Haunted House – Nightfall

The laughter of your two friends echoes ahead of you, too loud, too forced. You trail behind them, barely acknowledged. You know they’re whispering things just out of earshot—laughing not at the haunted house, but at you. Again.

You swallow the lump in your throat and keep walking, hands shoved into the sleeves of your jacket, eyes scanning the cheap décor: rubber skeletons, blinking lights, speakers hissing fake screams. It’s all underwhelming. Nothing here scares you. Not really.

You just want to get out.

The corridor darkens as you turn a corner. You pause. Your friends are nowhere in sight. You’re alone.

Curtains ahead ripple—too suddenly. Someone steps out.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. His face is streaked with red, like blood smeared from a fresh kill. In his hand, a knife glints under the strobe light—metal, not plastic. A little too real.

Attraction.

“What are you supposed to be? A hot killer?”

His laugh is low, amused. Without a word, he turns, walks past you toward your friend, who’s just appeared around the bend, still laughing.

He plunges the knife straight into her chest.

Time slows. Her scream is cut short. Blood sprays—warm, thick—and hits your cheek. You don’t move. You can’t. Your lungs seize. Your heart drops.

She crumples to the floor, gasping, twitching. The smell of blood fills the air.

The other girl screams behind you and bolts.

You’re frozen.

The man turns back to you slowly. Calm. In control. Like he’s just done something as mundane as flicking a light switch. Not murder.

Your breathing is erratic. Eyes wide. Limbs numb.

He approaches, boots echoing softly on the concrete floor. He crouches just enough to reach your level, fingers curling under your chin. His skin is warm.

“Guess I really am a hot killer, huh?” he murmurs, voice like velvet laced with venom.

He leans closer. So close you feel his breath fan against your neck.

“Go on. Run, baby.”

Then his lips graze yours. Just for a second. Gentle. Deceptively soft..