I wasn’t always scared of the dark. Honestly, I’m pretty sure I can blame my dad for that particular phobia. One too many nights of being locked in my room, the windows boarded up to keep me from sneaking out, and the money for the electricity bill being used on alcohol or fast food for one or, you know, anything but for the actual electricity bill until my room was painted in nothing but darkness for endless hours.
I take a deep breath and shove the memory aside. He’s not here. And even if he was, he’s not the man he used to be. He’s not the monster from my childhood. He’s aged too much to keep the title, despite his worst intentions.
Now, he’s just a lazy old man. He can’t hurt me. No one can hurt me.
This is only a game.
“You gonna win?” a low voice asks me.
My breath hitches as I peer up at the culprit. Ethan. “Oh. Hey.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “And, uh, I hope so? I guess we have to wait and see.”
Slowly, he circles around me, looking me up and down. “Guess we will.” A sly smile spreads across his face. “You missed the run-down. It’s gonna be a wild ride. You ready?”
A lump the size of a golf ball forms in my throat, and I swallow past it. Am I ready? No. No I am not. Will I tell Lexie’s older brother this? Not a chance. “It’ll be fine,” I tell him.
“And if it isn’t, I’ll buy you dinner,” Ethan offers.
Like a fish, my mouth gapes open. “Oh, uh?—”
“Ladies,” another person calls from the front while simultaneously interrupting my conversation with Ethan. Hallelujah! It’s Roman. He’s wearing the same skull facepaint as Jagger, and for some reason, the familiar face almost manages to calm my nerves.
Stay right. Go left.
“Good luck,” Ethan adds. His hand runs from my elbow to my wrist, and I fight the urge to yank my arm away until his touch disappears. He leaves me near the entrance, meeting up with a few of his friends. I kind of hate it. How he’s attractive and somewhat familiar. How he can relate to me on a personal level and clearly gets along with my best friend. You know, since they’re related and all. And yet…yuck. Sure, there’s a red flag or two. I stand by my first assumption. He’s an ass. But Jagger’s an ass, too, and how do I feel when Jagger touches me? Not like when Ethan does, that’s for sure.
Not. The freaking. Time.
I look back at Roman, determined to pay attention even if it kills me.
“Put one of these on your shirt,” Roman continues addressing everyone. He holds up a stack of large, neon stickers, each with a different number. “It’ll help us know who’s who.”
My hands tremble as I wipe them against my baggy jeans while stepping forward so I can take a sticker.
“Violet?” His gaze rolls over me in confusion, though he covers his reaction almost instantly. “Got the short end of the stick, did you?”
“What?”
“Kidding.” His smile is almost warm. “Have you signed the waiver?” he asks.
“What waiver?”
Snapping his fingers, he points to me, and another person approaches with a contract of some kind. “It says you can’t sue anyone,” he explains. My eyes bulge. “Don’t worry,” he adds. “Nothing that happens in the haunted house can actually hurt you, all right? They’re just mind games.”
Mind games?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I scribble my name across the dotted line.
“Perfect,” he says. “Have you paid the entrance fee?”
I slip the hundred dollar bill from my back pocket. “Benjamin for number thirteen,” he calls, but I have no idea who he’s talking to. Without missing a beat, Roman hands me a sticker. Sure enough, a one and three stand out on the neon pink background. Not exactly my lucky number, but it’s not like I can ask for another one. “Good luck,” Roman says.
Why does everyone keep saying that?
You’d think it’d be comforting, as if someone’s rooting for you, but all I feel is the need to ask why I need any luck to get through this? Is it really so bad?
I shove the voice of reason aside, peel off the back of the neon sticker, and place it on my shirt above my racing heart. It’ll be fine. They can’t hurt me. Roman said so himself. So why am I freaking out? I’m already losing it. Seriously, I need to rein in my anxiety as quickly as possible if I have any hope of making it through this thing. But Jagger, then Ethan, and now Roman? I peek over at the dilapidated building. Rotting wood. Iron door. Blacked out windows. What the hell is in that house?
“You good?” Roman murmurs, inspecting me.
