“No, that was perfect,” I agree. She pokes me with the chainsaw. “I’m serious! With the lights and the sound effects and the makeup, people will be terrified out of their minds.”
“What do I do if there’s some teenage dickhead who’s not scared?”
“Just keep cackling. There’s always someone. Shout anything that comes to mind. Tell them their parents know what they do on the internet.”
“That’s way too mean.”
I raise one eyebrow at her. “What wereyoulooking at on the internet when you were fifteen?”
“None of your business,” she says, primly sweeping her (now purple) hair back over one shoulder.
I check the door to the room, then sidle forward. “You could make it my business.” I grab the front of her overalls.
“How much do you know about the television showSupernatural?” Madeline asks, batting her eyelashes.
“Sounds kinky.”
That gets a laugh. “You have no idea.”
I file that away to bring up again later, and in the meantime, I give her a quick, chaste kiss on the lips. “Want to try it with the lights out and the sound on?”
Madeline heads back to her hiding spot, and I hit Play on the boom box in the corner. Sprucevale Horror House is volunteer-run and funded, so the budget is shoestring and the technology is outdated. The haunted sawmill’s soundtrack is on a CD set to loop for four hours, and after I start it up, I mess with the settings a little. As if I’m going to get good audio quality from a piece of equipment someone’s aunt bought in 1995 and kept in her garage for thirty years.
Just as I’m finishing up, the door to the room opens and someone walks through. It’s dark in here, except for the hellish red lighting and some fake fire. There are several huge (cardboard) blades spinning and loud buzzing and screaming echoes through the room.
“Oh, wow,” Wyatt says, looking around. “This is?—”
“AAARRRGGAUUUUUGHHH!” Madeline comes out of her hiding spot screaming, chainsaw overhead. The lighting makes her look like a demon.
Wyattscreams,throws his arms over his face, tries to take a step backward, and trips over his own foot.
“Oh, fuck!” Madeline yelps, tossing down the chainsaw. “Shit, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
“I’m great,” Wyatt says, sprawled on the floor. “You’re good at that.”
I silence the soundtrack and come over to them, but Madeline’s already helping Wyatt up, so I hit the lights.
“I thought you were Javi,” she’s explaining. “We were practicing. I heard the door open, so I thought it was him.”
“I’m not afraid of plastic chainsaws,” I tell him.
“One, fuck you,” he says, but he’s grinning. “Two, Lainey asked if I’d do a walkthrough before we open for the weekend in a couple hours, see if anything needed fixing. You good?”
“Better than you,” Madeline shrugs.
“Wow, both of you,” he deadpans. “For that, I’m gonna go change the soundtrack in the coal mine to the Backstreet Boys CD my mom found in a box.”
“You wouldn’tdare,” I gasp. Wyatt raises his eyebrows with atry mekind of look.
I spent two weeks decorating a hallway to look like an abandoned coal mine, complete with fake skeletons half-stuck in fake rocks. It’s really good.
“Maybe the Spice Girls,” he threatens.
“Who?” I ask, and Wyatt laughs.
“How do you not know the Spice Girls?” Madeline asks, gesturing with the chainsaw. “Girl power? Union Jack minidresses? I always liked Scary Spice best.”
It sounds…vaguely familiar?
