Chapter Three
The Verge’s parking lot greets me with a plywood sign hammered into the dirt: ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HERE in dripping red paint. Someone got paid minimum wage to edge that font.
“We added a new fog machine this year!” Mom shouts through the speaker phone. “Your father may or may not have set the neighbor’s hedges on fire.”
I snort. “Accidentally or artistically?”
“Jury’s still out,” Dad yells. “But apparently, if we take down the flaming pentagram, they’ll call it even.”
I pop the car door open, swing my legs out, phone tucked between shoulder and cheek. The night air rolls over me. Woodsmoke. Wet leaves. And that weird sweet decay from the pumpkin patch at the entrance.
Time to live a little.
Mom’s still rambling about fog machines and corn maze logistics when I slam the door shut with my hip.
“Please tell me you at least took down the Children of the Corn tribute from the mailbox,” I cut in, hiking my backpack higher on my shoulder.
My survival kit is basically the contents of a woman who either expects to get laid, lost, or possessed.
One water bottle. Extra underwear—just in case.
Lube, because some decisions are smoother than others.
A protein bar I’ll probably forget about.
Condoms. Flashlight. Wet wipes. Fireball in a flask labeled Holy Water.
A pocket knife I don’t even know how to open. And a blindfold.
“Oh, relax,” Dad booms. “We just added more corn.”
A staff member in a Scream mask waves me toward check-in. Behind him, the woods loom—less ‘haunted nightmare’ and more ‘abandoned summer camp.’
“What about you, sweetie?” Mom prods. “The girls dragging you to one of their wine nights?”
I picture them now. Lana in her pristine high-rise, probably sharpening her stilettos for battle.
Kristy elbow-deep in glue sticks, crafting the world’s saddest pumpkin.
We used to be fun. Now our recently-revived group texts are mostly complaints about adulting, lack of sleep, and exes who ghosted.
“Uh-huh,” I mumble, watching a staff member in a cheap werewolf mask direct cars.
“You should invite someone. That cute barista you mentioned, or—”
“Wow, next you’ll be swooning over the Geek Squad. Should I set up a Tinder profile for your secret alter ego? HotMom_69.”
“Payton Marie Reed—”
I giggle. “Gotta go. Love you. Don’t commit felonies.”
I hang up to the sound of Dad yelling, “First Amendment!” and what might be a fire extinguisher.
A girl in a cropped CREW hoodie and fishnets scans my ticket, her glossy lips curling as she drags her gaze over me. “First time at The Verge, sweetheart?”
“I’m radiating virgin sacrifice energy, huh?”
She slips a thin chain over my head, the cold dog tag hitting between my boobs. 31, etched deep in matte black.
“And in case you misplace that …” She snaps a UV stamp against my wrist then flashes a small penlight over it. “Backup branding.”
“Thirty-one? Thought this was capped at thirty.”
“Guess you’re the bonus round,” she purrs. “Don’t worry—our hunters love fresh meat.”
“Kinky. I like it.” I flex my wrist, watching the ink shimmer. “What happens if I tap out?”
She leans in, her perfume all sugar and smoke. “Oh, you won’t. But if you do … well, let’s just say the wolves get creative with stragglers.”
The Verge’s main lodge is technically a barn—or at least it was before someone slapped paint over the rotting wood and called it ‘rustic chic.’
I smooth down my denim skirt—revenge fantasies for the win—and yank my hoodie sleeves past my knuckles. The cold air’s already seeped into my bones, and my sneakers are already damp from the hike here.
Kristy bounces over with two plastic cups containing something that reminds me of gas station slushie. Her tie-dye crop top clashes so hard with her neon shorts it’s almost impressive. Glitter is still clinging to her temples like war paint from today’s ‘Spooky Storytime’ with her kindergarteners.
“There you are. Damn, thirty-one? Final girl, huh?” She grins, flashing her dog tag—30. “And I thought I was lucky.”
I grab a cup and take a sip. Sweet. “Where’s Lana?”
“She’s flirting with Mr. Ghostface.”
“Oh, is he hot or just tall?”
“No idea. But he’s got a knife.”
Because obviously, that’s the baseline now.
“Okay, the vibe here is cult initiation meets Coachella. That girl by the snack table? Already cried twice. That’s our first victim.”
I follow Kristy’s gaze to a willowy blonde in a lace bodysuit and thigh-highs that defy the laws of friction.
“Five bucks says she faceplants before the first jump scare,” Lana murmurs, materializing beside me.
Her all-black outfit is performance-fabric perfection—high-neck compression top, leggings that could survive a warzone—except for the half-zipped collar, the open V exposing a hint of cleavage and a faint red mark beneath her jawline, the kind that might be from a rough night or something kinkier.
“Who’s the new guy?”
“Huh?” She sees what I’m staring at and grins. “Oh, just someone from work. We’ve grabbed drinks a few times. Nothing serious.”
I squint at her dog tag. “How come you’re number one?”
