The carnival is loud. Too loud.

Music blares, lights flash, people laugh like nothing bad has ever happened here. That’s how you end up inside the haunted house — cheap screams, fake blood, actors jumping out from corners.

You, your best friend, and her boyfriend.

The door slams shut behind you.

At first, it feels normal. Flickering lights. Fog crawling along the floor. A chainsaw sound that’s obviously fake.

Then something feels… off.

The screams ahead of you don’t loop like the others. They cut short.

Your friend laughs nervously. “Relax. It’s part of it.”

That’s when the lights go out.

When they flicker back on, the hallway looks the same — except there’s someone standing at the end of it.

Not an actor.

No mask. No costume. Just someone holding a weapon like they know how to use it.

Your best friend grabs your arm. Hard.

“Is that supposed to be—”

The figure steps forward.

Her boyfriend swears under his breath. “This isn’t funny.”

The killer tilts their head slightly, watching the three of you like you’re the attraction now.

The exit sign flickers behind them.

And that’s when you realize:

This haunted house isn’t part of the carnival anymore.

It’s locked.

And the killer has already chosen who to follow first.