The Island

“What’s that?” I pant as we sprint past rides and posters with promises of epic times. I can hear him everywhere. He might as well be right beside us. In front of us. Behind us. The moment we lost sight of him, I lost my head.

Ignoring the sharp digging in my side is getting almost impossible again, but I can’t stop. I’ve been pushing through, and I have to keep doing that.

Stopping is death.

“He’s not behind us,” Gibson says, pushing me toward the entrance of a building. “Hide in here.”

He unlocks the haunted house, fumbling as he tries to do it as fast as possible. The second the door gives, we stumble inside and crouch below the window.

“Did he see us?” I ask, peering up over the sill and trying to catch my breath.

I was too slow back there and it put Gibson at risk. I resolve to do better so I’m not holding anyone back.

Gibson shakes his head. “I don’t think so, but we can’t be certain. We ran pretty quickly, so we would’ve made a noise.”

“Okay. Well, it’s a good sign that he didn’t run after us. How long should we stay in here for?”

I turn around, and that’s when I see three masked figures.

My heart skips a full beat.

“Gibson, hiding in here is a terrible idea.”

“We’ll be fine. He’s not in here.”

“He just killed his mom, and he’s going to kill all of us too.”

“Paisley, now is not the time for a breakdown. We— Dammit! Get up.”

“What?”

Robert’s masked head peeks over the top of the seats of a pendulum ride.

Gibson grabs my arm and yanks me roughly to my feet. “He’s seen us. Run!”

I get another glimpse out of the window of the masked killer as I prepare to run. We make eye contact for a fraction of a second and I almost lose my breakfast.

I fly after Gibson. We turn right and we’re in the room with all the goblins, and I feel like we’ve made another mistake. The room is almost completely filled with them, like being in the New York subway at rush hour.

We push past, weaving in and out of hideous Lord of the Rings–style goblins.

I bump into one that’s the height of a seven-year-old and almost fall to the ground. My ankle rolls underneath me. There’s a sharp pain as I stumble, but it’s gone quickly. That or the adrenaline and terror are masking the injury.

Whatever it is, I’ll take it.

Gibson is a good five strides in front now. He didn’t notice me stumble.

The haunted house gets darker the deeper you go into it. Not all rooms have windows. Why is he taking us this way?

“Paisley!” he shouts, bursting through a door and hoping I’ll follow.

I ignore everything that isn’t a door or Gibson. Or at least, I try to.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see something taller and straighter than the goblins. Clad in back with a mask. The killer is in the room, between me and the door, so I can’t follow Gibson.

We have to get out of here.

Panic grips my throat. I hang right and sweep the ripped curtain out of my way and get only a second to take in my surroundings.

I’ve only been in the haunted house once, and I’ve made a huge mistake.

This is the room that scared me the most.

I’m in the serial killer room. Malcolm’s horrible idea for a theme park attraction.

I’m breathing too hard. I slow it down and try to make out the wax figures in relative darkness. Don’t let him near you!

H. H. Holmes, Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, Richard Ramirez, Harold Shipman, a character in a black cloak and top hat who I’m assuming is supposed to be Jack the Ripper, Peter Sutcliffe, and Fred and Rose West, to name a few. I’ve watched documentaries and read articles on all of them.

They’re all brandishing the weapons they used to murder their victims.

In this house every room plays to the haunted theme—ghost and ghouls and fantasy—except this one.

Here the monsters were human.

Just like the man trying to find me.

I press my lips together and breathe evenly through my nose. I’m still making too much noise. Robert will hear me. The curtain is whipped to the side, and he joins me in the room.

Dammit. I crouch down beside Ted Bundy’s legs, wishing I was anywhere else than in this serial killer hall of fame. Is Robert looking to join them? Get his own wax model up on the wall?

He steps deeper into the room.

A ski mask was a poor choice for a hot island, and that has to be about the dumbest thing I could focus on right now.

When I get out of here, I’ll need to tell the cops everything. So I take in every detail. From the confident walk, to the subtle tilt of his head as he tries to hear where his victims are, to the clunky thud of his shoes.

They didn’t sound that loud outside.

The door is on the wall opposite where I’m currently hiding. There are three serial killers between me and it.

Four if you count Robert creeping closer. It’s dark enough that I could duck behind each one and hide.

He moves slowly as though he knows that I’m in here somewhere. He’s no longer running to catch his prey. He’s steady, calculated, a lion right before it pounces.

I clench my jaw.

He’s not going to win.

Hate and fear swirl in my stomach in equal measure. They give me the courage that I need. This asshole isn’t killing me.

I’ll fight for my life, and I’ll win.

