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Chapter Text

Wild cackles spill from your throat, disjointed and borderline hysterical. A giant chainsaw roars to life in your hands, the bloodied business-end a warning. The constant vibrations from the motor making your very bones feel tingly and near numb with pins and needles.

The blood coursing through your veins feels electric, super-charged in a way that you only ever feel when you’re giving chase.

For all intents and purposes, you were dressed to kill.

Ahead, a group of teenagers shriek for their lives, pushing and shoving at each other in a desperate mad scrawl to escape.

Giggling dementedly, you cheekily taunt the pair. Some cheesy one-liner that you’ve already used maybe thirty times tonight.

In response, the blond, shaggy haired boy unkindly shoves at his friend, looking honestly a little pale. God, you hoped he wouldn’t vomit. The last thing you needed was for this kid to puke in your section.

“Damn it— move Craig, move! They’re coming right this way!”

Craig, you’re assuming, cackles sadistically. Arms and legs spread out wide and hooked onto the exit’s doorframe like a human barricade. Effectively blocking his friend from passing through, reveling in the panicked shouts and desperate pleas to move.

“Chill! They’re not even that scary!” Craig manages between full-bellied chuckles.

You cluck your tongue, bouncing from foot to foot impatiently. You had a strict schedule, and didn’t really have the time to play a game of chicken with these two before the next group passed through.

Panting, you try to subtly rub your face against your shoulder, sweat-slicked baby-hair clung uncomfortably to your clammy skin. Slowly, as to not alert the oblivious pair as they squabbled, you crept forward. Quietly making your way over, inch by inch, until you were only a meager three steps away.

“Fuck you Craig! I swear to god, if you don’t move in the next five seconds, I’m gonna—“

Reaching down, you cut the power to your chainsaw. The pair, still oblivious and too caught up in their back and forth, fail to notice the abrupt silence.

Before anymore grating arguing can spill, your reach out, gently reaching over the blonde’s shoulder and gently poking the troublemaker with your index.

The pair, having momentarily forgotten all about you, whip their heads around. The action is done so quickly, you’re half surprised they hadn’t snapped their necks. Their eyes were wide and terrified as they watched with bated breath. You offer nothing but a playful little finger wag; deceptively casual, before lunging forward and delivering a scream so fried, most metal-heads would’ve applauded.

You barely have enough time to clear your throat before the teens are tripping over one another, a messy pile of limbs as they half-crawl on all fours. Before then remembering that, yes, they did indeed have legs. And that yes, they should probably use those.

Man, you loved Halloween.

Hours later, and the haunted house’s endless waves of shrieking crotch-goblins and thrill-seeking teens had finally slowed to a light trickle. Granted, it wasn’t all that surprising. With it being the busiest night of the year, after all. The attraction had been at near full capacity all night, guests squashed together like canned sardines with seemingly no end in sight.

It wasn’t until just a little after midnight when the non-stop traffic of people had finally slowed to a trickle, that you realized just how loud it had been. The abrupt quiet left only the looping audio of groaning ghouls playing from outdated speakers hidden in dark corners. You’d honestly forgotten there was any background ambience to begin with, when all you could hear for eight long and grueling hours was the screams of the horrified.

God, you were so glad you had the foresight to bring a bottle of Tylenol with you.

With little more fanfare, the annual haunt had officially closed for the year. The end of the final shift was marked with exhausted high-fives, sighs of relief, and more than a few of your coworkers tearing off sticky prosthetics like their skin had been itching something fierce for hours.

Quickly, actors were dispersing and heading home for a well-earned night’s rest. But not you.

No, you’d gone and volunteered for one last task: the final sweep.

It was your favorite part of the job. Wandering through the darkened maze of the building, making sure no drunk idiots had keeled over and passed out in a coffin or gotten stuck between the walls of the mirror maze. Occasionally, you’d even find a late-night straggler who thought it’d be the bee’s knees to hide and loiter around until everyone left. Those ones were the best. Scaring the hell out of someone who thought they were smarter than the rest? Totally oblivious that they weren’t alone, and wouldn’t have the last laugh?

Better than any therapy session. Free, too.

Tonight felt different, though. The air seemed heavier in the aftermath of the long season, as if the building itself was holding its breath. But maybe that was just your imagination. It was all too easy for these dark corridors to play on your anxiety.

Shaking it off, you adjusted your grip on the prop chainsaw you carried, the dull heft of it a grounding weight. Despite the fact that it wasn’t real, it still gave you an illusion of safety.

As you tiredly shambled your way through the maze of halls, fantasizing about your plush mattress waiting for you back at home, you trod into a room chalk-full of fog. The familiar, smokey scent a pleasant balm over your pulsing migraine. Someone must’ve forgot to turn off the fog-machines, you figure. You couldn’t really find it in yourself to blame them for wanting to go home as soon as possible after tonight.

Turning a corner, you stop dead in your tracks as your eyes hone in on a distant shape.

Ahead, barely visible in the foggy gloom, was the hulking silhouette of a person.

Your heart gave a little leap of excitement. A straggler, ripe for the spooking!

Grinning, you bend your knees into a half-crouch, keeping close to the wall as you quietly crept forward. The flickering lights overhead did little to illuminate the figure, but you didn’t need to see much. You knew this maze like the back of your hand and could strut these halls blindfolded. No dumb teens stood a chance against you.

Close enough now to start feeling the ramping rush of adrenaline, you gave the chainsaw in your hands a few hard tugs. It sputters. Once, twice, before roaring to life on the third pull. The sound of the faux engine roaring to life bounces against the walls of the narrow hall, creating a cacophony throughout the desolate space.

The figure, hunched over something on the ground— please don’t be vomit, please don’t be vomit — straightened slowly. And kept straightening up, reaching a towering height all the while remaining completely unbothered by your approach.

Well. That wasn’t the reaction you’d been expecting. Usually, this was the point in time where people screamed, turned tail, and ran. Or at the very least flinched in surprise.

Real or not, people had a tendency to allow fear to overtake their rationality. It was hard not to, when somebody was chasing you, swinging around a chainsaw in an enclosed space. There was little time to think, just scream and run. Which was great for you.

Annoyed, you take several menacing steps closer, brandishing your chainsaw and revving the engine promisingly. It typically made even the most jaded customer uneasy. But the figure didn’t even react. Was this guy deaf?

“Alright, tough guy,” you muttered under your breath, squinting to get a better look at them.

Through the flickering lighting, you could just make out a worn, burgundy turtleneck and a matching devil mask to boot. Pointed horns perched atop their crown, casting jagged shadows across the walls. In one hand, they held a cleaver—large, wickedly sharp, and dripping with what looked unmistakably like blood. Thick, dark rivulets of it that clung to the blade and fell in slow, pattering drops onto the floor.

Oh. So maybe not a guest.

Sighing with slight disappointment, the muscles in your legs that’d been tensed in preparation to give chase slackened.

“Nice getup,” you called out over the rev of the chainsaw, lowering it slightly before cutting the power off altogether in order to be heard more clearly.

“Sorry— thought you were a guest. Y’know, we closed like… Half an hour ago, right? You can go home.”

The figure tilted their head, confused maybe, before turning towards you fully. Behind them, something was sprawled across the floor—a crumpled, unrecognizable heap in a pool of blackened liquid.

You squinted, trying to make sense of the shape.  Some kind of prop, probably. From your vantage you could just make out bone-white, jutting ribs blooming from the gorey mass. Indescribable lumps spill from the open cavity, glistening in the low-light. Most likely meant to look like exposed guts.

Your stomach roils unpleasantly at the sight. That was some pretty convincing stuff. Not typically what you saw in here, considering this haunt advertised itself as nothing too intense— for the younger audience.

Your attention is redirected, when the stranger shuffles closer.

“Didja know,” they spoke— tone baritone and unmistakably male, with a honeyed southern drawl, “human meat tastes most similarly like pork?”

You shuffle in place awkwardly as the man completely ignores your previous words. Your brain buffers, struggling to formulate the right words. Quickly, you decide to go with the tried and true method when dealing with odd social encounters. Polite enthusiasm.

A nervous laugh bubbles up in your throat, forced and strained.

“That’s… uh, great trivia,” you stammered, looking around, confused. Why was he insisting on dragging out the bit? It was just the two of you. Right? “Um. You really don’t have to keep acting though. Like I said before, we’re done for the night, so…”

You trail off as the man took another lumbering step closer, his boots squelching in the messy viscera underfoot.

