Page 109 of Primal

The doors yawn open, exhaling wet stone and copper. The Haunted Chapel. One more twisted location to add to the trauma reel.

Pigface’s boots crunch behind us—

—closer this time.

I swear to fuck, if it breathes down on me, I’m driving that goddamn snout straight through the back of its skull.

The doors slam shut behind us.

Cue the cackling and thunder—fake, prerecorded, straight out of a haunted hayride.

Then comes the voice. “Welcome, brave souls. Confess your sins here, and may they find you when the clock strikes twelve, and your blood boils in—”

Click.

Pigface shuts off the PA.

The silence that follows is worse. Just wet breathing. Soft gasps. The sound of bodies trying not to fall apart.

Candles gutter in rusted sconces, throwing jumpy shadows across pews—and fuck, they’re occupied. Derek’s ‘audience,’ so to speak.

Strapped to the front row is Mia, tactical gear shredded, one eye swollen. Gagged with duct tape. Her gaze tracks to us immediately. Even bound, she looks like she’s plotting seventeen different escape routes. And God, what I wouldn’t give to reset. Trade barbs with her instead of this shitshow.

The three college girls from our group. Two are wide-eyed and trembling in matching ‘Vixen Lingerie’ sets. The third is just … propped up between them, face half-shattered. Motionless.

Leatherface and Jason slump farther back, masks askew, zip-tied to each other like fucked-up conjoined twins. They both make a noise when Wesley limps past—Leatherface groaning something, Jason rolling his head to watch us through the hockey mask.

Then there’s Jessica. Four more bodies scattered across the pews. No Vanessa—thank fucking God. Guess it’s too much trouble to fetch her corpse down from that tree.

“Right on time,” Derek says. “Show kicks off at three. Get seated. Chop chop.”

Five players—the ones still breathing anyway—nine including us. Their faces shift as they watch the four of us shuffle toward the empty seats—terror, hope, then that hollow drop into defeat. Yeah. We’re just as fucked as they are.

Derek’s packing a gun, his knife, box cutter, a taser clipped to his belt, not to mention that fucking scythe—Wesley’s scythe—leaning against the altar.

Pigface is the wild card. That taser’s the only weapon I can see, but the way its robe hangs? There’s got to be more hidden underneath.

Two psychos. Six known weapons.

Nine targets.

How many of us can actually fight? Kristy and I can maybe make a run for it. Mia too, if she’s still got gas in the tank. But the guys can barely walk straight.

The zip-ties pinch deeper as I ease Kade onto a bench. Our eyes lock—‘Still here. Still with you.’

Before I can slump down beside him, Derek tuts, “Ah, ah. Other side.”

Pigface steers Kristy and me across the aisle. She’s shoved next to Mia. I get wedged between her and Jessica—that slit in her neck grinning wider than her mouth.

As if that’s not enough, Snout Freak places a party hat on Jessica’s head. Crooked. Cheerful.

Happy fucking Halloween.

“Chin up,” Derek says to the college girl. “Smile for the camera, sweetheart.”

Fuck. The cameras. Mounted on tripods, positioned at every angle like we’re about to film the world’s most fucked-up reality show.

“Relax,” Derek says, panning toward the lens. “We’re not live. Gotta save some magic for the director’s cut—tighten the screams, cut the boring bits.”