Page 8 of Hallow’s Crown

Samuel picks his way through the house, eyes always alert. He ignores the luxuries, bypasses the obvious. He knows he’s being watched.

The sun is up now, but down here in the sub-basement, the darkness is absolute.

Let’s see if he can find his way out.

He tests every door. He circles back to the entry to find the door shuttered like the rest. He tries the phone, and this time it buzzes, but the line is dead.

He sits on the floor, back to the wall, breathing deep. Not panic, but acceptance.

I know this posture. It’s the one I used to take, as a child, before the Custodian’s annual Halloween ritual began. I hated it back then, the brutality that the hunt can become, but I learned to love the predictability. The rules never changed, only the intensity.

I stand, step away from the glass, and go up the stairs, opening the door before walking down to the main floor. My shoes make a different sound here, muffled by the thick concrete below the carpet. I want to see him up close.

Technically, I should wear a mask, but I want him to see the face of the monster that will break him.

He’s still in the same spot, hands folded.

I step into his line of sight.

He looks up, registering my suit, my lack of mask, my authority.

“Why am I here?” he asks.

I pause, then answer. “Because you are a point of interest for us.”

He stares, unblinking. “What is this?”

“A test,” I say.

His shoulders relax, just a fraction. “For what?”

“Assessment.”

He looks down at his hands, then at the masked staffer who comes to stand beside me. “What happens if I fail?”

I don’t answer. The rules are clear.

I walk away, leaving him with the silence.

The staff take up their posts, the masks smooth and empty.

There is dignity in this kind of endurance. I will document every second.

Back upstairs, I watch on the monitor as Samuel finally drinks the water in the small fridge, then lays back on the floor, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the next move.

The timer on the wall ticks down, second by second. The world outside is waking, but in here, time is measured only by suffering.

In this way, the trial truly begins.

The equipment staging area is a study in control. Everything is lined up, nothing out of square, even the storage bins locked flush against the cinderblock wall. The gear is arranged for a tactical strike: sensory deprivation hoods, restraints, disposable gloves, and three monitoring rigs set to default.

I walk the length of the table, fingers behind my back, letting my eyes drift over each object. The cuffs are standard. The hoods are new this year, sleeker, the inside coated in anti-microbial mesh. The monitoring collars are cold to the touch—unpowered, for now.

Behind me, a low hum of conversation. The technical crew are prepping for when Samuel passes out from the sedative. Their voices are dry, precise, never once straying from protocol.

A technician approaches, carrying a clear polycarbonate tray. He sets it on the table with a tap, and only then do I notice the contents: Sam’s phone, his wallet, his keys, and a badge with his name and company on it.

The tech slides the tray forward. “Collected at main entry, as per order.”