You stepped back instinctively at his unhurried advance, your gaze darting between the cleaver in his fist and the mangled body behind him. It wasn’t real, right? It certainly didn’t feel real.

Yet all the while something kept nagging persistently in the back of your skull, your gut telling you something was deeply wrong here.

Why don’t you remember this guy? Surely you would’ve seen him at least once in passing if he worked here? Yet try as you may to recollect your scrambled thoughts, you can’t for the life of you recall.

Faintly, you heard the ‘whoosh’ing of the overhead fan as it was powered to life. One of you had tripped the motion trigger, a practical effect meant to disorient you. Bombard your senses and overwhelm the intended target for a better scare— or something along those lines. The finer details escaped you in this moment.

It was only as a fresh burst of circulated air wafted in your direction, that the smell hit you. You were expecting something mildly sweet. Like liquid corn-starch and colored food-dye.

The scent that assaults you instead, is anything but. Coppery and acrid, like licking a battery.

This was real. Like, really real.

It hits abruptly, and it hits you hard. The chainsaw in your hands suddenly felt too light, too useless. You took a half-step backwards, swallowing hard as a cold dread crept up your spine.

The pounding war-drum of your pulse roared in your ears as panic began to set in. “Okay,” you said, your voice thin and wispy.

You swallow again, clearing the cotton-dry feeling in your mouth and try injecting some authority back into your tone. You don’t think you quite hit the mark. “Okay. Uh, You’re— You’re not supposed to be here, man.”

The stranger says nothing. Just smiles and stalks forward, cleaver raised and poised to slash.

Alarm bells blare in your head as you backpedal, frantically twisting to turn back the way you came.

He lunged.

You barely had any time to throw the chainsaw up between you as the cleaver arced through the air. A resounding ‘crack’ rippled through the air as steel met cheap plastic, the force of the swing knocking the prop straight out of your hands. As it clattered to the floor, useless, you only had one thought.

You were so screwed.

You scramble to keep your balance and maintain a sliver of distance as the man advanced, his movements slow but deliberate. Like a cat batting around a mouse.

In one sudden move, he swung again, forcing you to dodge with a wild stumble to the side. The motion sent you skidding on the slick floor, your shoes struggling to find traction on the grimy surface smeared with blood.

Turning your head to the side, you just now notice the man’s sweater-clad arm brushing against your cheek— caging you in.

He’d missed— No, that’s not right. You’d dodged.

The giant cleaver was stubbornly embedded into the wall beside you, right where your head had been not even a second previously. And it was stuck.

With a panicked noise, you duck under his right arm. Narrowly escaping him as his left hand had just barely brushed against the back of your costume.

“Shit!” you hissed, your heartbeat thundering in your chest. The acidic stench of gore clawed at the back your nostrils— it’s real, it’s real!—, threatening to gag you as you struggled to wrangle your limbs into cooperation and go.

Behind you, you catch the sound of the man grunting as he ripped his weapon of choice out of the wall. Quickly followed by his deliberate steps behind you, steady and unhurried. Completely sure of himself.

It only served to spur you into a clumsy, mad sprint.

The maze of hallways felt suffocatingly narrow, the walls pressing in on you with every corner you turned. Your mind scrambled for an escape route, or-or a familiar face, for anything at all that could give you an edge. But the layout, once so familiar, now felt like a disorienting trap.

Behind you, the man’s steps falter, the sound echoing faintly in the cavernous space.

You turned your head, just a cursory glance over your shoulder to gage his distance, but that split-second look had cost you.

Your foot hit something—a stray, thick cable for some electronic or another. Your balance vanished, and you went down— hard. Your palms shot out before yourself, slapping the cold and sticky floor. Pain shot up your wrists as they took the brunt of the impact, but it barely registered in your panic-addled brain.

The heavy thud of boots snapped your attention back to your aggressor, and you looked up to see him closing the distance. The cleaver raised high, winking promisingly in the stage-light.

Feral and desperate, you crawled back on your elbows. No other thought in your brain except to get away.

Another step forward, and his foot caught on the same cord that had betrayed you. His confident stride faltered, his boot sliding out from under him.

It would’ve been a comical sight in literally any other circumstance.

As he stumbled forward with a startled grunt, his massive frame pitched off-balance as he wildly swung his arms outwards in a desperate search for purchase.

It wasn’t much of an opening, but a split second decision needed to be made.

Adrenaline pumping through your veins, you surprise yourself.

Instead of taking the opportunity to keep running, like literally any other sane person would do in your situation, you’d leapt. Right on-top of your attacker.

Your arm whips out and catch’s his neck, capturing him in a headlock. Or it would’ve, if the damn guy wasn’t built like a fucking rottweiler.

The man lets out a noise between a half-aborted chuckle and cough at the unexpected restriction. Large hands scrabbling for purchase against your forearm, nails raking angry red lines across your skin. You curse at the slight sting, yet remain firmly saddled to his broad back, legs firmly locked at his sides. Even as he wildly thrashes, you hold on with all your might— like you would on a bucking bull at the carnival. Knowing you’d be facing pain far worse than a few scratches if you failed, you swing your other arm around, firmly clasping your hand against your opposing wrist and pulling it taut as hard as you could. The muscles in your arms burn at the prolonged stretch, but no matter how much it aches and feels like your arm could pop out of its socket at any moment, you hold firm.

“Feisty lil’ treat, ain’t’cha?” The mysterious man manages through a gasping grunt, meaty digits wriggling between the space of your arm and his reddening neck.

White-hot anger sears at the forefront of your mind. Just who the hell did he think he was? You did the scares and crappy one-liners around here, bitch.

With a snarl against the nape of his neck, his onyx hair tickling your nose, you act on impulse.

Before anymore teases or taunts can be made in that southern drawl you’re quickly coming to despise, you bare your teeth and bite down at the exposed clammy flesh just peeking above the burgundy sweater smattered with someone else’s blood.

Your attacker gasps, stumbling backwards as he vainly attempts to reach behind himself and dislodge you. All the while you clamp down harder, teeth aching with the force not meant for your blunt pearly-whites.

The acrid, metal tang of iron bleeds onto your tongue— a bitter taste that you’re thankfully not subjected to for long as the mountain of a man loses his footing once again. The wires looping around his ankle in the struggle. Sending him stumbling backward one, two, three paces before his back harshly met the wall.

Ergo, you as well.

The abrupt force of the entirety of the man’s weight hitting you like a freight train, pinning you against the wall, is already bad enough. What makes the shitty situation even worse, is that your aggressor wastes no time in taking your momentary shock and striking.

Lighting quick, you don’t even have time to shout or attempt rolling away as an elbow jabs into your diaphragm with startling accuracy.

The response is instantaneous, as the muscle in your chest seizes— momentarily paralyzed.

You crumple inwards, leaning against the grimy wall for support as you gasp and heave for air. All the while uselessly clutching at the collar of your shirt, struggling and fighting for oxygen that your lungs are seemingly incapable of drawing in at this moment.

Faintly, out of the corner of your eye, you recognize the stranger as he stalks forward. Knife clutched in an angry, white-knuckled fist.

As you’re kneeling hunched on the floor, breathing in harsh pants— but breathing, nonetheless— your eyes dip downwards. Catching the slim portion of skin peeking just above the collar of his stained turtleneck, nearly as red as the devil mask he dons as a result of the damage you’ve wrought.

‘Bites and strangulation’s a good look on him.’ You think to yourself deliriously, as a toothy, blood-soaked grin tears proudly across your face.

The man, taking notice of your face smeared with his own blood, cocks his head to the side. Considering.

Defiantly, you jut your chin upwards. Wordless in your challenge but a challenge nonetheless.

Devil-guy chuckles at your show of bravado, his own smile hitching impossibly higher, the pinks of his gums winking at you.

With a thudding step, and another, he shambles towards you. Stalking. Slow and steady, completely unbothered. He’s got you backed into a corner now and he knows it. Wants you to know it, too.

Feeling hopeless, you can do little more than press yourself flush against the wall. With nowhere else to go, and sufficiently crowded by this guy, you brace for impact.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you feel the heavy, damp breath fanning over your sweat-slicked face as he leans over you. Even without your eyes open, you can feel the lofty weight of his unabashed staring. Despite this, you resist the urge to kick or swing. You already knew it was futile, and anymore resistance would surely be met with a swift rebuttal.