I wait until he’s facing the other way and crawl from one sick murderer to the next. Now it’s Rose West I’m hiding behind. My skin itches at the thought of the horror the real people behind this attraction have caused.

Robert spins around, scanning the area I just left.

You’re not getting me, jackass.

Curling down smaller, I watch as he tries to find me. I’m here alone without a weapon. Gibson will know that I’m not with him anymore. He would either come to find me or keep running. I wouldn’t blame him if he gets the hell out of here.

We should have known that Robert was coming after us. There’s a clear view of the haunted house from the Black Tulip.

Ava missed it. What was more important than being lookout?

When Robert begins to walk back toward me, I slide silently around Rose West’s legs.

I clench my hands into fists, so angry with this guy I could combust on the spot. I wish I could leap up and take him down. All my life I thought I would be the one helping people. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a doctor. When I started reporting and vlogging about crime, I thought I would be a detective.

Now I think I could become one of them.

I think I could kill.

It’s a realization that I’m not at all comfortable with.

If I had a weapon, I would use it right now.

Thankfully, self-preservation kicks in and I push my hatred to the side. The next wax murderer who’s going to hide me is Jeffrey Dahmer. A guy who dismembered his victims after he killed them.

Probably not a good omen.

I stand up, keeping right behind Dahmer, and peer over his shoulder.

Robert is creeping along the wall, his hand brushing slowly over each killer as he walks. Does he admire these people?

The air is so thick I could choke on it.

Does he feel it too?

I’m closer to the door now, and Robert is behind me. I itch to run, to get the hell out of here as quickly as I can, but it’d be smarter to leave without him knowing where I am.

So instead of running, I back up a step. Then another and another. Now I’m in the open, but I have no choice. There’s a larger gap between Dahmer and the next creep.

Crouching lower, I shuffle silently to the side and drop behind Harold Shipman’s doctor’s chair.

The most prolific serial killer, with two hundred and eighteen known victims.

What was Malcolm thinking when he had this room made?

On the floor, I back up again, using my hands and feet to move toward the door behind me. I look over my shoulder and see it a second too late.

I’ve bumped into a dismembered leg leaning against the wall. It’s fixed, so it doesn’t fall, but it does make a thud as I hit it.

Robert spins around. My breath catches in my throat as he looks me dead in the eyes. I want to take a good look, to see if I recognize him, but the shock and fear of being caught takes over everything else.

Shoving myself to my feet, I run to the door and yank it open.

I scream so loud I’m probably heard by the entire island. Kenna is lying behind the door, in the room with all the ghosts. Her throat has been slit. A halo of blood lies under her head.

Robert closes in on me, weaving around killers as he makes his way toward me. Pressing my fist to my mouth to stop myself from throwing up, I jump over Kenna’s dead body and run.

Ghosts made of fabric—some sheer, some more substantial—fill the room, hanging at different lengths on hooks. If the power was turned on in here, ghosts would be flying around the room from all angles.

Robert’s heavy footsteps echo through the narrow room. I run up a set of stairs, knowing that I can get back down the other side of the building. There are four sets of stairs leading to the second floor in the house. If I remember correctly, I’m not too far from another one.

I slide into a small nook in the wall, and a gargoyle jumps out. Its long pointy nose gets tangled in my ponytail.

Somehow, I’ve managed to lose Robert. He would’ve seen me go up the stairs, so that tells me he doesn’t want to follow me up here. At least, not now.

Bile hits the back of my throat as my mind replays the image of Kenna’s dead body on a loop.

Footsteps along the hall thud toward me. Winching, I push myself deeper into the corner and turn my feet in to the wall.

“Paisley?”

That’s Gibson.

The only problem is that his voice is coming in the opposite direction from the footsteps.

I want so badly to call out for him, but Robert is closing in on me.

I hold my breath.

Robert walks past. He looks between two doors on either side of the hallway. He either doesn’t know these alcoves exist or he doesn’t think a person can fit into one with whatever character pops out.

I barely fit.

When he opens one door and walks inside, I quietly suck in a breath of air and tiptoe back down the stairs, looking over my shoulder just in case. I reach the bottom when I hear Gibson call my name again.

He also alerts Robert. Overhead, his heavy footsteps are already on the stairs.

It’s all or nothing at this point.

I swallow my fear.

“Gibson!” I shout, running back through the rooms I’ve just been in.

“Paisley! Outside!”

I turn on my heel, stumble into a wax figure again, and run toward the exit.

Ahead of me is the glow of the exit sign above the door. Tears run down my face as I sprint toward it. “Gibson!”

I reach for the door, and that’s when I’m grabbed from behind. A large hand covers my mouth.