Page 18 of Fed By Fear

That was intense. Chainsaw chasers aren’t new. I don’t think I’ve evernotseen one in a haunted attraction. I got whacked in the shin once as a kid going through a pitifully small scare house at a state fair. The man expected me to jump when he swung the chainsaw at me. I was looking at something else at the time. He hit my leg but apart from the impact, it barely hurt. There’s no blade on the chainsaw. That’s the rule. It’s why the chainsaw part of haunted houses shouldn’t be scary.

Shouldn’t be.

Unless my eyes are playing tricks on me, or Reaper’s Playroom invested all their money into special effects in the very last room, he’s using a real, functioning chainsaw. It went straight through one of the fake trees.

I stop running, feeling more ridiculous by the second. I can’t believe I let that guy separate me up from the group. Here I am sprinting for my life in a room that smells like gym socks and fake fog.

A room that is much bigger than I realized.

Maybe the largest room here. Strangely large. Theymust have mirrors lining the walls. An illusion to make everything look huge.

I need to get back to the group. We were so close to the exit.

I squint in the direction of where I came in from. It’s so dark there. Not just haunted-house dark. It’s absolutely black, like something swallowed the light whole.

The chainsaw stops.

A quiet falls over the space.

Where did he go?

Movement over my shoulder has me whirling. Ghosts. Two with disfigurements that keep me from identifying age or gender. A third with a noose dragging on the ground behind him. The three of them amble past a Styrofoam boulder, and out of my view.

A few seconds later another ghost strolls past. Then another. They don’t even acknowledge me. I’m grateful, but suspicious. Where are they going?

Leave it alone, Githany. I turn back the way I came. The darkness appears to be coming closer. That pitch-black void merely feet ahead now. I can’t even see the trees I just passed.

Being a medium is beneficial at times. Right now is one of those moments. If I weren’t as sensitive, I wouldn’t have realized there’s more to the darkness than just the lack of lights. Something isinthis darkness. As if the darkness itself is watching me.

There’s no sound from whatever is on the other side. Nothing. The darkness has swallowed up the sound as well as the lights.

My harsh, rushed breathing fills the space. I’ve heard there are only two things children are born afraid of. Loud noises and the dark.

This darkness, this living, breathing,watchingentity overtaking the room is exactly why. Suddenly it’s not all so cheesy anymore. As if I’ve stepped through the strobe lights and cotton-ball webs and into an alternate reality.

The ghost who grabbed me in the clown room glides past me and behind the boulder like all the others. Curiosity claws at my chest. Should I walk into an unnatural darkness that feels like it may devour me alive? Or do I follow a bunch of dead people and find out where they’re hanging out? Decisions, decisions.

Oddly enough, the dead people are more enticing than the darkness.

Moving at a brisk pace, I turn away from the creeping shadows and dip behind the boulder. A dozen or more ghosts hover around a gaping hole in the wall. It’s dark in the hole, but not as dark as the wall of pitch black creeping up on me.

There’s writing above the arched entrance. “Sanguine effuses, bestias devorata.”

I don’t speak Latin, but I’m pretty suresanguinemeans blood. Is this some unfinished Dracula-inspired vampire room? Vampire culture has its allure. I can understand the obsession. A hot guy puts his mouth all over your body, bites you, giving pain while usually stimulating some kind of pleasure. They need a lot of blood, though. I’m anemic no matter how much still-half-alive red meat I eat. Something tells me I wouldn’t be a vampire’s favorite flavor.

The hole has drawn more spirits than the other rooms. I still can’t understand why the ghosts are peering inside.

I brush my fingers along the inner wall of the cavity. It’s cold. Damp stone. It’s not a painted prop, but a real rock tunnel. This must have been here since before the haunted house was built.

The dead continue to stare into it, ignoring me completely. What are they so drawn to in there?

A flutter of self-awareness gathers beyond my curiosity. There’s always that part in scary movies when a character makes a decision that has you screaming at the screen for them to stop, turn around, go back, ignore the noise and run for their life. As I step into a dark, cold tunnel that’s being studiously fixated on by ghosts, I’m painfully aware thatthisis one of those moments and I amthatperson.

Is this a good idea? No. But is it the most intriguing thing to happen to me in years? Oh, yes.

My phone flashlight would be ideal right about now. Too bad I let Vic carry it in her Ghostbusters backpack. I didn’t see the harm at the time. You’re not allowed to film inside Reaper’s Playroom and with my luck I would have dropped it in the dark and stomped on it in my haste to keep up with the group.

A few steps into the tunnel, I make an even poorer decision and look over my shoulder. The dead have moved to block the exit, their gazes now fixed on mine. Charming. At least they didn’t follow me in.