Page 14 of Scaredy Cat
“A scary warden?”
The actor scoffs at that, and doesn’t turn. Instead, he keeps walking, finding a door behind one of the cells and dipping through it, just as I hear a high cackle from the direction of the entrance, and the screams of the group behind me.
But I don’t hesitate for much longer. I don’t want to be around the screaming teenagers who most likely will ruin the vibe with their ear-piercing shrieks and constant conversation. So I start walking, my stride quick and hand held out at my side with my fingers splayed to keep fake blood off of my clothes until I can find somewhere to wash it off.
The older,half-bald man sitting at the table looks bored with his job, and the spreadsheets in front of him. When he looks up at me, his brows furrow as he takes in the dried blood on my face and hand, but he doesn’t remark on it. “Did you have a good time?” he asks, picking up a pen and leaning on his elbows.
“Just like every year,” I promise, shifting my weight to one foot. I always forget how much walking I have to do here, and my feet are so tired that I’m almost dreading the shower I’ll be taking when I get home. “This is my favorite haunt to visit annually.”
The man looks up at me with a grateful, if tired, smile on his face. “Then you know how this works. What was your favorite part? Favorite character?”
“Mental Asylum,” I answer instantly. “The guy in the wolf-skull mask who gave me this wonderful gift.” I wiggle my blood-stained fingers in the air before dropping my hand carefully to my side again.
The man looks up at me, suddenly perplexed, his pen scratching a tally beside the asylum but then hovering in mid-air. “Who?”
“You know? The warden of the asylum or whatever? Dressed all in black, had a knife. Maybe it wasn’t a wolf-skull mask, but?—”
“The only character in the asylum is the inmate. In the straightjacket,” he interrupts, suddenly looking at me like I’ve possibly lost my mind. “There’s no one there in black with a mask.”
“Oh.” Well, since the blood on my hand is certainly not real, I can’t help wondering if this guy just isn’t up to date on the new roles for the year. Especially with it being their opening weekend. “Yeah, that’s probably who I mean.” I shake it off with a grin, not wanting to make it a big deal. My eyes scan the area, and I zero in on the water bottles for sale at the concession stand.
Seeing as Nightmare Ridge only has porta-potties, a bottle of water feels like it might be the best bet to clean off my hands. “Thank you again!” I say to the man in my best polite content creator voice.
He sees me off with the usual, “Thanks for visiting Nightmare Ridge,” though I notice him eyeing the fake blood before writing something down on his paper in addition to the tally mark.
But it’s not my business if the guy with the mask had gotten a little handsier than their rules allow. I’m certainly not complaining. I just march straight for the concessions stand, ready to get this blood off my face before I can drive home, shower, and maybe post before collapsing into bed for the night.
7
My phone isn’twhere it should be.
Feeling like I’m doing snow angels on my sheets, I stretch my arms out under the pillows, star fishing as I sweep my fingers along the smooth surface to look for my phone that’s always,alwaysthere.
Well, mostly always. I suppose I could’ve knocked it off during the night, but even when I find the charging cable, I only blink stupidly at the end where my phone should be attached. “Great,” I grumble, shoving my face back into my pillow. I was so exhausted last night that there’s a very real chance my phone didn’t get plugged in, even though I swear I did it. Hadn’t I scrolled my blog a little bit, before getting lost in relationship drama onReddit?
With a sigh I lean over the side of the bed, glaring at the hardwood floor where I’ve dropped my phone before. But when that’s a bust, I maneuver so I can slide my arm between the head of the bed and the wall, my fingers brush the floor in hopes I’ll find the suddenly elusive device that I’m usually clinging to like a lifeline.
Still nothing.
“God, really?” I mumble, sitting up with my knees under me. “I really did this to myself?” If my phone is dead, I’m going to worry obsessively about missed messages while staring at the screen as it charges enough to turn on. Irritation mixed with anxiety churns in my stomach, and I try to remember what I did with it the night before.
By chance, my eyes land on my nightstand, the cluttered surface decorated with small figurines of horror movie slashers and half-full tumblers of flavored water I never get around to finishing even with the best intentions. It’s there my eyes land on the corner of my shiny red phone case, and I let out a breath, shoulders slumped in relief.
It’s not where I usually end up putting my phone, even when I’m half out of it with exhaustion and ready to pass out, but it’s not unheard of. I reach for it, flipping it over to find the phone is half-charged with no missed messages. My only notifications are from my blog, which I’d expected, and I push in the charging cable before swinging my legs over the side of the bed and getting to my feet.
True autumn can’t come fast enough, I think as I sigh internally and peek out the window that leads to my backyard. The wooden fence is in dire need of repair, but that’s so far down my list of projects to do here that I doubt I’ll get to it before next summer. It’s not like I have any pets, and the only one embarrassed by it is me. But I mollify myself by thinking of all the improvements Ihavealready made to the little, thousand-square-foot house that I bought with my own money.
Nothing will ever make this house worth more than that.
In the kitchen, I make my coffee while still half asleep, eyes narrowed as I stare at the dripping Keurig as it makes the rough noise and whirring hum I’m used to. Dark brown liquid drips into my cat ear mug that’s already a quarter full of peppermint white chocolate creamer. Even though I love Halloween, I lovethe Christmas themed creamers that start popping up around this time.
Sacrilegious as that is.
Once it’s done, I move to the table and nab the paper bag curled around a pumpkin donut I picked up yesterday, before making my way back to my room to sit cross-legged on my bed once more. My coffee goes to the nightstand, though I have to edge my large, insulated tumblers out of the way with a soft huff, mourning that I didn’t think to bring them to the kitchen with me to dump in the sink. But such is my curse, and my nightstand ends up more jumbled than it already had been as my coffee mug perches precariously on the edge of the dark, fake wood.
Carefully, I grab my phone, unplugging the charger and letting it fall as I settle back with my unwrapped donut. I’m glad I didn’t miss anything, since I normally have my phone so close during the night that any vibration will wake me up when it’s basically pressed against my face.
“I need to call Brynn,” I mutter to myself, knowing that the auditory reminder will do better than just thinking about it. With tonight being one of the few nights of the year they’ve volunteered to go to a haunt with me, I have to make sure it’s something we’re still doing.
