Chapter Seven #2
We trudge forward. Kristy hums Bad Blood. My brain’s stuck replaying the last hour on a loop.
The guy who carries Mrs. Langston’s groceries up her porch every Thursday. Who’s never once mentioned his mom’s vodka-Red Bull breakfasts, even though the whole neighborhood hears her screaming at two am.
The guy who warned me about tree roots—then hunted me through them. Who stabbed another player for touching me. Who used duct tape like rope. Who’d still be some anonymous fantasy if I hadn’t ripped his stupid mask off.
The guy who spun a story about his scar. Maybe it was all bullshit. Just another way to get under my skin.
But I’ve seen his mom stumbling down their driveway in that ratty pink robe, wrists too thin, eyes glassy. Maybe she really is an alcoholic, and—
Kristy parts a tangle of branches and gestures grandly. “Behold. Civilization.”
Three grimy porta-potties squatting in the dirt. One with the door slightly ajar. Something wet glistens on the handle.
I reel back, gagging. “Hell no.”
Kristy spins on her heel. “Okay, Plan B. Come on. Chop chop, I really need to pee.”
I hurry after her. “Wait—where are we even going?”
“Trust me or don’t.”
We push through another thicket and another. Trees peel back.
Nestled in the clearing is a trailer. Black. Sleek. Gothic lettering on its side says, cleanse your filth.
Kristy marches forward, yanks open the trailer door. “For eight hundred bucks a ticket, they’d better have heated toilet seats and a fucking sommelier.”
Bergamot. Bleach. And beneath it? Something sweet-rotten. Gilded mirrors. Dim red lights. Antique sconces shaped like dripping candles. Floor’s black obsidian tile, polished so clean I can almost see myself in it.
Kristy whistles low. “Holy shit. I feel underdressed.”
The faucet’s shaped like a gold skull. I twist it, and warm water gushes over my wrists.
Above the mirror, neon letters read—
YOUR REFLECTION LIES.
“This feels illegal,” I mutter, scrubbing mud from my ankle.
Kristy makes a beeline for the nearest stall. “Babe, you just got railed in the woods. This is aftercare. Don’t judge the noises. I’ve been holding this in since the damn hunt started.”
I snort, check my reflection in the mirror. Flushed and wild-eyed.
Kristy’s voice echoes from the stall. “Good news. They’ve got toilet paper. I was fully prepared to wipe off with a leaf.”
Not just toilet paper but a row of vanities—each one stocked with chilled towels and little jars of charcoal face masks. Plus a tray of mini towels folded into origami skulls and lip balms labeled ‘Sinful Cherry’ and ‘Virgin’s Bite.’
I apply the Sinful Cherry balm, trying not to smile.
“You know what this place needs?” Kristy calls out. “A Prosecco tap and a hot guy with a loofah.”
“You forgot why we came here, missy.” I smack my lips together. Not too bad for someone who just got ravished by a Ghostface with a grudge and a duct tape fetish.
Kristy struts over to the sink beside me. “Oh, I remember. And I’m gonna get my fair share of Mr. Ghostface once we’re outta here.”
“Good luck.” I toss her a balm. Watch her swipe it across her lips.
“Virgin’s Bite, huh? Cute. Hope he chokes on it.”
“Come on.” I yank open the trailer door. “Let’s go find you a Ghostface.”
“What happened to the one who got stabbed? Maybe I could saunter up to him. Play nurse.”
We step off the little deck and crunch into the trail. The forest yawns ahead—flickering lights, scattered shadows, and the occasional glow stick like breadcrumbs dropped by drunk Hansels and Gretels.
Ten steps out, and she stops cold. “You hear that?”
I freeze. Strain my ears.
Nothing.
Then—crunch.
Behind us. One step. Slow. Heavy.
I whirl around, heart kicking. Kristy aims her phone toward the noise.
From the dark, something lurches into the edge of light.
A figure. Staggering. Hair matted, lace bodysuit ripped at the shoulder.
“Amanda?” Kristy calls out, lifting her phone.
Amanda’s limping—bare feet caked in mud, her false lashes clinging on. “Oh, thank God. I’ve been trying to find the bathroom for, like … forever.”
Kristy darts over and takes her arm. “Damn, baby giraffe. What happened to you?”
Amanda winces as she climbs the trailer steps, leaning hard into Kristy. “I tripped. And then I tripped again. I gave up and took off my boots. And then I got lost.”
Amanda clutches the sink.
I pass her a chilled towel. “Here.”
She whispers a soft, “Thanks,” and dabs at her face with it. “I saw your friend near the creek with that guy. The one with …” She mimes snapping her teeth. “Pigface.”
“Lana,” Kristy and I say at the same time.
Amanda nods. “She was laughing when he caught her. Not normal laughing. Scary laughing.”
I flick a leaf from her hair. “Sounds like you wandered into their zone. Good thing you made it out before it’s too late. That’s the no-limits group.”
Kristy shoots me a look—eyebrow arched, lips twitching.
“I was hiding behind this big log,” Amanda mumbles, wiping her cheek. “And one of them saw me. Just stared. I thought he was gonna lunge—but then he left. Think I disappointed him. God, I hate this place. I hate running. And I hate”—she glares at her reflection—“whatever this is.”
Kristy bites back a laugh. “Girl, if you hate it so much, why’d you even come?”
Amanda groans, pressing the towel to her face. “Lost a bet with my co-workers. They said it’d be fun. Like, ha-ha bonding fun. I think they hate me.”