The moment stretches on, a long silence filled with nothing but your intermingling pants occupying the cramped space. Faintly, you hear the looping audio of the haunted-house’s ambient audio. Previously, you’d already had a strong dislike for the downright cheesy moans and groans of the supposed supernatural, interspersed with distant howling. However, in this moment, you despise nothing more. As for the umpteenth time, a distant shriek pierces the quiet. It feels mocking, somehow.

Something warm and wet drips onto your cheek, rolling down your flushed face. Goose flesh erupts along your shoulders as you nearly jump out of your skin at the unexpected sensation. Thankfully however, you do nothing more than flinch, before cautiously peering through squinted eyelids.

Above you, your attacker openly drools. Spittle forming and accumulating along his bottom lip, before trailing down his chin. All while his wobbly pupils minutely shift, raptured and ravenously watching every micro expression flitting across your face.

Nervously, you gulp. Before reflexively wetting your own lips in a practiced, anxious habit. It’s not until you taste copper that you remember you still have flakey, dried blood staining your maw. Gross.

The man above, however, has clearly different opinions as he erupts into a full-bodied shiver. The tips of his ears flushing a bright pink.

Okay. Noted.

He lingers, eyes eagerly raving over the dried streak of blood on your lips with unnerving intensity. You squirm, uncomfortable and feeling like a pinned frog, ripe for dissection. Something feral flits across his expression as you wriggle, a startling hunger, before he raises a hand to wipe the drool from his chin with the back of his sleeve.

“Look at’cha,” he mutters, his voice low, husky. There’s a disconcerting undercurrent of amusement beneath the words, like he’s speaking more to himself than to you. “Wild as a bearcat. ‘Love it when they got a bit of fight in ‘em.”

He squats down to your level, his massive frame moving with surprising grace. You’re keenly aware of just how little space exists between you, his knees nearly brushing yours as his free hand, fingers wide and blunt, presses firmly to the wall beside your head. A cage. One he doesn’t intend to let you squirrel through this time.

Seeming content to just stare at you for the moment, cleaver still clutched in his other hand and catching slivers of light. Angling it lazily, almost conversationally, near your face.

At your clear terror, he withdraws. You relax— at least, as much as you’re able to in this guy’s presence—, a shaky exhale leaving you as he does so.

It doesn’t last long though, of course. As you’re once again tensing up all over again, breath hitching as he raises it to his own mouth instead, the flat of the blade skimming his lips. He slurps at the excess there, his tongue then darting out to lave over the steel, before finally pulling it away. His smile widens, and he makes a soft sound, thoughtful. Like he was out taste-testing cheese and not savoring the blood of the innocent.

“You—” your voice cracks, chest aching, lungs still struggling to catch up. You cough and try again, forcing as much venom as you can muster into your words. “You’re sick.”

“And yer stupid,” he counters quickly, his grin unwavering, a flash of teeth that gleam wetly in the pale light. “But I don’t reckon that’s news to either of us.”

A tense moment of silence passes.

“Ya bite hard,” he muses, disrupting the momentary quiet. As though that’s a normal thing to compliment. Is it a compliment? “Bet’cha I bite harder, though.”

The words sink in slowly, and your stomach twists, blood flushing up your neck. Something in your expression—your attempt to recoil while still pressed helplessly to the wall—delights him further. Like you’re tethered together by a string, he follows your pitiful attempt for personal-space. Never letting you forget for even a moment how helpless you really were.

“Ya weren’t s’pposed to be here, treat.” His free hand lifts from the wall, fingers brushing against the sweat-slicked edge of your jaw. The touch is light, deceptively gentle. However, it’s ruined by how his hands feel like a loaded gun against your skin. Knowing that at any moment, he could snuff you out.

He drags his thumb down your jaw, just barely grazing the space between your lip and chin. The blade stays in his other hand, ominously idle but never forgotten.

You jerk your head to the side with a sharp inhale, dislodging his touch, and finally manage to spit out a weak, “Don’t.” You didn’t even really know what you were refusing. The nickname? Touch? Your inevitable demise? Maybe all of the above.

He chuckles fondly—a deep, guttural sound that reverberates in your chest, too close, too intimate. “Sure thing. Treat.”

Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms hard enough to leave stinging crescents in their wake. “What do you want?” you snap, the edge of your voice sharper now despite the wobble. You’re desperate to gain back some sense of control, some foothold in this surreal nightmare.

His grin softens, just slightly, into something more contemplative. “Want?” he repeats, as though tasting the word on his tongue. “Don’t’cha see, darlin’? I already got what I want.” He leans in even closer, his forehead almost brushing yours.

The words hang in the air like a death sentence. Your stomach flip-flops, dread curling tight in your abdomen as his hands wander again, finally transferring off and away from you.

His proximity feels suffocating, but despite every rational instinct screaming at you to do something—anything—you find yourself frozen. Not just in fear, but in something else. Something other than self-preservation.

He’s terrifying, sure. But there’s something about the way he looks at you, a wild fascination that unsettles you to your very core, yet holds you immovably still. That kind of obsessive attention fixated solely on you, like you’re the only thing that exists in this moment. You’ve never had someone look at you that way before. It was frighteningly addictive.

“Ya feel that, don’t’cha?” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a near whisper, almost conspiratorial. “Yer lil’ heart, pounding away? That’s a once ‘n a lifetime feelin’, treat.”

Yeah, because he fucking kills them right after.

“I could kill ya right now, y’know,” he says it so casually, as though he read your mind. His grip on the knife shifts, and he raises it just enough for you to catch a glimpse of that glinting steel once again. “Wouldn’t even be hard. Like squishin’ a baby bird.”

Your nose scrunches, but you refuse to buckle and give him the reaction he’s clearly fishing for. “Then why don’t you? Hurry up and get it over with, prick.”

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t get the chance to, actually. As a scream echoes down the hall, back the way you came. Sounds like somebody found the body. Er- what was left of it, anyhow.

However, your would-be killer doesn’t even deign to spare a glance in that direction. Instead, he grunts, irritated at being interrupted. Eyes drinking you in, as if committing you to memory.

For a split second, you fear that he isn’t going to move. Quickly, knowing time was running out, you open your mouth. Wether it was to shout or maybe offer some snarky quip, you’ll never know.

Because with the strength of a kicking mule, he shoves you, cutting you off before you could make a sound.

A winded ‘oof’ is punched out of your abused lungs, balefully watching as he rises from his haunches and finally tearing those near-black irises away from you.

And just like that, he’s gone. The weight of his presence lifts as he stands to his full height, towering over you for just a moment longer before turning on his heel. His boots thud against the slick floor as he saunters off, leaving you trembling in the silence. Nothing but the sound of voices down the hall, panicked and steadily growing closer. Something about calling the cops.

Your breath comes in short, ragged bursts as you stare after his retreating silhouette, equal parts relief and confusion flooding your senses.

You get the distinct feeling this isn’t over.

Going home is a complicated ordeal. After your manager found you, you’d been a little shell-shocked, to say the least.

And utterly exhausted.

You didn’t really know the haunt-manager that well. It seemed like a different organizer every year, and to be honest, you weren’t all too keen on getting to know them anyway. They seemed nice enough, though.

“—And-! Where’s your car? Don’t tell me you walked here!” She frets, hands coming up to grasp you by the shoulders, before thinking better of it last minute.

“I’m fine.” You grouse, idly thumbing your sternum that still aches. That’s going to be one nasty bruise, you’re sure.

In the distance, you can just make out the red and blue lights strobing down the streets. You really didn’t want to deal with that headache right now. You were never a fan of cops, having your own complicated history with them that you weren’t really interested in reminiscing on.

“Look, Ms-“ you pause, just realizing you’ve forgotten her name already. With an awkward cough, hoping she didn’t catch on, you continue “it’s been a real long and shitty night and I really just want to go home. I’m leaving.” Stiffly, you turn on your heel. Robotically marching down the steps and towards the sidewalk. You weren’t typically a very tactful person on a good day. So if you were a little more terse than you intended, you don’t think you could be held entirely at fault. Tonight had been overwhelming.

“Wait- No, you can’t just walk away! Someone died tonight, there’ll be questions-and-and-“

You pause in your tracks, aggravatingly, she was right. No matter how much you just wanted to go home and forget about tonight, you could potentially get into a heap of trouble for just walking out. Afterall, it’d probably look awfully suspicious of you to try slinking off after a murder.