“Returning player?” She shrugs. “Who cares?”
A single clap snaps through the noise. Of course, the hostess has to make an entrance.
Boots first. Thick-soled, probably Doc Martens. The rest of her follows—leather harness digging into her shoulders, antlers strapped to her head.
I take a sip of my radioactive punch. “Subtle,” I mutter, but my eyes stick to her anyway.
“Welcome, prey.” Her voice is whiskey-warm.
“I’m sure you’ve all memorized the ground rules, but just in case, here’s a reminder.
One, scream all you want. Two, if things get too intense and you wanna tap out, use your own chosen safe word.
Three—” She pauses as a brunette in a corset raises her hand—Prey #19.
“Yes, Jessica, you can keep your inhaler.”
The crowd titters. Kristy leans in. “That’s Jessica Langley. She ghosted my cousin after one bad date. Karma’s coming for her tonight.”
Lana sips her drink. “Pretty sure karma doesn’t wear a gimp mask, but okay.”
I scan the room. Most of them are a cluster of nervous giggles. Except for one. Sharp-faced brunette in tactical gear, arms crossed.
When our eyes meet, she smirks. “You’re either the wolf in this story or the dumbest fucking rabbit.” Her gaze drops to my skirt. “Place your bets, gringuita.”
“?Por qué no los dos?” I deadpan.
Kristy chokes on her drink.
The brunette—#18, according to her tag—barks a laugh. “At least you’ll die hot.”
The antlered woman gestures to a staffer with a black bucket. “Alright, ladies. Time for your mandatory digital detox. By participating, you waive all rights to refunds, whining, and surviving with your dignity intact. Our NDAs are binding in this life and the next.”
I roll my eyes, thumbing my phone on one last time. Two notifications:
MOM
Well, the cops made us take down the pentagram but said the flaming hedge has artistic merit. Your dad’s crying happy tears into the hydrangeas. Stay safe!
IT GUY
Happy Halloween. Watch for tree roots.
Same words Kade murmured against my ear last night. I switch my phone off and drop it into the void, already half-full of glittery cases.
The staffer gives me an approving nod before moving down the line.
The antlered woman beams. “Thank you for your cooperation. What a lovely group we’ve got this year. Snacks and ‘liquid courage’ are set up by the firepit. You’ve got an hour before the game starts—use it wisely.”
Kristy immediately hooks her arm through mine. “Translation: Hydrate and pee now, because you’ll be pissing yourself later.”
“Speak for yourself. I plan to be caught within five minutes.” Lana winks before heading to the restroom.
The tactical-gear brunette rolls her eyes then clocks me watching her. Her smirk returns. “Guess we’re doing introductions. I’m Mia. You?”
“Sidney. And this is my friend, Gale.”
Kristy bites back a laugh.
“Yeah. Whatever.” Mia scoffs, thumb hooking the carabiner clipped to her belt—the only part of her whole haunted forest park ranger cosplay that looks like it’s actually seen dirt. “Half these chicas won’t make it past the first scream.”
“Including you?” I ask sweetly.
She taps the polished steel clip. “Oh, honey, I am the scream.”
Kristy lets out a low whistle, rubbing her arms. “Did someone just crank up the AC?”
I sip my neon punch, eyes still on Mia. “So, you’re here for the cardio or the trauma bonding?”
“Neither.” She smiles. “I’m here to win.”
Kristy leans toward me, stage-whispering behind her cup. “Okay but like … what do you win? Bragging rights? A trophy made of bones? An OnlyFans deal?”
“Wouldn’t be the weirdest prize I’ve taken home. Adiós, ladies.”
“Damn, that girl’s a badass, huh,” Kristy whispers as Mia saunters off. “Totally nailing the Lara Croft vibe.”
“More like future cult leader.”
“Okay, ‘Sidney.’” Kristy grins, nudging me. “Are you jealous someone’s giving you a run for the ‘final girl’ title?”
“Please. If anyone’s gonna beat me, it’s you or Lana.”
“Does that mean Lana’s ‘Dewey’?”
“I guess.”
She cackles as we drift toward the firepit, where a spread of charcuterie and spiked cider awaits.
I tap my fitness watch—the one Mom gave me after my ‘I’ll start jogging, probably’ phase lasted longer than six months. 7:06 pm. Fifty-four minutes until go time.
15% battery remaining.
Kristy eyes the warning. “Should’ve juiced it up.”
“And miss the thrill of living on the edge?” I tap it again, as if that’ll magically refill the battery. “This thing’s held on longer than most of my relationships.”
The blonde in thigh-high boots—Prey #7, according to her tag—is doing a spectacular impression of a baby deer on an ice rink.
Her cider sloshes dangerously as she pivots on heels that could double as murder weapons.
Up close, the whole sexy survivor aesthetic is falling apart: lace bodysuit snagged like it lost a fight with a rosebush, falsies doing the wave goodbye.