Chapter Three #2
Kristy, our resident chaos medic, plucks a sweaty cube of cheddar from the charcuterie board and thrusts it at her. “Eat. Low blood sugar plus existential dread? Bad combo.”
“I’m fine,” Prey #7 lies, her voice cracking. “Just … do they really chase us? Like, full-sprint tackle?”
“Worse.” I take a slow sip, letting the word hang just long enough to see her pupils dilate. “They bite.”
Kristy elbows me.
Prey #7 blinks. Then—a startled giggle.
Kristy beams. “Hey, if you’re gonna wear stilts”—she nods at the thigh-highs—“own the wobble. Channel your inner baby giraffe.”
Prey #7—Amanda, she admits after two more ciders—mimes tipping over. “Just scream ‘timber’ and hope someone catches me?”
“Exactly.” I steal a slice of salami. “But honestly? The hunters want you to run. They’re all bark.”
Lie. The waiver mentioned ‘controlled aggression,’ whatever that means.
“Oh my God, it’s her,” Kristy hisses, elbowing me so hard I nearly choke on my olive pit.
Prey #4, a curvy bombshell, cuts through the crowd like a shark through chum—high-gloss black latex clinging to every inch of her plus-sized glory, her walk a ‘Fuck you’ to physics and good sense. The kind of woman who’d unzip a hunter with her teeth just to prove a point.
“Vanessa ‘Scream Queen Supreme’ Graves,” Kristy murmurs. “She told her two million followers she’s planning to unmask as many hunters as she can tonight.”
“And how exactly is she gonna do that?”
Kristy giggles. “Use your imagination, babe. Word is, she’s been training—strictly face-mounted cardio.” She pats her glutes. “Says it’s revolutionary for her squat game.”
A gong shudders through the lodge.
Amanda crushes her cup. “Uh, that’s the ‘Go hide’ signal?”
A second gong splits the air, followed by feedback that scrapes my teeth.
The antlered woman’s voice booms from hidden speakers. “Prey, please assemble at the tree line for your motivational send-off.”
Beyond the firepit, torches erupt along the forest edge.
“Are those—?” Amanda points at something gleaming between the trees.
Masks, at least a dozen. Motionless. Watching.
“Hunters,” I murmur. “Getting their last peek before the buffet opens.”
Like they’re not already hard.
Kristy drains her drink. “Coolcoolcool. Anyone else suddenly need to pee?”
I scan the crowd. “Where the hell’s Lana?”
I’m about to check the restroom when the cheesy haunted house playlist glitches. A mashup of Elley Duhé’s Middle of the Night and Halsey’s Control.
One by one, the shirtless hunters slink out from the trees. Sculpted abs. Oiled skin. Chests that glow in the dark. All thirst-trap titans and murder-kink energy.
Three Ghostfaces, identical masks tilted in eerie unison. One drags his knife along a tree bark. Another adjusts his grip on a length of rope, testing its give with a slow, suggestive pull. The third just tilts his head. Dead eyeholes right onto some prey.
Nearby, a Jason Voorhees knockoff is palming the handle of his machete. When some poor soul—lucky me—makes the mistake of staring, he peels up the bottom of his mask and drags the flat of the blade across his tongue.
Then there’s The Void. Taller than the others. Twice as menacing with that black, featureless mask.
The Wolf drops to all fours like he’s auditioning for a nature documentary. Very scary. Very extra.
A Leatherface type revs his chainsaw—not aiming at anyone, just to terrify a flock of crows.
These guys are obviously built to last. Probably practice their grip strength on stress balls and small woodland creatures. The kind of men who make you forget your safe word before they’ve even touched you.
“Holy shit,” Kristy breathes. “They look like they stepped out of a ‘Magic Mike—the Halloween edition’ calendar.”
“How many hunters are there?” I mutter, still drooling over the abs parade.
“I don’t know. Count them.”
“Fifteen,” says a voice behind us.
Kristy jumps, almost spilling her drink. “Jesus, Lana. Warn a girl.”
I glance back. “Oh, good. You’re not dead in a porta-potty. I was this close to calling housekeeping.”
“Long line,” Lana mutters, adjusting her tag until it’s centered perfectly in her cleavage. “Had to freshen up.”
One of the Ghostfaces blows a kiss.
Kristy elbows her. “Freshening up or getting fresh?”
“Nice boots,” Lana says, eyeing those thigh-highs. “Where’d you get them?”
Amanda beams like she’s been waiting for someone to ask. “Little boutique near the marina—Chérie Noir. They only had a few pairs left and I almost cried thinking they wouldn’t have my size, but the clerk found them in the back and I took it as a sign from the universe.”
“Let me guess, eight and a half?”
Amanda does a little foot model pose. “Close. Nines.”