A murder. It didn’t feel real, hearing that someone really did die tonight, and that it wasn’t some hysteria-induced hallucination.

You should’ve been dead too.

You clear your throat, uncomfortable. Deciding to save yourself the future migraine, you fish out your trusty bottle of Tylenol. Swallowing two pills dry.

The haunt-organizer looks a little on edge, despite her insistence that you came back. Dragging your feet back up the steps, you notice her slightly backpedal from your immediate vicinity. You suppose you can’t really blame her. What with you still dressed in uniform, ratty hair, and features smeared with patchy face-paint. You must look pretty ratchet right now.

With a long, suffering sigh, you fall back onto your rump. Leg bouncing anxiously.

Well, it’s not like tonight could get any worse.

Chapter Text

The aftermath of your encounter was a flashing, red-and-blue blur. Uniformed officers quickly swamped the surrounding area, their radios crackling with illegible chatter that you weren’t really interested in eavesdropping on.

Somewhere in the distance, a paramedic barks orders at their team. A metallic squeal of a clunky-looking gurney pierced the night, quickly being steered into the attraction. Not that the person inside would need it, you think darkly.

You stood just outside the building, standing shell shocked after tonight’s fiasco— or was it technically morning now?— Statue-still despite the chill of the late, autumn night air. The foil emergency blanket draped over your shoulders doing little to keep the cold from seeping into your joints. The adrenaline that had kept you upright and fighting what felt like just moments ago was fading fast, leaving behind an ache in your muscles and a bone-deep exhaustion that threatened to drag you under at any moment.

“Can you repeat that?” one of the officers asked, donned in shades despite it being one in the morning. A notepad and pen poised in his hands. His partner stands nearby, a shotgun at the ready, his sharp eyes flicking between you and the taped-off Haunted House behind you. Seemingly eager for action.

You grunt, attention snapping back to the present moment.

“I was doing a sweep of the maze,” you began again for what felt like the hundredth time tonight. Voice hoarse and cracking with exhaustion. “I thought he was an actor. Y’know, another seasonal hire. Like me.“ you lick your chapped lips, face scrunching in disgust as the bitter taste of iron assaulted your taste-buds.

Right, you’d forgotten about the blood stubbornly etched into the dry cracks of your lips.

“But when I’d gotten closer…”

Your eyes unfocused, distant, reminiscing on the body you’d stumbled across. Butchered beyond recognition, vividly seared into the forefront of your brain.

And yet, Despite the gorey memory, you can’t really muster up any emotion about it. You felt strangely… numb about the entire encounter.

“He wasn’t acting,” you finished weakly, tone flat.

The officer nodded, his pen scratching across the page as he jotted something down. “Any defining features?”

You shook your head, mumbling apologetically. The lie coming as easily as breathing to you. Well, lie was generous. It was more of a half-truth. There were actually quite a few defining features, each you can easily recall with crystal-clear clarity.

However, you wanted no further involvement with the cops. Having long learned your lesson. Plus, you couldn’t bear the thought of not going to bed within the next hour. If you were to divulge more information, you’d surely be interrogated all night. Was it selfish? Plausibly. But you were only human.

The dark-haired officer frowned slightly, obviously suspicious, but doesn’t press the issue. Instead, he exchanged a knowing glance with his partner, before tucking his notepad into his pocket. “That’s all for now,” he said, his voice softening slightly, woefully empathetic. He then reaches a hand out to you in offering. “But don’t go too far. I doubt this is the last we’ll be reaching out to you, Mx…?”

Muttering your name, you limply grasp his hand. Giving a firm shake before receding back into yourself.

The blonde, subsequently named ‘cap’ in your mind, bounces on his heels excitedly. Eager to go join the action as he tugs his partner along by the hand. What an odd pair.

Abruptly, your legs quake, nearly buckling out from under yourself. Your thighs felt like jell-o, no doubt from running for hours on end.

Your head swims from the onslaught of flashing lights, your acetaminophen doing little to ease your pounding migraine. Someone—one of the EMTs—offered you a bottled water, noticing your slight stumble.

You accept with shaking, adrenaline-shot hands.

“You should go home now. Get some sleep,” the paramedic said gently, their voice kind but firm. “You’ve been through a lot.”

Sleep. You had no words to define the sheer relief at hearing that precious word.

You looked around, surveying the area. That was really it? You could just… go, like nothing happened? Of course, you’d wanted nothing more. But actually leaving just felt so surreal.

You sigh, your breath tangible in the cold air, watching solemnly as the gurney reemerged from the house. On top, a black body-bag rests limply, lifeless.

That could’ve been you. It should’ve.

You say nothing, just bobble your head in agreement.

The paramedic sighs, offering you a small, encouraging smile before stepping away. You pull the emergency blanket tighter around yourself. Turning towards the parking lot, each step heavier than the last.

The weight of the night hung over you as you climbed into your beat up car, swinging the door closed, the resounding silence inside felt like a totally different world. For a moment, you just sat there, gripping the steering wheel and staring blankly ahead.

Home. Sleep. Tomorrow, you’d figure out what came next.

But for now, you needed to shut your brain off.

Waking up was a slow process. Groggy, you roll over across the mattress, slowly blinking away the crust that’d accumulated along your waterline during your slumber. Itchy, you dig your palms into your eye sockets, groaning pleasantly at the pressure.

Sated, you start falling back asleep.

At least, until bright rays of sun-light filter through your curtains, annoyingly landing right in your face. A half-assed attempt at drawing them closed in your sleep-deprived state last night. Thanks, past you.

You groan, flipping the blanket up and over your face. For a moment, you allow yourself to simply exist, blissfully still under the warm safety offered by the bedsheets. At least, up until your brain decides to finally start catching up with last night’s events. Brief moments flash across your eyes.

A red devil-mask, a wickedly sharp cleaver, and a thick, pink tongue. Salaciously lapping at spilt blood; heady, dark pools for eyes trained solely on you. 

A jolt of surprise pours over like a bucket of ice-water, a hitching gasp spilling from your lips as your head pops out from under your blanket. Where the hell had that come from?

You gulp, uncomfortable with your own imagination. You decide it was a fluke, a weird way from your mind to help you cope with trauma. Or whatever. Human bodies were weird like that.

Knowing you weren’t going to be able to resettle with your racing thoughts, you deign that now was as good a time as any to start your day.

Groaning, you rise the like the dead. Stretching your arms wide above your head before hissing at the sharp sting in your shoulders and sternum. Right. That red asshole from last night really tossed you around. Yeah, fuck that guy.

Speaking of last night— What the hell were you supposed to do with yourself now? Just… move on?

Guilt twinges in your stomach, your intestine tying itself into anxious knots. Agonizing over your poor choices.

Grimacing, you waddle over to your bathroom. Blindly feeling along the wall before flipping the light-switch. Squinting, your baggy eyes quickly adjust to the light, taking in your haggard appearance in the mirror.

God, you looked like shit.

In your rush to clamor up into bed and under the covers, you’d neglected your typical nighttime routine. Face-paint was smeared across your face, cracked and splotchy, and your mouth reeked something fierce. To make matters worse, your hair was still teased into a wild rat’s nest from work. That was going to take absolute ages to untangle.

With a long, suffering sigh you begin to undress. Sparing a quick glance to the mirror again. Wincing at your reflection.

Large bruises were smattered across your body, an icky bleed of purples and yellow. With a careful hand, you lightly skim over the abused flesh. Fingers mapping the damage.

Uncomfortable with your appearance— certainly not for the first, nor last time— you quickly hop into the shower.

After some sorely needed TLC; carefully untangling your hair, taking a nice, steamy shower, and brushing your pearly-whites, you feel a little more optimistic about your day.

So optimistic in fact, that you’d felt like taking a stroll through town. Totally not because you felt anxious about being home alone, scared out of your wit’s end that a serial murderer would come find you and tie up his loose-ends.

Naw, of course not.

Dried up leaves swirl and dance in the breeze, delightfully crunching when they get swept underfoot.

Cruising down the sidewalk, your eyes dart to-and-fro from sign to sign, searching for anything that could distract you. It’s been awhile since you’ve been down main-street. You were raised in this small town, having not moved away until you were around eighteen, maybe. You’d grown tired of working at the haunt, doing the same thing day-in, day-out. Seeing the same faces over and over. You’d been eager to prove your independence. Spending most of your early-adulthood shacked up with a roommate in some distant city. Long story short, you’d ran into some trouble and fled back home to reconnect with your roots— as cliche as it was. You’d loathed to be crawling back to this crummy town, but as you settled into a familiar, but not quite the same routine, you’d started to feel… content.

