Page 2 of A Very Gay Halloween (Curious #19)

THIRD TIME'S THE charm, or so they fucking say.

The last group's giggles echo from somewhere deep in the maze, which means I've got about ten minutes before they reach my last station—the grand finale.

Ten minutes to get my ass in position, scare the shit out of people one final time, and then I can peel off this blood-soaked apron that's starting to smell like a morgue in July.

I stretch my neck, hearing it crack like old floorboards.

The fake blood has dried into a crusty mess that pulls at my skin every time I move, and there's probably cobweb shit stuck in my hair from all the low-hanging decorations.

At least the warehouse is cooling down now that the sun's gone completely dark.

October nights in this part of the state don't fuck around.

The ambient sounds pour through the speakers like a horror movie soundtrack—wind that sounds like it's carrying the voices of the damned, crows that could be announcing the apocalypse, hinges screaming their death rattles. It's all very dramatic. Very Cooper.

I push off from the plywood wall and start navigating toward my final position. Left, then another left, past the corridor where Justin does his psycho killer bit—I can hear him practicing his maniacal laugh even now—then right past the fake cemetery setup.

Or at least, that's where I think I'm going.

The thing about mazes built in the dark is that they all look the same when you're running on adrenaline and spite.

Shadows from the few strategically placed candles twist everything into weird angles, making familiar corners look foreign.

The black plywood walls seem to shift when you're not looking directly at them, like they're playing some kind of fucked-up optical illusion game.

I pause at what should be a familiar intersection and squint into the darkness. There's supposed to be a rusty gate here, the one with the blood dripping from the hinges. Instead, I'm staring at a solid wall decorated with what looks like props I don't remember seeing during any of our rehearsals.

A mannequin head with its eyes gouged out sits on a makeshift shelf, grinning like it knows something I don't. Below it, there's a collection of fake severed hands arranged around a Ouija board that definitely wasn't part of Jason's original design.

The whole setup screams Cooper's particular brand of overkill.

"Fuck," I mutter, turning in a slow circle. Every direction looks wrong. Every shadow looks like it's hiding something that wants to eat my face.

The distant sound of the approaching group gets a little louder—they're moving faster than the first two groups did. Probably getting braver, or maybe just more eager to get this over with. Can't say I blame them.

I pick a direction and keep walking, telling myself I know where I'm going even though I clearly don't. The candlelight flickers across more unfamiliar props—a collection of old mirrors that reflect distorted images, making my blood-smeared face look like something out of a fever dream.

That's when I hear the footsteps behind me.

Not the group. These are different. Singular. Measured. Deliberate. Like someone's following me.

I glance over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of black fabric disappearing around a corner. The hem of a robe, maybe. Or just shadows playing tricks on my paranoid brain.

Either way, I'm officially lost in Cooper's house of horrors, and the clock is ticking.

I quicken my pace, taking what I think is a shortcut toward where my final position should be.

The corridor narrows, and the candles are spaced farther apart here, leaving pools of darkness between the weak circles of light.

My footsteps echo off the plywood walls, mixing with the ambient sounds to create this whole symphony of creepy that's actually starting to get to me.

Which is ridiculous. I helped build half this shit. I know it's all fake blood and plastic bones and sound effects. But something about being alone in here, surrounded by shadows and props designed to fuck with people's heads, is making my skin crawl.

I turn another corner and find myself face-to-face with another dead end. This one's decorated like some kind of ritual chamber—candles arranged in a pentagram around a fake altar, complete with plastic skulls and what looks like a very realistic-looking knife.

The sound of footsteps behind me stops.

I spin around, but find nothing. Just darkness and the distant echo of the approaching group, their voices growing clearer as they get closer to whatever section they're in now.

My heart hammers against my ribs, which is fucking stupid because I know exactly who's been following me. There's only one person in this place who moves like a predator stalking his prey, who knows these corridors well enough to navigate them in complete silence.

"Coop?" I call out, keeping my voice low enough not to carry to the group.

Nothing.

The candles flicker in what might be a draft, or might be someone moving past them just out of sight. Shadows dance across the fake ritual setup, making the plastic skulls look like they're grinning wider.

