Page 14 of Stay Scared

His grin widens. “You heard me.”

I walk closer, and the woman in the torn wedding dress reaches for his sleeve.

“Leave her alone.”

She doesn’t pull him away. She moves him nearer to the doorway instead.

“Where did you hear Fearless Girl?”

The boy shrugs. “Nothing online disappears.”

“It was never online.”

His grin slips for only a second, but that is enough.

The title belonged to a review I killed five years ago. I had filmed it after an actor from a haunt followed me into a parking garage. The draft spent nine minutes insisting he hadn’t frightened me before I admitted I slept with a chair jammed beneath my apartment door.

FEARLESS GIRL GETS FOLLOWED HOME.

Mark saw it. My editor at the time saw part of it. I deleted the upload before anyone else could.

The woman in the wedding dress covers her mouth, but the movement doesn’t hide the smile underneath. The camera harness suddenly feels tighter across my ribs.

“You aren’t participants.”

The couple beside the wall releases each other at the same time. The man straightens, his frightened posture disappearing, while the woman steps away from him without looking back. The teenage boy glances toward the ceiling, and a tiny red indicator activates above the doorway.

The woman in the wedding dress gestures toward the opening. “Your route is ready, Salem.”

“Which one of you is assigned to Final Girl Protocol?”

“We were assigned to the queue.”

“Then where are the three leads?”

Her painted smile widens. “You should keep moving.”

I look toward the gate behind me. The ordinary guests I watched entering outside must have been separated before this section. Everyone around me was placed here specifically for me.

The lights begin shutting off behind us. The chained exit disappears first, darkness moving across the painted mouth until only the route ahead remains visible.

Mark’s voice breaks through the earpiece. “Salem, they’re actors. I notified the tech, and my trailer is locked.”

I press the control beneath my ear. “Locked from your side?”

A crash reaches me through the connection before Mark comes back, distorted.

“Door won’t open. They’re calling it protocol.”

The channel dies, and the indicator at my ear changes from blue to amber.

They locked Mark in too.

He surrendered his outside devices before entering the production area because the agreement required it. Whatever access he has now runs through Crimson Night: the earpiece, the laptop, and their feed. If they cut him off completely, he has whatever they decide to leave him.

The performers are waiting to see what I do with that information. Standing here won’t reopen the gate. It will only let them choose how long I spend staring at it.

I enter the doorway.