Anyways, gooey emotions aside, the point was that a lot of things have changed since you were a teen. For instance, that diner!

‘ Boys and Grills ’ It read, short and sweet. A fun little play on words. You could dig that.

Scrolling on your phone and doing a little research had proved fruitful. It claimed to be an independently owned diner. A burger joint, more specifically, with glowing reviews. A diamond in the rough, some would say.

Silently, you debate over your options. Try something new, or go find a tried and true fast-food chain? The choice is quickly made for you, as your stomach growls ferociously in hunger. Right. You deserved some pampering, some greasey comfort food sounded perfect right about now.

A bell pleasantly chimes over your head as you walk inside, met with a few curious head turns. None you recognize, except for a pair of officers who give a nod of acknowledgement your way. Awkward, and not in the mood for more interrogations, you tilt your head downwards. Shuffling forward and waiting in the short line to order.

While waiting, you nervously peek around the establishment. Taking in the ambience of the quaint diner. It was themed with a retro style— 90s, if you had to guess— the kind you’d often see in movies and shows. It was cozy, and held an air of warmth. Smiling, you think you could grow to really like this place.

You jolt back into yourself once you realize the couple in front of you had finished ordering, carrying their drinks towards a booth to presumably wait for their order. Excited, you walk up to the counter, patiently waiting for the large guy manning the ‘till to finish counting change.

Without looking at you, he welcomes you pleasantly.

“Welcome in folks, What can I get’cha started for—?”

All too soon, the blooming feeling of safety settling in your chest evaporated.

Dread replaces any residual feelings of comfort you may’ve had, a shudder erupting at the base of your spine as you recognize the familiar southern twang. How could you not?

Unfortunately, your company seems to recognize you too. If the way he chokes off the tail-end of his sentence was any indication. That, and the tightening of meaty digits crumpling the note-pad under his grasp was also a little telling.

Heart racing, you wrangle your visceral need to scream and shout. To point at this man and shriek ‘ murderer !’.  … If only just barely.

Instead, you lock your gaze at his chest. Subconsciously counting the grease-stains on the fabric of his apron. Refusing to make eye-contact with your would-have-been-murderer. Maybe, just maybe, you can convince him that you don’t recognize him. Pretend as if you hadn’t even noticed, playing possum— so to speak.

Belatedly, you realize that over his broad chest is a name-tag.

‘ Bob ’, it reads plainly. Your would’ve been executioner’s name was Bob. Bob , of all things. It was so mind numbingly… normal. Which was ironic, because normal was the last thing you’d ever associate with this man.

Before you can stop it, a giggle slips past your lips.

“What’s so funny, treat?” He bites out, deceivingly casual.

A snort, then; “Nothing-! Nothing, sorry.”

He stares at you, unconvinced. Looking as if ready to leap over the counter at any given moment. Your heart races, body tensed and prepared to dart back the way you came at any sudden move. The only thing stopping you, was burning, morbid curiosity as to why he hadn’t already done so.

It’s takes you a moment too long to realize that he can’t. No, really. He actually couldn’t. Drawing attention to yourselves would cause a scene. A room-full of unwanted attention.

So he settles for clutching at his pen and notepad furiously. The lightest tremble in those bare arms as he fixes you with an intense stare. Only minutely shifting his eyes to stare at the pair of cops dining obliviously in the far booth. His previous welcoming grin having long faltered, now resembling more of a defensive baring of teeth.

It was so ironically funny. In some insane twist of luck, fate, or whatever higher power— you held this man’s life in your hands. Oh, this was just rich.

Feeling near delirious with the abrupt shift in power, you subtly lean forward. Voice low and mocking.

“Your name is Bob? Really ?” You ask, dragging the question in a way that totally oozes being unimpressed. Eyes unapologetically roving up and down his frame in the same disinterested manner.

Bob, momentarily shocked, stares at you disbelievingly at your audacity. To not only stare him down, knowing who— what he was, but also actively dangle your authority in his face? It was cocky. And oh-so stupid.

Well, Bob always said he enjoyed them going down fighting.

Bob’s shock is fleeting, his disbelief quickly morphing into something angrier, indignant. Your skin prickles, hairs raising as you get the distinct feeling you’re in the eye of a storm.

The cook’s gaze sharpens, the corners of his mouth twitching upward into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The pen in his grip cracks under the pressure of his tightening fist, before a small, ominous snap echos between you as it breaks under Bob’s abuse.

“Ya got a real smart mouth, don’t’cha?” he drawls, voice low and syrupy with mock sweetness. “Reckon that’s what gotcha into trouble last time.”

Your stomach flips at the reminder, eyes darting to the junction between his jaw and neck, searching for any sign of injury. Unfortunately, your bite lays hidden behind a thick padding of gauze.

Bob, noticing your wandering eyes, rolls his shoulder and adjusts the collar of his work-shirt, hiding the bandaging from your eager stare. Knowing, near-black eyes squinting at you unkindly.

You reflexively gulp at the abrupt, cotton-dryness in your mouth, a fleeting moment of reconsideration flowing over you like a passing wave, before you roll the tension off of your shoulders.

This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. You couldn’t let it go to waste. It’s that reasoning that formulates a totally batshit idea in your head, crazy even by your standards.

You were going to revel in some sweet, sweet revenge. Play a game of poke-the-bear before doing your civic duty and alerting the authorities. An easy-peasy, straightforward plan.

In your skull, an internal mantra of ‘ he can’t touch you, he can’t ’ plays like a skipping record. Each time it’s chanted, it bolsters your confidence just that bit more.

With a shaky exhale, you allow your newfound surge of conviction to guide you. Comfortably, you make a show of leaning against the counter further, as if you’ve known each other for years, and tilt your head just so. Studying him with carefully feigned indifference.

“Not a clue as to what you mean, Bob ,” you say, drawing his name out in a way that feels deliberately sharp, like a blade pressed to his throat. You flash a toothy smile, all pearly whites and gums, and relish in the subtle way his shoulders hike up an inch. “I’m just here for a burger. Didn’t realize I’d be getting dinner and a show.”

Bob doesn’t answer immediately, but his jaw ticks, and you can see the faintest flush creeping up his neck, staining his ears pink. He shifts slightly, angling his body just enough to shield his face from the cops seated in the far booth. You catch the way his eyes dart to them once more before snapping back to you, burning with barely contained fury—and something else, something that makes the skin along your arms erupt in goose flesh.

“Y’think you’re real funny, don’t’cha?” His voice drops lower, quieter, meant only for you. That intensity, solely directed at you, was something you hadn’t even known you’d been craving. The edge in his tone sends a shiver racing down your spine, spurring you into actively digging yourself a deeper grave.

“I don’t know,” you quip, resting your chin in your hand coquettishly. “Do you?”

For a moment, Bob just stares, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a fervency that makes it hard to breathe. You can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and suffocating, but there’s an undeniable thrill in holding your ground, in refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter.

Then, slowly, Bob leans forward, closing the distance between you until his face is mere inches from yours. His voice, when he speaks, is low and threatening, a quiet rumble that seems to vibrate throughout your very bones.

“Careful, treat,” he murmurs, the endearment laced with mockery. “You’re walkin’ on some mighty thin ice.”

You smirk, though your heart is pounding so hard you’re unsure of how you haven’t fallen into cardiac arrest yet. His words rang true, but the rush of walking on a tight-rope was electrifying. “Oh, I’m terrified, ” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “What are you gonna do, Bob ? Overcook my fries?”

His lips curl back in a snarl, and for a fleeting moment, you think you’ve pushed too far. His hand flexes around the shattered pen, ink smearing across his fingers like blood, and his gaze flickers to the cops again, as if calculating how fast he’d need to be to wring your neck before they can un-holster their pistols. But then, to your surprise, he laughs—a short, sharp bark of amusement that sends a ripple of roiling unease through you.

The sudden commotion garners a few curious head turns, before Bob settles and they quickly resume their business.

“You’re a real piece a’ work, y’know that?” he says, his grin returning, as if he’s just found something egregiously entertaining. “Could’ve just walked outta here, kept your dirty lil’ secret to yourself. But’cha haven’t.” He drums his fingers rhythmically against the counter-top conversationally. He doesn’t actually ask a question, but the probing tone in his voice is clear as day.