I'm about to call out again when a figure emerges from the darkness behind me.

"Seriously? Again?"

I don't need to turn around to know who it is, but I do anyway, because apparently I enjoy torturing myself. Cooper stands there in his full grim reaper getup, scythe held casually in one hand like he's some kind of death god who just happened to be in the neighborhood.

His hood is up, casting most of his face in shadow, but I can see his eyes glinting in the candlelight. They look pissed, which is pretty much Cooper's default expression when it comes to me.

"I know where I'm going," I snap, even though we both know that's bullshit.

He takes a step closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne mixed with the musty smell of the warehouse. "Yeah? Because this looks like the supply closet section to me."

I glance around at the ritual chamber setup, at the props I don't recognize, at the dead end that definitely wasn't on any of the maps Jason showed us during rehearsals.

"Maybe if your shitty map wasn't drawn by a five-year-old—"

"Don't blame the map because you can't follow basic fucking directions."

Heat flares up my spine, spreading across my shoulders like someone dumped gasoline on me and lit a match. I've been dealing with his condescending bullshit all night, and I'm done. Completely fucking done.

I take a step toward him, closing the distance between us until we're almost chest to chest. He's got maybe half an inch on me, which pisses me off even more because I have to tilt my head up to glare at him properly.

"You know what? I'm done with your shit. You've been on my ass all night like—"

"Like what? Like someone who actually gives a damn if this thing doesn't fall apart?"

"I didn't ask for your help. I didn't ask for any of this bullshit."

His eyes narrow, and I can see the muscle in his jaw ticking even in the dim candlelight. "Then why the fuck are you here?"

The question hits me wrong, like he's asking something deeper. Like he's asking why I'm here, in his space, in his life, making everything complicated when it could be simple.

"Because Jason asked me to, alright? Before you decided to take over and turn this into your personal—"

"My personal what?"

I stop myself before I say something I can't take back. Before I admit that watching him boss everyone around, watching him take charge like he belongs in that role, does something twisted to my insides that I don't want to examine too closely.

"Forget it."

"No, say it. Personal what?"

"Just... fuck off, Cooper."

The ambient sounds continue around us—wind howling, crows cawing, chains rattling somewhere in the distance. But between us, there's this silence that feels loaded, like we're standing on the edge of something that's going to explode.

That's when we both hear it at the same time.

Voices. Getting closer. The sound of sneakers on concrete, nervous laughter, someone saying "Oh shit, did you see that?

" in a tone that suggests they're maybe thirty seconds away from rounding the corner and finding us having our little domestic dispute in the middle of what's supposed to be a haunted ritual chamber.

Cooper's head snaps toward the sound, and I see his whole body tense. We're supposed to be in position, not standing here arguing like a couple of—

"Get in," he says, grabbing my arm.

"What? No way, I'm not—"

"Unless you want everyone to see us fucking around instead of doing our jobs."

He's already pulling me toward what I thought was a solid wall, but turns out to be a fake panel that opens into some kind of maintenance alcove. It's barely big enough for one person, let alone two, but Cooper shoves me inside and follows, pulling the panel closed behind us.

The space is so narrow that we're pressed together from chest to thigh. I can feel his body heat through the fabric of our costumes. The rise and fall of his breathing against my chest. His grim reaper robe is tangled around both of us, the rough fabric catching on my bloody apron.

The alcove smells like sawdust and whatever chemical they use in the fog machines, with an underlying scent of old wood and dust. Cobwebs brush against my shoulder, and I have to resist the urge to swat at them because moving would mean pressing even closer to Cooper.

"There's got to be somewhere else—" I start, but he cuts me off.

"Move. Now."

But there's nowhere to move. My back is pressed against the rough plywood wall, and Cooper fills every inch of the remaining space.

This is torture. Pure, refined torture designed by whatever sadistic gods control the universe to test exactly how much I can handle before I lose what's left of my sanity.

"This is fucking ridiculous," I whisper.

"What was I supposed to do? Let them see us—"

"You could've picked a bigger hiding spot."

"Oh yeah? Where? Point one out."