Page 17

He’s standing exactly where the man was, big red shoes planted in a puddle, the edges of his costume already soaking up whatever’s on the floor. His suit is too bright for this place—violent yellows, screaming blues, polka dots that seem to squirm if I look at them too long. His face is painted bone white, mouth carved into a red grin that’s too wide, stretching almost to his ears. The paint is cracked and flaking, like old porcelain breaking apart, and under the white, I swear I can see gray, like something dead.

He’s holding a balloon—just one. A glossy red orb floating above us, bobbing slightly in the stale air. The string hangs from his gloved fingers, thin and fragile, and somehow that stupid balloon feels more threatening than any knife. I can hear the faint rubbery squeak every time it shifts—a tiny sound that worms right into my skull.

The clown tilts his head to one side, studying me, and the balloon tilts with him, like it’s watching too. For a moment, nothing moves. It’s just me, the clown, and the buzzing lights overhead, all the colors too sharp, the shadows too deep.

Fuck.

I knew I was high as hell.

Killing in a scare fest is always more fun when I’m off my head, when everything’s louder and brighter, and nothing feels real enough to matter—but hallucinating? That’s new. Very new. The walls seem to breathe in and out, the ground pulsing under my boots like a heartbeat, and the clown’s painted eyes don’t blink once.

I drag in a breath that tastes like metal and old fear, and for the first time tonight, I’m not sure if I’m the one doing the hunting… or if something else is starting to hunt me.

The weird and very worry thing is there are not any walls or a floor because I’m in a fucking corn maze, but now I’m second guessing myself as to whether I’m really here or if I’m having some fucked up dream. Was it a bad batch of molly or did we take molly that was laced with ketamine? I open my eyes again and when I look down at the knife there is blood pouting from my skin—shit I didn’t even feel cutting myself. I don’t hesitate before I kneel, my knees wobble. I have to check a couple times to make sure it’s grass I’m kneeling on and not a wooden floor, because then I would really be tripping. Instead, I rub my eyes—now bloody, I wave for Max to come over, and he kneels on the man’s back before forcing his jaw open. I slide the knife across the tip of his tongue, then down his throat before cutting off the vocal cords from his throat, and then I cut his tongue, placing it in my pocket for later. My pussy weeps from the satisfaction, but I feel dizzy now, and my heart is racing and before I click my teeth shut for a second, all I can hear is a loud cracking sound that makes goose bumps rise on my arms. Max snaps his neck and then shoots the man three times, luckily for us a silencer is our best friend.

I check to see if he has a pulse and smile when I don’t find one. I cock my head up, and Max is nowhere to be seen. Guess I will be the one cleaning up, ready for our next kill.

CHAPTER 8

EMMA

Ifucking hate men, and yes, it might sound mean, and I’m sure some self-loathing divorced man who was once done for beating the shit out of his wife and now isn’t allowed to see his children would argue with me that I’m being unreasonable. Still, when there are grown men creating group chats, apps, and podcasts built on how to rape, drug, and kill women, I don’t think they deserve to be heard. If women are never heard, why should they be treated any differently? I’ve already cut the vocal cords out of a man less than ten minutes ago, and his tongue is currently in my pocket—his body’s still next to me for some stupid reason. Max and I only brought bin bags to bin the bodies with. I’m not even sure if we have to, or if the organizers will do it for us. Would it mean we could increase our murders? I mean, the more time I spend cleaning, the more time Max can spend finding a kill. I love letting him unleash his evilness. People think he’s nothing but sweet—that couldn’t be further from the truth. He’s a psychopath with no feelings. The day his sister died, it was like he flipped a switch, and he just couldn’t show any emotion to anything, and when you think he is, it’s just an act.

AGE FOURTEEN

People told me I’d enjoy high school, and I believed them. In some ways, they were right. In others, they weren’t.

I walk down the hallway, glancing at my phone, then looking up to make sure no teacher sees me. The last thing I need is another phone call home or detention. Mom would ground me for life. I wish I could tell her why I act up in school. No one has ever really asked why I talk back to teachers, or why I make such a fuss about seating arrangements. Sometimes I want to scream and tell someone everything. But my mind always turns on me. What if they think I’m lying? What if they say I’m attention-seeking? What if they call me a whore? It’s happened once before. I tried to ask one of my friends if it had happened to them, but when I started speaking, she looked at me like I was crazy, or I had just read the whole situation wrong, so I stopped, and I never told anyone else. I didn’t see the point of it. Maybe I did read the situation wrong, maybe this whole thing is just a misunderstanding.

“Earth to Emma,” Miss Riley shouts from the front of the class, arms crossed and eyebrows drawn tight. She writes my name down while complaining that the internet is down, so no one can use their lesson plans. That can go one of two ways: either we do nothing for the entire lesson, or, more likely, we do everything on paper.

I look around the room for him. Not because I want him here. I don’t. But if he is, it means another lesson with his comments and smirks.

When the bell rings, I rush out before Miss can stop me and hand me another detention. At this rate, I won’t be home on time all week because of detentions.

Mom already thinks I’m just being difficult.

The first lesson is math, which I hate. The seating plan is awful, and even though I’ve asked to be moved, Miss always says, “Emma, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

I walk in and stop. No one’s there. Relief hits me—then panic, because he walks in right after.

Tall, skinny, short dark chestnut hair, and a smile most girls would probably kill for. Not me. I want him to leave me alone. I don’t understand why he keeps focusing on me. Does he think I’m easy? That I’m a girl who’ll go along with anything? I’m fourteen. I don’t want any of this. Not now. Not ever like this.

The desks are packed close together. As he passes, his body presses against mine, and his hand lingers where it shouldn’t. I gasp.

“Missed me? I can’t wait for today’s lesson,” he whispers.

I feel sick. I want to go home. For a second, I think maybe if I smashed a window, they’d expel me, and I’d never have to come back. But then Mrs Davidson walks in, and everyone follows. We’re doing fractions. I’m good at math. What I hate is sitting next to Danny.

Half an hour passes before Mrs Davidson tells me to work in pairs with him.

I fake a smile, but my stomach twists. My hands shake, and a migraine starts building behind my eye. Danny gives me that smile, the one that always means something bad is coming.

At first, nothing happened. I focus on the worksheet and try to believe I’m safe. Then his hand lands on my thigh. He pushes my skirt up and forces my legs apart. I shove his hand away three times, but he keeps going. He’s stronger than me. I want to scream.

Instead, I whisper, “Stop, please. Stop. I don’t like this.”

He ignores me.