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. Clearly unwilling to voluntarily offer any information up. You’re not sure if you even have an answer that could satisfy him, honestly.

His grin sharpens, all teeth and malice, unsatisfied by your lackluster response. You blink, and in the next moment he’s settled.  He then leans back, straightening to his full, mountainous height, and lets out a slow, measured breath.

“Order somethin’ or get out,” he says finally, his voice hard and clipped. “Ain’t got all day t’ play games with you.”

A tense moment passes, both you and Bob know who holds the power here in this moment. One word was all it would take, and they’d have him cuffed under a minute. Decisions decisions.

You recover quickly, pushing off the counter with a shrug. “Fine,” you acquiesce, chipper in tone. Glancing at the menu board overhead. “I’ll take a cheeseburger, plain. Medium rare. And make it quick, Bob—I’ve got places to be.” You really don’t, but he doesn’t need to know that.

The muscles in Bob’s throat flex, jaw set, glaring down at you with thinly veiled malice. You were sure he’d fall for the bait, maybe make another barbed comment, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just grunts in acknowledgment as he scribbles the order down with a fresh pen procured from his apron. His handwriting is jagged, nearly illegible, and smudged with the ink staining his hands—but you graciously refrain from commenting. Instead, you fish out your wallet from your pocket. Bob doesn’t offer his hand to take the cash from you, so you slide it over the dry section of the counter. As he thumbs over the cash, double-counting, you step to the side and settle onto a barstool. Allowing the next customer through, your heart still racing as you wait for your order.

As you glance back at Bob, now excusing himself to the back— the kitchen, probably— you catch the briefest flicker of something in his expression. Anger? Close, but no. Determined, maybe. Frustrated yet determined at this new game.

Too bad it wouldn’t last long, you think glumly.

What you wouldn’t give to know what he was thinking right now. A real life serial killer. And you have him by the balls.

The bell above the diner door jingles faintly as another customer enters, but the sound barely registers over your internal brooding. You sit perched on the barstool, fiddling with a stray napkin, mildly anxious despite all your bravado. Unable to resist glancing toward the swinging kitchen door. After Bob had disappeared into the back after taking your order, another worker took his place to man the ‘till. Taking orders much more enthusiastically than the previous occupant— or maybe that was just because it was you. With Bob’s absence, you found yourself bored out of your mind.

The mingling smells of fried-food and coffee were an appetizing combination, the hunger in your belly gnawing at your gut. To keep yourself distracted, you start second-guessing all of your  questionable life-choices up until this point. There was certainly a multitude.

You’re not sure if you regret them just yet, though.

Your gaze flickers to the far corner of the diner where the two officers are finishing their coffee. They laugh over some shared joke, oblivious to the tension simmering just a few feet away. Part of you wants to walk over, to prematurely end your ‘little game’ and casually mention that the man behind the counter is responsible for tearing that poor girl open like a kid on Christmas Day.

But another part of yourself is hesitant.

It’s reckless. Stupid, even. But the memory of Bob’s earlier snarl—his veiled threats and the flicker of vulnerability in his narrowed eyes—feeds a dark, sadistic part inside of you. A part that you’ve been wrestling with for a long time.

You knew, rationally, that sane people didn’t make the choices you did. Didn’t think the way you did. Bob was like looking into a fun-house mirror, something you weren’t sure if you wanted to get lost in— or shatter.

Your thoughts are interrupted as the kitchen door swings back open, and Bob himself strides out, a basket balanced in each hand. He moves with the same calculated, predatory grace you remember from last night, completely in his element. You’re in his turf, afterall. He places your food in front of you with little fanfare, his movements deliberate, expression carefully blank.

“Cheeseburger. Medium rare,” he says flatly, without meeting your eyes. Almost looking like a whipped dog— if only you hadn’t known better.

“Thanks, Bob,” you chirp, your tone saccharine and exaggerated, just to see what reactions you could illicit.

His faces minutely scrunches, as if he just caught a whiff of something foul. For a moment, you think he’s about to say something. Instead, he turns sharply and moves to wipe down an already spotless counter at the far end of the bar. Avoiding you like the plague.

Idly, you wondered if your food was poisoned or not.

With a shrug and leap of faith, you ravenously take a bite of your burger. Forcing yourself to cast a mask of indifference, despite the knot of anxiety clawing at your gut.

Chewing, you make a happy, thoughtful little hum. It’s… good. Better than good, even. There was an inexplicable taste, his own blend of seasoning, maybe? Point was— it didn’t taste poisoned. In fact, it didn’t taste like any other burger you’ve had before. Reluctantly, you had to give Bob at least this one thing. The guy was a damn good cook.

Your attention is glued to said cook in question, who pointedly avoids looking in your direction. Resolutely glaring down at the counter as if it just called him a slur.

Even still, you can feel it. The weight of his awareness.

Every time you shift or take a sip of your drink, his movements hitch, just slightly, as if he’s tracking you in his periphery. The thought sends another thrill of adrenaline coursing through your veins.

The silence between you stretches taut, interrupted only by the occasional clatter of plates or the low chatter of dining guests.

You know you’re dancing on a knife’s edge, playing with Bob this way. But honestly, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care while eating the single-handedly best burger of your life. Was it possible to marry food?

Bob finally speaks, his voice low enough that it barely carries.

“Enjoyin’ yourself?”

You glance up from your food, meeting his gaze with a smug little smile. “Immensely,” you reply waspishly.

His lips twitch, the barest ghost of smile— and in the next blink, it’s gone.

Abruptly, someone places a hand on your shoulder.

You startle, nearly choking on your mouthful of food as you whip around to the stool next to you.   Behind you, you can hear as Bob snorts in amusement, the sound grating on your nerves. Turning to instead face your company, you do your best to ignore him.

A man sits beside you, a curly headed brunette with a 5 o’clock shadow. Glasses perched on his nose, looking as if he hasn’t had a wink of sleep for days.

“Sorry! Didn’t mean to scare.” He throws his hands up in mock surrender, guilty.

“All good.” You quickly dismiss, gaze downcast and disinterested as you take a slurp of your beverage.

“Anyhow, I’m Bryan. You new to town?” He asks conversationally. Either unable to read the room or ignoring the subtle social cue.

Terse, and in no mood to deal with any strangers, you reply with a clipped, “Nope.” popping the ‘p’.

There’s a terse, awkward moment of silence. A small, teeny sliver of guilt nips the back of your brain. You’re sure this guy had good intentions, but you were starting to feel the drain of energy after having a thinly veiled dick-measuring contest with Bob.

Why’d this guy even park his ass next to you anyway?

Bryan, feeling the inevitable lull in conversation, quickly blurts.

“I’ve uh, never seen the big guy talk so much! Are you two like. Friends, or…?”

A sour look must pass across your face, because Bryan is quickly backtracking.

“Not to assume— insinuate, or anything.  Of course.”

Okay. Your mood is sufficiently ruined. Meticulously calm, you stack your baskets atop of each other. Scooting out of your seat and rising to stand.

Bryan must realize you’re preparing to leave because he sits up, back ram-road straight. Quickly, he shoots a hand out to grasp at your wrist, pleading.

“Wait, listen please! I’m real sorry, I just saw that you were sitting all alone, and—“

Ripping your wrist out of his grasp, your nose scrunches up in anger. Ah. So it was pity. Pity or some poorly executed attempt at flirting. Either or, you wanted neither.

Acutely aware of a roomful of watchful eyes, you take a deep, calming breath. God, you’d forgotten how nosy small-town folk were.

“It’s. Fine.”

Bryan looks as if he’s about to rise out of his seat as well, before a resounding thud has both of your gazes snapping back to the counter.

Bob, priorly quiet up until this point, leans over the counter, large hands bracketing your interloper. A sharp smile split from ear-to-ear, barely dressed animosity in his expression as he glowers down at Bryan’s pitifully smaller stature. Well, compared to Bob at least.

“Think they’ve heard enough, friend.” Bob admonishes.

Bryan gulps, nodding in agreement limply. Looking like he might piss himself.

The cook’s eyes then slide to you, no longer glowering but still frighteningly intense.

You don’t thank him, don’t even give a nod of acknowledgment. Just hold his stare, desperate to get a peek behind the curtains and catch any glimpse of his thought process.

Frustrated, and unable to find what you were looking for— not that you really knew what you were looking for, per se— you spin on your heel and make a swift escape.

