Page 11 of Stay Scared

Farther back, another figure appears in the reflection.

A dark mask, longer than the others, with a rigid beak projecting from its lower half. The person wearing it stands behind the ticket booth where cracked glass distorts the rest of his features. One shoulder faces me while the beaked head angles toward the narrow gap between the structure and fence.

I turn, but the space behind the booth is empty.

A locked service gate occupies the narrow gap. The chain looped through its handles sways.

I step out of the press lane, and an employee in a red coat moves into my path.

“Stay inside the marked area.”

“Someone was behind that booth.”

She glances toward the service gate. “Performers use staff routes.”

“How many lead performers are assigned to Final Girl Protocol?”

She checks the tablet clipped to her forearm. “Three lead performers.”

“Only three?”

“One physical lead and one security performer. The creative director completes the assignment.”

“Does the creative director wear a mask?”

“All Crimson Night performers may wear masks.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

Her face remains neutral. “Only three lead performers are assigned to you.”

I look at the booth again. The reflection shows only me and the red indicator on my chest camera.

Near the fence, the white-masked man turns sharply toward the service gate.

He saw it too.

He steps away from his position, but another employee intercepts him and speaks too quietly for me to hear. The white mask stays aimed toward the gate while the staff member gestures back toward the queue.

He ignores her and keeps watching the chain. I notice that he has stopped watching me.

Across the lot, the skull mask notices him too. Their eyes meet through the crowd, and whatever passes between them lacks the polish of a rehearsed cue.

A floodlight near the entrance goes dark, swallowing the white-masked man with it.

The employee beside me points toward my lane. “Return to your mark.”

I step back inside the barrier. Mark should receive the footage eventually, assuming the feed reaches him intact. The camera indicator remains red. I press two fingers against the harness strap and feel the buckle resist, still exactly where Maren left it.

Another masked man waits beneath the entrance arch.

Black covers his face, traced with narrow lines of cold white light around the eyes and mouth. They brighten gradually, then fade until his features almost disappear before returning.

He stays beneath the arch. Every participant eventually has to come to him.

A guest raises two fingers in a mocking salute while entering. The glowing mask tracks him until the gate closes, then turns toward the remaining line.

The illuminated eyes land on me, and the light around them stops pulsing.