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I look like a slut-shamer’s wet dream.

It’s the vibe I’m going for, but I prefer to avoid lingering, roving stares from creepy men twice my age unless I want to fuck them. And I don’t want to fuck my tactless Uber driver.

He must be pushing sixty, which isn’t usually a problem; Jeffrey Dean Morgan would totally get it if he weren’t married and if I had a chance in hell. But it would be a major inconvenience if I gave this dude a heart attack—until I get to The Mansion, at least.

Twenty painfully slow minutes of uncomfortable small talk crawl by, and by the time we’re balls deep in the Surrey Hills approaching the Cambrook Private Estate, I’m ready to end it all. Cause of death: eternal boredom.

The Prius pulls up to a pair of wrought-iron gates. I exit the car carefully, making sure the creeper doesn’t catch a glimpse of my ass as I leave. I quickly rearrange my costume, fix my hair, then press the buzzer.

A woman’s voice crackles through the speakers. “Password?”

I clear my throat and roll my eyes, recognising Daisy, my best friend’s PA. “Titsoak.”

Did I mention Cara is hilarious? Sometimes I wonder how I ended up friends with someone who supports narcissistic vampires and creepy werewolves, but then I remember she’s pretty fucking awesome and the reason for this epic party.

“Tatum? Where the hell have you been, loca?” Daisy chimes in. She has an equally disturbing obsession with The Twilight Saga . Not that I’m one to judge—I have my own tastes that will never see the light of day.

Before I have time to respond, she buzzes me in. The heavy gates wind open, and I make my way up the long gravel path, lit only by flickering pumpkin lanterns in the otherwise pitch-black surroundings.

The wind picks up, whipping around me and stroking the flesh beneath my barely-there skirt, making me shiver. Music blasts through the house as I enter, the slow, driving rhythm of Deftones' "Passenger" amplifying the brooding atmosphere. It feels like I've stepped straight into a teen slasher movie.

The place is decked out with skeletons, bats, and cobwebs. Dense fog swirls around my chunky black boots in the dim red light, while the air is thick with the mingling scents of expensive perfume and top-shelf alcohol.

Small groups lounge on the steps of an ornate mahogany staircase, and the steady flow of bodies sipping from plastic cups and puffing berry-scented vapes makes it hard to spot Cara, Daisy, or anyone else I might know.

Nineties final girls seem to be a recurring theme; women in low-slung jeans and tight white tank tops splayed with fake blood, some in grey space overalls reminiscent of the Alien franchise. And judging by all the slasher masks, spicy booktok is no longer a well-kept secret, either.

The unease of seeing so many hidden faces settles in, but my body betrays me as a rush of warmth spreads between my legs. I squeeze my thighs just as a pair of hands grab my bare ass, nearly making me jump out of my skin. I spin around quickly, ready to confront whoever dared to touch me, only to hear a familiar giggle.

Relief washes over me, and my warning glare softens. "Bro, I was about to snap your arm, I swear..." I trail off, my attention snagged by Cara’s costume. She’s dressed as Dani from Midsommar , complete with a huge floral headdress that cascades down her lingerie-clad body, adorned with vibrant blooms. It must have taken her hours to put together.

“Any excuse to fuck a bitch up,” she says with a grin, striking a pose. “That outfit is fire, by the way.”

My obvious choice would have been Maxine Minx, given my dark hair and freckles, and my love for Mia Goth. Unfortunately, I can’t quite pull off dungarees and side boob like she does. Instead, I went for an all-black ensemble, complete with a corset, tulle skirt, and mismatched stockings. “Thank you, boo. Likewise.”

Cara smiles proudly. “Daisy helped me. She’s a keeper.”

For a moment, an expression of fleeting self-consciousness crosses Cara’s face, as if she’s just realised she might have overshared. It stings a bit; she should know by now that I’m not the type to judge. She clears her throat and changes the subject. “Anyway, what are you drinking?”

“Anything, as long as it's neat,” I reply. The quicker I calm my nerves, the better.