As you pass the pair of officers, your attention snags on them, considering.

“Ahm- He— …” They stare at you oddly as you struggle to piece together a coherent sentence. Cap’s brow quirked in impatience while Shade’s face was construed with mild concern.

God, what was with you? Just spit it out!

You gulp, face warming in embarrassment as your rationality wars with your wants. Blubbering like a fool.

“ Bye .” You wave robotically, already placing one foot in front of the other without any conscious input on your part, bee lining for the exit.

As the glass door swings shut behind you, finalizing your decision, you can still acutely feel Bob’s eyes searing into your back. The feeling doesn’t go away until you’re across the street, turning a corner and off the block.

A dirty little secret indeed.

Chapter Text

It was ten past eight, the diner silent as a tomb in the aftermath of the hustle and bustle of its operating hours. Every employee had already been sent home for the night, leaving none other but Bob himself to close shop. As he preferred.

His leftover simmering anger after your shared encounter had long since cooled. The only evidence left was a persistent ink-stain that refused to lift no matter how hard he buffed or scrubbed. The butcher swore gruffly in the dim quiet, latex gloves squeaking against the slick surface as his expression scrunched in annoyance. It’d seem you’d left another mark, you were proving to be quite the thorn in his side. Welp. You reap what you sow , he guessed.

Bob wasn’t stupid, he knew he’d eventually have to deal with you— preferably sooner than later. Setting you loose had been a momentary fault in his typically iron-clad judgement, and no matter which way he pictured it, he still couldn’t exactly pinpoint why he’d let you go. You were right there, pinned under his thumb. Squirmin’ like an earth-worm left out to dry in the sun, and he’d just… lumbered away.

The butcher’s grasp tightened around the stained rag as he turned to the basin behind him. Wringing the cloth above the industrial sink, cleaning solution pitter-pattering down the drain. He shivered, the sound reminiscent of his blood-splattered cleaver after a fresh kill.

At first, your encounter had left him quaking with blood-boiling rage. It’s been an age since somebody’s managed to wriggle out of his clutches— nevertheless come back to mock him.

Maybe it was boredom, Bob surmised. For years, he’d been this town’s very own boogeyman. A faceless entity, poaching unsuspecting residents. At least, that’s how the tabloids described him. In Bob’s own humble opinion, he was anything but wasteful, hardly ever leaving any leftovers at the scene of his crimes. Leaving the papers very little to work with aside from missing person’s reports. Which was good, the less people who knew anything, the better.

Which circled him back to the root of his troubles; you.

Last night he’d left empty-handed, his ice-chest at home woefully lonesome after all his meticulous plotting. All because he’d been caught unaware by little ol’ you.

Bob couldn’t wrap his head around your deal— what on earth were you to gain from this little back-and-forth? All day, he’d been walking on eggshells, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And when it finally did, he’d all but almost had a heart-attack. Watching you teeter-totter back and forth towards the cops, as if you yourself weren’t even sure what you were going to do next. It was horrifying. He absolutely couldn’t get enough of it.

Ever the glutton for more, Bob was never satisfied. It was only natural that he was a little weary to cleave things between you too early, against all his better judgement.

Wants warred with his rationality as he let the rag splat into a soaked heap. A mess he’d deal with in the morning.

Absentmindedly, Bob reached up to his shoulder, harshly digging his blunt nails into the irritated gash hidden under his work attire. His breath hitches, face flushing as a searing heat jolts throughout his body sourcing from the gnashed, ruddy flesh. His overclocked mind brought into a self-inflicted haze of tingling pleasure.

Smiling to himself— not that it was anything abnormal— Bob can almost imagine you sitting at the counter. A cloyingly sweet smirk splayed across your plump lips, a taunt that he was eager to meet.

It was almost endearing, watching you prance around in a misplaced belief that you were safe— it reminded him of a documentary he’d watched once. Something about a leopard playing with an impala, tame as can be. At least, up until an hour later, when instincts reared their head and demanded a meal of their fleeting entertainment.

You wouldn’t die, he’d decided. Not just yet. That would be too simple, too unsatisfying. No, Bob wanted more than that. You’d instigated this dance with the devil, and now you’d see it through— he knew that you would.

He didn’t just want to break you— he wanted to savor you as you crumbled. Wanted to slowly smother you, watch you squirm until you finally choked on the attention you’d all but begged for.

He smacked his lips, the phantom taste of something tantalizingly sweet teasing on his tongue.

Bob wasn’t a man prone to sentiment, but tonight, as he flicked off the last of the diner’s light’s— save for the slowly blinking ‘Closed’ sign that hung from the other side of the window pane—, locking the door behind him, he couldn’t help but feel a familiar spark of ramping anticipation at seeing you again. Plans already half-formed and swirling torrentially in his mind’s-eye.

The morning after your eventful evening at ‘ Boys and Grills ’ was spent huddled in bed, cocooned in the safety of multiple blankets as you doom-scrolled through social media. You’d been graciously granted a week off from work by the manager’s insistence, word spreading fast about your affiliation with the recent murder. At first, it seemed like a blessing straight from the heavens, as if the world had finally decided to cut you a break. Finally, some time to decompress and compartmentalize any residual emotions after that night. However, as you scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled , doing your absolute darndest to ignore the outside-world and all of it’s confusing problems; you realized this was definitely not the most healthy coping mechanism. However, in your defense, you didn’t want to ruminate on your growing fascination with the serial-killer down the block. Nor the overwhelming sense of self-disgust for feeling so intrigued by your would’ve been murderer in the first place.

It was a struggle to keep your brain engaged and stimulated enough to not linger on any thoughts about Bob. To not wonder what someone like him did in his free time, what he liked, what he didn’t. What he thought of you, how he thought of people in general.

In your mind’s eye, you’d somehow misconstrued Bob with the likeness of a bug in a terrarium. Something to goggle at, poke and prod at within a glass jar; to watch enraptured at how he reacted to certain stimuli. Bob was irrefutably captivating in the way many monsters of legend were.

And it was in that exact interest that lied the problem. You weren’t supposed to be feeling any of this. This dark, festering longing to know and understand.

You were abruptly dragged out of your brain-rotted stupor by a notification pinging at the top of your phone, the time in the upper left corner a testament to just how long you’ve spent cowering at home. Your bleary eyes squinted as your fingers quickly swiped down, opening the attached image before gasping.

There, sitting innocuously in your messages, was a brief snapshot depicting the outside of your apartment complex. More importantly, zoomed up and into your window. How? Figuring out where you lived wasn’t anything to sniff at, but it was certainly doable if you knew what you were doing. But knowing which flat in specific was yours? Which window?

Gut roiling uncomfortably— the acute feeling of being watched sends phantom skitters down your back. Your head whips around to your drawn curtains, slivers of sunlight seeping through the teensy gap. You’d half expected someone to be standing there, watching. Which was completely silly of you, because you were on the second floor.

Padding across the room, you lightly draw the curtain back— as if fearing the very fabric would snap out with gnashing teeth and take a bite out of you.

Cautiously, you peer at the sidewalk below.

Nobody. Was it bad that you were a little disappointed?

Feeling stir crazy, you reach for your phone once more. Despite a niggling suspicion, you can’t help but ask for confirmation.

“Who’s this?” The message is sent as fast as your stiff digits would allow, blood buzzing with anticipation as you waited for a response. and waited.

Miffed and impatient, you pull up your contacts, intending to phone the police. However, something nags at the corner of your mind as your thumb hovers over the last digit. You worry your lip with your teeth, considering. A tiny voice in the back your mind titters; Was this really an emergency? You weren’t actively being attacked, and a case of light stalking wasn’t something cops were known for taking seriously. Furthermore, if you’d came clean about Bob’s identity— if it even was him— there’d surely be questions as to why you’d hesitated for so long. Why you’d knowingly allowed a murderer to continue prowling the streets.

Anxiously, you fiddle with the edge of your phone case. Idly checking your messages to see if your stalker has responded, only to be left mildly disappointed as two little check marks sit below your text. You’ve been left on read. Dick.

Resolutely, you set your jaw as you swipe open your web browser. Quickly, your fingers glide across the keyboard, a slew of questions that’d surely raise a brow or two if anyone were to see. For nearly half an hour, you go down various rabbit holes of self-defense tips and questionable Reddit forums. After what you deemed was a sufficient amount of research, you were packed into your car, a hastily marked destination glowing on your GPS.

