped out.” The other male slaps him on the back.
“I’m just saying, I thought it would be scarier.”
That’s coming from the guy who smells like he borderline fainted at some point this evening.
His attempt to shrug it off is my cue to appear.
I rev up my chainsaw. The reaction is instantaneous.
Movies have done an impeccable job of instilling a fear of chainsaws in the general public.
They don’t get this petrified over weed eaters or hatchets.
Chainsaws specifically trigger the memories of old horror films that so many adults have seen.
Their spike in fear fills my mouth, plunging beneath my human skin and into my cryptid form. My throat clogs as I fight to swallow it down. The first fill of the night is always overwhelming.
Stepping from the darkness, I reveal myself.
The burlap sack does its job. Why is it that humans are so scared of a little sack?
Maybe it’s the smile sewn into the fabric.
The oversized mouth stitched from ear to ear hides a few real human teeth.
I love collecting teeth. If my little collection were ever to be tested, they could solve quite a few missing-persons cases. Hikers, mainly.
Raising my chainsaw into the air escalates things. The group is already tripping over themselves before I sprint toward them.
They don’t have far to go. But with so many visitors throughout the night, I prefer to dole out fear in a constant stream of short, potent bursts.