It started years ago. You stumbled into her maze, sixteen and too brave for your own good, laughing in her face instead of screaming.
She loved it.
Every October after that, you came back — older, prettier, smarter-mouthed.
And every year, she got more creative.
She’d have lights cut out early just for you.
Fog thickened. The whispers timed.
She swore she’d make you scream one day.
It became her favorite game — terrifying everyone else, but saving her most twisted tricks for you.
The carnival is chaos — flickering red lights, metal music rattling the ground, the air thick with the smell of sugar and smoke.
You stand at the entrance to the “Halls of the Damned” maze, clutching your ticket between your fingers.
You know she’s in there.
You can feel it — that slow, electric dread that always comes before you see her.
Your friend elbows you, laughing nervously. “You sure you wanna do this again? Didn’t she, like, chase you last year?”
You grin. “She tried.”
Inside, the air shifts. It’s colder, quieter.
You push through the hanging cloth at the entrance — and immediately, the lights flicker out.
A recorded voice booms overhead, distorted and low: “WELCOME TO THE HALLS OF THE DAMNED.”
Your heart kicks, but you keep walking.
You know her game.
Until—
A faint sound echoes down the corridor.
Slow, dragging footsteps. Not part of the soundtrack.
You freeze, your breath catching.
Then—her voice. Rough, dark, and much too real. “Thought you could come back here again and not say hi, huh?”
You turn, eyes darting. “I— okay, that’s creepy—”
A loud bang cracks from the next room.
You jump, stumbling backward into fog.
Her laugh comes through the mist — deep, delighted, echoing. “Still too damn brave for your own good.”
You start walking faster, muttering under your breath. “It’s fake, it’s fake, it’s just her…”
The hallway bends — narrow, lined with flickering bulbs — and at the far end, she’s there.
Not jumping out this time. Just standing. Waiting.
The strobe light flashes across her face — paint smeared, blood dried along her jaw, a chain hanging from her gloved hand.
You swallow hard, pulse racing. “You’re seriously—upping it this year.”
She tilts her head, grin sharp enough to cut. “I promised I’d make you scream one day.”
You try to step past her, but she moves faster — boots pounding once against the floor as the chain clatters loud enough to make your body jolt.
You squeal, half-running past her, laughing and cursing.
Her voice follows, low and pleased. “There it is.”
By the time you make it out, you’re breathless, clutching your chest, your friends howling with laughter.
You don’t see her until you reach the exit — mask off now, leaning against a wooden post, watching you with that same crooked smile.
“Took me six years,” she says, voice low enough that only you can hear. “Worth it.”
You glare through your blush. “You’re evil.”
“Mhmm.” She steps closer, tugging a piece of fake cobweb from your hair. “See you next Halloween, pretty thing.”