Kristy snorts, nudging Lana. “Since when do you care about footwear?”
“Just thinking they’d look cute with my leather jacket. If I didn’t ruin everything I wear on gravel.”
Kristy perks up. “Cool. We’re going next week. I want a pair in size seven. Payton, you coming?”
Before I can respond, Mia whistles low. “That one’s mine.”
The Grim Reaper. Flexing his gloved hands, scars mapping his torso like a legend for all the ways a body can break.
Kristy goes full stepped-on squeak toy. “You can’t call dibs on Death.”
The guy lifts a single finger and drags it across his throat. Not at Mia.
At me.
“Mmm, these men.” Vanessa licks her lips. “They were grown in a lab. I’d let any one of them violate the Geneva Convention.”
“Baby giraffe … baby giraffe … baby giraffe,” Amanda mutters.
I grip Kristy’s arm. “You remember your safe word?”
“Yeah, ‘Cupcake.’ You?”
“Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.”
Kristy gapes at me. “Seriously? That’s a mouthful.”
“That’s the whole point, right? I’ll only use it if I really have to.”
Kristy shakes her head and turns to Lana. “What’s yours?”
She shrugs. “Don’t need one.”
“Yup.” Mia smirks, leaning against a nearby tree. “Safe words are for pussies.”
The hunting horn’s blast rips through the night air. Every masked head snaps toward the sound with predator-perfect synchronization. The antlered woman ascends a wooden platform, unfurling a ledger.
“Five groups. Six prey each. Three hunters per group,” she announces, dragging a claw down the list. “Curated based on your … special preferences.”
I exchange a glance with Kristy. Our waivers might as well have been shopping lists: PRIMAL PLAY, PRAISE, SPANKING, EDGING, brEATH PLAY, brAT—all bolded and ticked off with enthusiasm.
I definitely checked ANAL as well, but hey, who’s judging?
Besides, for eight hundred bucks, I’m not just expecting to forget my ex’s name by sunrise.
I intend to leave sore, satisfied, and spiritually altered.
A staffer in a gimp mask steps forward with a tanned hide scroll. “When I call your number, please move to your zone.”
The lambs are a trembling cluster—no Amanda among them—herded by a lumbering Leatherface, a Jason with suspiciously clean machete, and a Michael Myers who keeps tilting his head at odd angles.
The hares? Vanessa’s posse meets their hunters—The Oni, The Void, and The Phantom. Hope she brought a tripod.
Vanessa blows a kiss. “Try to keep up, boys.”
Group 3? Foxy me. Kristy too. At least we’ll get to coordinate our screams.
“Prey #7,” the staffer calls.
Amanda startles. “I’m with you guys?”
Kristy fake-cheers. “Congrats. You’ve been voluntold.”
Our hunters materialize—the three Ghostfaces moving as one. Two of them are showing off their knives. The third Ghostface just watches, his hollow gaze burning through my clothes. Like I said—lucky me.
One of the three college girls with us whispers, “Did we just get sorted into Horny Azkaban?”
Her friend giggles. “Think they’ll be more stabby or grabby?”
Amanda whimpers beside me. “I changed my mind about the baby giraffe thing. I want to be a rock. A very small, very boring rock.”
“Group 4—Rabbits. You’ll be hunted by The Wolf and …” The antlered woman trails off, scanning the tree line. A staffer whispers in her ear. She plasters on a smile. “One of our Demons. Third hunter’s running late, but don’t worry, darlings—he always catches up.”
Lana’s in Group 5, touching up her lipstick like this is a spa day. Plus Mia. The rest are just bodies waiting to happen.
Their hunters emerge from the shadows.
The Reaper, dragging his scythe.
Pigface, fresh ‘blood’ dripping from the snout of his filthy mask.
The Bane-masked brute, rope slithering around his forearm.
The antlered woman beams. “Our Stags requested fewer restrictions. No safe words. No check-ins. Just pure hunt.”
Mia smirks at Lana. “Told you this would be more fun.”
Lana snaps her compact shut. “Darling, I invented fun.”
She eyes the Bane-masked hunter like he’s the menu at her favorite steakhouse.
Prey #9 flexes. “So, we can fight back, right?”
“Within reason,” the antlered woman deadpans. “Try not to damage the merchandise. They’re … difficult to replace.”
The brunette in a corset raises her hand again.
“Yes, Jessica?”
“There’s no Prey #13?”
The antlered woman chuckles. “Tradition, little rabbit. Too many past participants complained about the bad luck.”
So that’s why I’m number thirty-one.
Kristy grips my wrist and nods at the Ghostfaces. “The edgelords, huh? We’re so fucked.”
“Nah.” I watch Lana adjust her perfect hair. Behind her, Pigface’s miming licking his chops, rubber lips glistening. “But someone definitely is.”