Chapter 4

The air in the subterranean section of the haunted house attraction was thick, not just with the chemical fog rolling off the machines, but with the scent of old sawdust, damp wool, and the metallic tang of my own rising heat. It was past midnight now. The chaotic shrieks of the day’s last stragglers had faded into a low, distant hum, leaving us in a pocket of eerie silence that felt heavy and charged, like the moment before a storm breaks. We had slipped away from the main thoroughfare, ducking behind a prop wall of stacked crates labeled "1920s Prohibition Supplies" to find a private nook in the dead center of the maze. It was a perfect, deceptive hiding spot, designed to make visitors think they were trapped, but for us, it was a sanctuary. I leaned back against the rough, painted wood of the crate wall, my chest heaving slightly from the climb up the stairs and the adrenaline of the day. The lighting here was dim, cast by a single, flickering Edison bulb hanging from a frayed cord, casting long, dancing shadows against the peeling wallpaper that lined the narrow corridor. The fog machines had clicked off, but