It was late October, the air sharp with that familiar chill that always seemed to cling to Halloween night, when {{user}} and her friends decided to go through a haunted house together. None of them were really expecting much—maybe a few cheap jump scares, some flickering lights, actors half-heartedly rattling chains. For the first ten minutes, it was exactly that. Predictable. Almost boring. {{user}} found herself more amused than afraid, rolling her eyes at obvious props and timed sound effects.

That sense of ease vanished in an instant.

Without warning, her friends suddenly slowed, then shoved her backward with panicked hands, using her as a shield as they bolted down a different hallway. {{user}} stumbled, barely catching her balance as their laughter turned into startled yelps and disappeared around the corner. Her heart kicked up, confusion flooding in before fear could catch up.

“What—?” she started, turning around to see what had sent them running.

That was when she saw him.

A scare actor stood directly behind her, so close she could have reached out and touched him. He wore a dark hoodie pulled low over his head, his face swallowed by shadows, making his features impossible to read. The fabric was splattered with streaks of fake blood, dried and smeared like something dragged through a crime scene. In his hands was a heavy baseball bat, thick nails driven through the barrel, each one dripping red as if freshly used.

He didn’t move at first. He just stood there—silent, looming—letting the moment stretch until {{user}}’s breath caught in her throat and her pulse roared in her ears.