“Tequila?”

"Perfect." She turns on her heel and disappears around the corner, leaving me to savour the atmosphere—alive and electric with chatter, swaying hips, and bursts of laughter.

I can’t help but envy the incredible makeup and costumes around me, but painting my face would have been pointless. By the end of the night, it’ll be streaked with tears and who knows what else.

In the midst of my musings, my phone vibrates with a text, pulling me out of my thoughts.

Unknown: You look pretty...

Butterflies swarm in my stomach, their frantic flapping screaming danger as bubbles appear on the screen. I try to reassure myself, reminding myself that it’s just a game, but the intensity of it all feels strikingly real.

Unknown: ... for a dead girl.

My gaze flits nervously around the room, darting from one person to another. My heart skips beats as a wave of panic and arousal washes over me, the ache between my legs intensifying. I realise with growing discomfort that everyone around me is deeply engaged in conversation, their phones nowhere in sight.

Clever bastard.

Another vibration from my phone jolts me again just as Cara and a very cute-looking Daisy return with six plastic shot glasses balanced between them. The tiny blonde is dressed in a bear costume, and it takes me a minute to realise that they’ve come as a pair. I’d always had an inkling that there was more to these two, but it’s really none of my business. Their mutual happiness is all I care about.

When I finally have the chance to look at my screen without seeming rude, my excitement dampens. It’s just a notification from a dating app I’ve been using—and gotten nowhere with— for a while. I ignore it and slide it into my thigh-highs before taking a shot glass from each of them. If tonight doesn’t go my way, I’ll be cancelling my subscription.

“Dude, you’re a fucking genius,” I say, addressing Daisy. “You should be a wardrobe stylist, not this bitch’s assistant.”

“That’s what I keep saying,” Cara says, smiling. “I’m keeping her for my own selfish reasons.”

“And I’m staying for mine,” Daisy counters.

Fuck, the cuteness of these two is super sweet and nauseating in equal measure.

“Seriously, your costumes are amazing.” I hold up both shot glasses. “Cheers to another successful movie.”

The distinct taste of butterscotch and caramel glides over my tongue as I knock back one shot, then the next. The burn at the base of my throat is a little less intense with the second shot, accompanied by the satisfying aftertaste of sweetness and spice that instantly relaxes my body and calms my nerves.

My phone vibrates against my leg. I stack the plastic glasses and retrieve the device from my hold-up.

Unknown: I want to play a game.

A sheet of goosebumps scatters up my spine, my neck tingling with the sensation at being watched. Glancing around the room, I try and fail to pinpoint the perpetrator as the playlist switches to something a little less serious, the funky intro offsetting the dark subject matter of the Talking Heads’ classic “Psycho Killer.” I’m grateful to be third-wheeling this conversation so I can subtly focus on finding this mystery person.

When I look up, fear grips my stomach.

Dressed in black jeans and a black hoodie, a white, ghost-like mask stares straight at me from the wooden balustrade. Even though I can’t see their face, I can feel the weight of their stare beneath those dark, stretched-out eye sockets, and it’s all on me.

Suddenly, the music cuts out, replaced in an instant by the iconic '80s banger from The Breakfast Club . The abrupt shift is jarring, a stark contrast to the macabre playlist. The cheerful intro is a welcome distraction, but it makes me wonder why the DJ has strayed from the spooky theme.

As Simple Minds plays out, the masked stranger raises a gloved finger to their mouth in a shushing motion. Before I have a chance to react, all eyes turn to me, accompanied by laughter and clapping. In reality, they’re gawking at what’s behind me. Reluctantly, I turn around to see a group dressed as The Brat Pack. The gang’s all there—the nerd, the jock, the princess, the basket case, and the criminal. The person dressed as Judd Nelson’s character has already done two fist pumps in five seconds, and I can tell that’s going to get old fast. I turn back toward my conversation, looking up, hoping the person I was watching is still there. But all I see is a group of strangers.

Right then, my phone vibrates again.

Unknown: Do you want to die tonight?