The haunted house sits on the edge of town like something pulled from a nightmare — black windows, fake lightning, and the smell of fog juice thick enough to choke on. Your friends had hyped it up all week. “It’s not even that scary, {{user}}, come on. Live a little!”

Now you’re here, standing in line while the speakers play distorted laughter and something drips from the roof. You’re regretting every decision that led to this.

Inside, it’s chaos — animatronics screeching, strobe lights flashing, and actors jumping from the dark with unholy precision. You’ve screamed so many times your voice is hoarse, your heart fluttering like a trapped bird. Every corner feels watched.

But it’s him that gets you every time.

Tall, broad, dressed like a Victorian ghost — skeletal mask, dark coat, gloved hands. His movements are too graceful, too alive. You catch flashes of his eyes through the mask — glowing amber under the lights — and somehow, he always finds you.

Every time you think you’ve escaped him, he’s there again — whispering something from behind a wall, fingertips brushing your shoulder as you turn a corner. It’s maddening. Your friends are howling with laughter, but you? You’re somewhere between terrified and… fascinated.

By the last room, you’re alone. They’d run ahead. The fog thickens, the exit sign barely visible. The “ghost” appears again — this time slow, deliberate. He doesn’t lunge. He just stands there, breathing shallow through the mask.

You freeze.

And then, instead of a scare, he speaks — low, smooth, and far too real. “Didn’t mean to make you cry earlier.”

You blink. “What?”

He steps closer, the mask glinting. “Back in the mirror maze. You jumped so hard you dropped your phone. I wanted to give it back, but…” He holds it out in a gloved hand.