Page 9 of Stay Scared

“It could also become worse.” His voice has gone quieter.

Maren holds out a numbered security pouch. “I need the phone.”

I lower my voice. “Stay in the trailer.”

“I will.”

“If they cut the feed, document when it happens.”

“I already started a log.”

Of course he did.

I glance toward the lane where his van disappeared. “See you at dawn.”

The pause lasts half a second too long.

“At dawn,” he says.

The call ends. I switch off the phone and place it in the pouch, and Maren seals the top with a strip printed with my participant number.

FINAL GIRL: 01.

There is no second number.

She places the pouch inside the equipment case, closes the latches, and points toward a gravel path leading to the entrance queue.

“Your exterior contact has been assigned Trailer Six. He remains there until you complete the experience or the operators terminate it.”

“And if I want him?”

“Communication depends on the active zone.”

I already knew that from the waiver. Hearing it here feels different.

Maren turns away, leaving me to follow the gravel path toward a leaning section of chain-link fence. Around twenty guests wait between temporary barriers despite Final Girl Protocol supposedly making me the only overnight participant. Their wristbands carry ordinary entry numbers.

Some wear costumes beneath winter coats. Others have dressed for endurance in boots and dark clothing already marked with mud. I take my place in the designated press lane while conversation moves through the crowd in nervous bursts. Two women behind me compare clauses from the waiver. Ahead, a man keeps checking the entrance even though his phone is already gone. Someone near the front laughs every time a performer moves too close, louder on each attempt.

Hidden speakers activate along the fence.

“Welcome, participants. Remain inside the marked queue until instructed.”

The masculine voice is calm and unaltered.

“Crossing the Crimson Night entrance constitutes consent to the complete experience. Verbal refusal may be treated as participation, and attempts to leave may alter your assigned route. Your experience ends at dawn or when an operator determines you cannot continue.”

The announcement pauses before delivering the final line.

“Entry is voluntary. What follows is not.”

The recording restarts, and nobody speaks again until it reaches the beginning.

A performer emerges from behind an abandoned ticket booth. His boots strike the concrete hard enough to pull attention before anyone sees the mask. Black tactical clothing covers him from neck to ankle. Gray straps reinforce the vest across his chest, and metal fasteners catch the red light when he moves. A painted skull obscures his face, jagged teeth extending across its lower half.

He moves along the queue without wasting time on theatrical lunges or shouted threats. One guest fails to clear his path quickly enough, and the performer drives his shoulder into him without breaking stride, forcing the man against the barrier. My own shoulder braces before the impact.

The guest laughs.