You planned to level out the playing field.

Stepping out of your car, you quickly trodded across the parking lot and into the Outdoors Supply store. Nothing particularly fancy or name brand, just the typical small-game shop you’d find in a woodsy town such as this.

Walking inside, you were met with a welcoming wave from the shopkeep, before he nose-dived back into his magazine at the counter. Wandering further inside, your eyes caught on the glass-cased firearms near the front of the store, their polished barrels glinting under the fluorescent lighting. For a brief, fleeting moment, you entertained the idea of purchasing one. The image of yourself standing strong with a hand-gun flitting through your mind, invincible.

The thought was short-lived, however.

The memory of your last psych evaluation, the way the doctor’s face had shifted from polite neutrality to awkward discomfort as they explained you still weren’t sound of mind. How there’d be certain precautions taken, ‘all for your safety, of course!’ They’d promised. A hazard to yourself. And others , but that went professionally unsaid.

You swallowed the pang of overwhelming shame that resurfaced alongside the memory, shoving the thought aside as you made your way to the back of the store. Survival gear was your goal, and you wouldn’t leave empty-handed. There were other, more creative avenues for you to peruse.

Your gaze skimmed over utility knives, compact hatchets, and multi-tools before landing on something that made your chest ease just slightly: bear spray. The canister was hefty, promising a powerful stream of burning deterrent should anything—or anyone—get too close. It wasn’t perfect, but it was inconspicuous enough.

Making the purchase was a quick— if a little stiff ordeal. The store-clerk having attempted some polite idle conversation, “Camping anytime soon?”

Your palms sweat, feeling distinctly guilty— as if you were caught doing something you weren’t meant to.

“No, not exactly.” The man scrutinizes you over the counter, assessing.

“I.D., please.” You wipe your clammy hands against your jeans, sliding the card over. It was just procedure, you reminded yourself. You weren’t doing anything wrong.

The clerk analyzes the information, before disinterestedly sliding it back over and ringing you up. As soon as the chip reader read ‘approved’, you quickly swiped the bag. Only offering a quick, “Thanks!” Over your shoulder as you scurried out.

With your purchase in hand, you stepped out onto the street again, clutching the bag like a lifeline. The weight of the spray was reassuring, and for the first time in days, you felt like you could relax. If only slightly. Feeling more self-assured of your safety, you don’t immediately return to your car. Instead, you stroll down the sidewalk. The cold autumn breeze a balm on your face.

“You!”

Your rising spirits quickly plummeted as you turned to see Bryan, the overeager patron from the diner last night, jogging towards you. His disheveled appearance screamed desperation.

You groaned internally, adjusting your bag and bracing yourself for the onslaught.

Bryan skidded to a stop in front of you, breathless but grinning like he’d won the lottery. “I can’t believe I found you,” he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I’ve been looking everywhere—well, not everywhere, but close enough. You’ve been impossible to track down.”

“Gee, wonder why.” you muttered, already regretting stopping to talk. Fucking social formalities.

He ignored your sarcasm, flipping open his bag, he took out a notepad and pen with a flourish. “Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot, and I sincerely apologize if I made you uncomfortable the other night.” You pause, hesitant, deciding to hear him out. “But this is super important. I need your help. You’re the first victim to survive. Do you have any idea what that means ?”

“Yeah, that I’m alive and should move on in my life. Beat it.” You snip, clutching your grocery bag closer to yourself and side-stepping Bryan. You had no interest in blabbing off about Bob, no less to Bryan of all people.

Bryan winced, arms flailing wildly akimbo as he walked along with you, persistent. “I’m serious. You’ve seen him— really seen him. You have to know how huge this is. The people here— they deserve answers. Closure. This town has been living in fear for years, and you—”

“Can’t help you,” you interrupted, your voice holding firm. “I didn’t see anything useful. It was dark, I barely managed to get out with my life.” You lie, something that was quickly becoming second nature to you. You hadn’t done anything. Bob had allowed you to live, basically scot-free of any bodily harm aside from some generous bruising. Something only the two of you knew. And you’d keep it that way.

Bryan’s expression faltered, his excitement dimming slightly. But then he leaned in, his tone softening as if he could coax the truth out of you. As if you were some frightened animal. “Please, there has to be something. Anything helps. Even the smallest detail could make a huge difference. Please.”

You hesitated, your mind racing. Telling him the truth— describing Bob’s face, his voice, his presence— felt like a betrayal of the tentative truce you had with him— if you could even call it that. If anything it was more of a ‘ you don’t kill me, I don’t say anything ’ kind of deal. And even then, what if Bob caught wind of any of this? You doubt he’d be so gracious with his second attempt on your life. The thought alone made your blood run cold.

“I’m sorry,” you said, genuine. You felt for him, honestly. For him and all the oblivious residents of this town that were long overdue justice. But you were just one person, and a selfish one at that. “I really can’t help you.”

Bryan’s shoulders slumped, but he didn’t push his luck any further. Instead, he walked with you in silence. As the moment dragged on, and he still hadn’t left; you’d just started to drum up the courage to tell him to ‘fuck off’ when his next words had stopped you entirely in your tracks.

“Bob seemed worried sick after you left.“ He began, cautiously vying for your reaction out of the corner of his glasses. When you don’t immediately dismiss him this time, Bryan continues— a little more confident, “W-Well- At least by his standards. I dunno how to explain it, he just seemed more present? Normally the guy is pretty aloof. It was honestly a little scary.” Bryan rubs the back of his neck, chuckling good-naturedly.

“Anyways. All that is to say I’m really, really sorry to have ruined your guys’ moment. I know I can come on a little too strong— comes with job, I suppose.” Face flushing in embarrassment, he scribbled something onto his notepad. Before then offering you the torn piece of paper. “If you change your mind, please. Don’t hesitate to call me.” he implored, grasping your hand and enclosing your palm over the folded note.

Before you have a chance to dislodge his grasp, he’s already retreating from your personal bubble.

“Stay safe, okay?” He calls out with an animated wave, before turning back the way he came.

You didn’t respond, your mind racing with the new tid-bit of information. You seriously doubted it was worry that Bob had been feeling then, but knowing you’d left a lingering impact on him after you were already gone? It felt like a small victory.

The rest of your afternoon passed in a blur as you wandered the outlets, trying to distract yourself with quick dopamine hits in the form of compulsory spending. After all your exploring, you’d garnered quite the appetite. The idea of heading back to the diner crossed your mind briefly— facing Bob again, pushing the boundaries of this dangerously fun game you seemed to be playing— but you dismissed it just as quickly. You needed time to screw your head on straight, you couldn’t afford to be off-kilter the next time you saw him.

By the time you returned to your apartment, the sky was tinged with the warm hues of early evening. Your stomach growled as you fished your keys from your bag, regretting not getting food on the way back.

That thought quickly vanished however, as the moment your hand brushed the doorknob.

It was already unlocked.

Your breath hitched, the tiny hairs on the back of your neck standing on end as your gaze darted around the desolate hall for any potential culprits. No one.

For a moment, you thought you might have forgotten to lock it. Maybe in your panicked rush to get out, it had just simply slipped your mind.

The apartment was still, the air inside heavy with a sense of foreboding. There was no upturned furniture, no mess left behind. Had you really just forgotten to lock the door?

Your fingers tightened around the plastic shopping-bags, each creak of the vinyl flooring beneath your feet sending a bolt of anxiety through you.

Nothing looked out of place at first glance, but the feeling of intrusion persisted, crawling under your skin like a living thing. You tip-toed further inside, your eyes scanning every corner, every shadow for signs of a disturbance.

Crossing the living room, you wander into the kitchen. The lights were off, which was to be expected. What wasn’t, was the overhead light of the oven. The gentle glow illuminating very little except for the innocuous foam box atop the counter. Drawing closer, you realize it’s a takeout container, still steaming with warmth, fresh off the grill. On top, in familiar chicken-scratch, were two words written in red sharpie. Signed off with a simple smiley.

“for Treat :)”

Gulping, your shaking hands lift the box, popping the lid open, being met with the pleasant aroma of food. Inside was the same, mouthwatering cheeseburger you’d ordered last night. He’d remembered.

Realization dawned on you, this is threat. A confirmation of identity, and most importantly of all, an understanding.

Setting your bags onto the counter, you bring the burger up to your mouth, taking a generous bite of food. It was delicious.