Something crashes across the rink, ripping my gaze up. I point my flashlight in the direction, but I don’t see anything odd, certainly not another man wielding a knife.
Take a breath.
The floor I came from is now off-limits—got it. Does that include the tunnels leading behind the bench? What about the glass seat lounge? It’s probably locked, and the tunnels to the hallways would probably end in me getting lost.
I can navigate this place pretty well—when the lights are on. But right now, I can barely see a few feet in front of me as my flashlight struggles to illuminate the massive space.
Part of me wishes I had a knife right now, too, to do a little scaring of my own. But I don’t think it’d end well. I’m the type of person who struggles differentiating between manufactured horror and real horror in haunted houses.
I might accidentally stab one of Bates’s friends if I hada blade in my hand, and that would definitely ruin everyone’s fun.
Where do I go from here?
Another text comes through.
Bates: You look so beautiful when you’re scared
“Hi, Serena,” a new, deep voice calls out behind me, and I whip around, shining my light.
This time, I finally see someone, and I don’t know if visual verification makes it worse or not. In the same row as me, around the curve of the rink, stands a man wearing a balaclava.
He’s frozen, thankfully, because so am I.
Who the hell is that?
It’s not Bates—I know that.
The man in front of me has black hair and piercing light-blue eyes that look gray, almost void of color
We’re in a standoff, neither of us moving, our gazes locked together.
He lifts his hand and taps on the glass, but not with his finger, with the tip of a blade. Dragging the knife along the glass, he makes his move, stepping toward me.
Immediately, I cower back, my hand steadying me on the board.
“Stay right there!” I call out, and as expected, he doesn’t listen, striding toward me again.
I move back, my breath quickening.
“I’m not gonna do that,” he mutters, matching each step I take.
He’s a good twenty feet from me as I walk backwarddown the stretch of the rink until I hit the wall that forces me up and around the penalty boxes.
With my back to him, something snaps in me, and I take off, running around the other curve of the rink. Shit. The path is blocked off with some makeshift fence that is definitely out of place. That leaves me with only one option, and I turn down the hallway to my right.
I try to open the first door—locked. Same for the second and third. A glint off my flashlight bounces off the elevator doors at the end of the hallway.
Whoever is chasing me has kicked it into high gear, and he’s nearly sprinting behind me to catch up.
My heart is hammering in my chest as I slap the buttons, willing the doors to open faster. “Come on. Come on. Come on.”
Finally, a chime roars from it, and they slide open. I slip inside, finding only one button uncovered from painter’s tape. I don’t have time to question it.
I assault the unobstructed button, and the doors start closing, but the guy is gaining distance fast. Backing against the far wall of the enclosure, I slam my eyes shut, covering my face to prepare for whatever’s coming next.
“I’ve got you,” he growls out, and a scream tears through me.
My entire body tenses, ready for impact. The ground moves beneath me, and a burst of adrenaline spikes my system, heightening everything else.
