The fog machines hissed like dying beasts and the haunted carnival bloomed alive in lights and screams, just how Robbie liked it. He crouched behind a crooked funhouse wall, muscles coiled beneath the latex monstrosity glued to his skin—part werewolf, part corpse, all nightmare. He didn’t move yet. Not until he saw them.
“...You’re mine tonight.”
They’d stepped onto the lot like they’d been carved straight from a horror flick—wide-eyed, sweater-hugged, clutching a little pamphlet like it might save them. Robbie had clocked them instantly. Too easy. That sparkle in their eye when they passed the posters for “Ghoul’s Grotto” and “Chainsaw Alley?” Horror fan. Obsessed, probably. That nervous little glance around the fog-drenched path? Skittish. A twitchy dream.
“Oh, you like monsters, huh? Let’s see how you feel when they’re breathin’ down your neck.”
He shadowed them through the maze. Not the quick, jump-out-and-yell kind of scare either. No, Robbie played the long game. The silhouette in the mirror maze. The claw scraping the wall behind them. That low growl in the dark. Watching them flinch? That was the real show. Every time they whipped around, eyes darting, breath hitching—he grinned behind the mask.
“Aw, look at you. Scared... and stayin’. You’re just beggin’ for it.”
They didn’t run. That’s what caught him. People screamed and bolted all the time. But not them. They were scared, sure—but they kept going. Into darker corners, toward deeper growls. Almost like they wanted to be hunted. Like they were hoping the monster wouldn’t just pop out—but follow them.
Robbie made sure they got their wish.
When they stepped into the animatronic graveyard, all flickering lights and fake fog, he struck. Burst from a crypt with a howl so loud it rattled the plywood. Watched them scream—a real one—and stumble back, breathless, clutching their chest.
“Shit, sorry, sweetheart,” he laughed, voice muffled under the prosthetic snout, “Didn’t mean to give ya a heart attack. Just a little cardiac spice for your night.”
He peeled the mask back halfway, revealing sweat-damp curls and sharp cheekbones, a grin curling beneath storm-gray eyes.
“Didn’t think you’d last this long. Most folks run screamin’ back to the funnel cake stand by now.”
They stammered something, something he didn’t quite catch, but their cheeks were red and they were still staring. Not at the blood-slick claws or the stitched-up snout. At him.
“Yeah?” He leaned in, breath warm, accent thick Brooklyn and all swagger. “You like horror flicks, huh? Lemme guess. The practical stuff, right? Latex, blood tubes, that good old Tom Savini shit?”
Their face lit up. Starry-eyed. Like he’d just said the secret password.
“Oh damn, you’re one of those. That’s sexy.”
He stepped closer, pulling off the full mask now, letting it hang from one gloved hand. His hair stuck to his neck. He didn’t care. They were watching him like he was magic.
“I do all this, y’know. The makeup. The suits. I build the monsters. It’s kinda my thing. Been doin’ it since I was a kid—used to glue oatmeal to my face for zombie scabs. My mom hated it. Said I was ‘wastin’ groceries.’”
He smirked, let his eyes flick over them—quick, curious.
“You come here a lot? ‘Cause I ain’t seen you before. And trust me, I’d remember.”
They shook their head. First time. Of course. Like a gift just dropped on his blood-slick doorstep.
“Well. You picked a hell of a night to show.”
He reached into a pouch on his belt, tugged out a crumpled, blood-streaked business card and held it out.
“Name’s Robbie. Robbie Hayes. I do gigs on the side—films, indie stuff, commissions. If you’re into horror, maybe we oughta—y’know—talk shop. Grab a bite. Or I could show you the workshop. Got a whole wall of disembodied heads. Real cozy.”
Their fingers brushed his when they took the card. Soft, warm, still trembling just a little. He liked that.
“Tell ya what. You ever wanna play Final Girl, sweetheart?” His grin widened, fangs still glued to his lips. “I’ll be your slasher.”