Page 4 of The Dead Don’t Scream

“Once you cross the gate,” the woman says, “the first bell will ring. You will have two minutes to enter the maze. The final bell releases the hunters.”

I step through. The gate slams behind me. The first bell tolls across Blackwood Farm. The sound is deep enough to disturb the bodies sleeping in the churchyard beyond the corn. Three figures appear between the rows ahead. The Reaper wears a long black coat and a white skull mask.

The Devil’s red face grins beneath two curved horns. The Scarecrow stands taller than the others, his broad body dressed in flannel and black gloves. A stitched burlap mask hides everything except the darkness of his eyes. He tilts his head.

The others look at my ribbons. The Scarecrow looks at me. Some instinct tells me he already knows what I sound like when I’m frightened. He wants to learn what I sound like when I’m satisfied.

The second bell rings. The masked men disappear into the corn. I am alone at the entrance. My heart pounds. My body hums. The next bell will release them. I gather my skirt in one hand. For the first time in my life, I’m not ashamed of wanting to be caught.

Prologue Two

THE REAPER

RHYS

Fear has a rhythm. Most men don’t know how to listen for it. I do. Real fear contracts the body. Shoulders turn inward. Breathing becomes shallow. The eyes search for an exit. Desired fear is different. It expands. The pulse accelerates, but the body leans closer. The mouth says run while the eyes ask whether the hunter is fast enough to follow.

My job is to know the difference. I inspect the equipment shed for the third time. Padded table. Clean restraints. Bottled water. First-aid kit. Emergency lighting. A hidden release inside the door that Sloane can reach from any position. Everything is exactly where it should be. Dante leans against the wall behind me.

“If you check that knot again, it’s going to file a complaint.”

I pull the restraint once more.

“Safety isn’t optional.”

“Neither is fun.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive.”

“Your face is mutually exclusive with fun.”

I turn toward him. The Devil mask hangs from one hand. Without it, Dante is smiling. He usually smiles hardest when he’s nervous.

“You read her application?” I ask.

“Twice.”

“Limits?”

“Memorized.”

“Safe word?”

“Graveyard.”

“Signals?”

“One tap to check in, two to continue, three to stop.”

“Yellow?”

“Slow down.”

“Red?”

“Everything stops.”

Dante’s amusement fades.