Page 8 of Fed By Fear

When the weekend ends, it’s back to scaring on our own. I don’t mind going back to solo hunts. Too much time in crowds can make a beast of us all.

The clown still lurking behind me is as unpredictable and lost as his name insinuates. He usually needs extra help staying on task and in his human skin.

“Madness.”

He pitches into a handstand, staring at me from upside down. “Yeah, Hunty Hunt?”

“Keep your fucking skin on.”

“It’s notusyou have to worry about tonight. Someone is hungry. White eyes and big teeth.Chomp chomp.” His laughter follows him out.

Dammit, I should have checked in on Gator. When’s the last time he devoured more than fear? It’s not something that’s necessary for his survival, but he’s so accustomed to it that it’s second-nature. Even in his human disguise.

An intoxicating fear releases through here when he takes a bite out of someone, but it’s a fucking mess. Dismemberment equals shutting down the house for the night.

One bite isn’t worth a whole evening of lost terror.

A techno rendition of the theme song fromDraculablasts over the speakers as the gates are thrown wide. Peoplefunnel in, pushing and shoving their way toward the entrance.

It’s too late now to check in on Gator. I swear, if he eats anyone and fucks this up before I get my fill, I’ll disembowel him.

A bittersweetness mixes with my bloodlust. The final night has begun. My room is all the way at the back. The twinges of fear that float through the fog-filled air set my mouth watering.

The worn handle of my chainsaw sits ready and familiar in my palm. How quickly we fell into our roles. As if they were made for us. Perhaps they were. Crafted from nightmares passed from generation to generation.

I’ve learned there are a few standard scares in any haunted house. Easy to mimic, though no one does the classics like us.

Screams shred the air. There’s always a shift when they enter a demon’s room. Madness and his clown room are the first they meet of the three of us. It’s a perfect fit for that whacko. Humans hate clowns but are fascinated with them. I’ve never seen a haunted house without a clown room or funhouse.

Gator claimed the title ofthe butcher. He’s set up with an over-the-top collection of knives in some swamp-ass cabin. I have no idea why rickety bayou shacks are a staple of haunted attractions. Gator’s has a meat shop attached to it.That part is easy to understand. Meat hooks and slaughtered animals always put people on edge.

As for me…

My first group of the night enters the pitch-black room, completely unaware I’m hiding in its shadows. This is the last space they cross before exiting. The scent of sweat andarousal slap me so hard I think my burlap mask may fly right off. I shake out my legs.Let’s fucking go.

Three men and two clingy girls stumble through the black curtain. I wait until they see the glowing red exit sign, savoring the way they relax slightly once they think they’ve finished the house. I don’t enjoy feeding off stale fear or Madness and Gator’s leftovers. I prefer to let people think they’re safe. Their heart rates slow. Adrenaline dipping to allow a slight drop in pulse. That’s when I sweep in and give them a whole new rush.

“That wasn’t that scary,” the front man jokes.

“Dude, you screamed like a girl when that clown popped out.” The other male slaps him on the back.

“I’m just saying, I thought it would be scarier.”

That’s coming from the guy who smells like he borderline fainted at some point this evening. His attempt to shrug it off is my cue to appear. I rev up my chainsaw.The reaction is instantaneous.Movies have done an impeccable job of instilling a fear of chainsaws in the general public. They don’t get this petrified over weed eaters or hatchets. Chainsaws specifically trigger the memories of old horror films that so many adults have seen.

Their spike in fear fills my mouth, plunging beneath my human skin and into my cryptid form. My throat clogs as I fight to swallow it down. The first fill of the night is always overwhelming.

Stepping from the darkness, I reveal myself. The burlap sack does its job. Why is it that humans are so scared of a little sack? Maybe it’s the smile sewn into the fabric. The oversized mouth stitched from ear to ear hides a few real human teeth. I love collecting teeth. If my little collection were ever to be tested, they could solve quite a few missing-persons cases. Hikers, mainly.

Raising my chainsaw into the air escalates things. The group is already tripping over themselves before I sprint toward them.

They don’t have far to go. But with so many visitors throughout the night, I prefer to dole out fear in a constantstream of short, potent bursts.

For a single soul, I can really drag it out. Hours of torment and feeding. Here, the horror moves much quicker.

Speeding up, I duck around the side of the group, swinging my blade at the front man. He screams, his fear heightening into pure terror, which temporarily alters his taste.

I back off, pretending to hack at the ankles of the rear of the group. My attention fixes on the one who boasted that he wasn’t scared. One more swing and he falls. I hate when they fall. If this were a real horror flick, that guy would be dead.