Emma already regrets going to her hometown fair.
She pulls her Subaru over the uneven ground of the makeshift parking lot and into an open spot of grass. Memories surface from the last time she was here eleven years ago, a romance blooming between her and someone from high school. Crunched into the steel cage of the Zipper, her legs and arms sticking to Kyle like decals on a window. Her heart fluttering, her stomach twisting with each flip, each accidental touch, each second of possibility between them.
“Em?” Her husband asks, slicing through her remembering.
“Yeah?” she responds, her voice an octave higher. Her finger hovers over the ignition.
“You okay?”
Avoiding her husband’s question, she presses the button and climbs out of their SUV.
Campbell, who everyone calls Bell, climbs out of the passenger side and walks over, slipping his arm around her waist. He has the uncanny ability to know when to press and when to be silent. In this moment, Emma’s grateful for her quiet, thoughtful husband, who she knows will hold her hand as she ventures down the uneven road of barbed memory.
She surveys the dancing lights of the fair’s concessions, rides, and the cringeworthy squeals of adolescents. “Can you text Ansley and Neal and let them know we’re here?”
Bell responds by pulling out his phone and texting.
Emma met Neal seven years ago when they were historic tour guides at an abandoned prison in the city. The penitentiary was said to be one of the most haunted places in America; however, she never experienced anything otherworldly there. Neal, on the other hand, swears the spirit of a little girl visited one of his tours.
“They’re pulling in now.”
“Great. Thanks.” She plants a soft kiss on her husband’s cheek, just above the line of his chestnut beard. His face lifts under her lips, his single dimple winking at her. Emma smiles; she loves that elusive dimple. Pulling away, she whispers, “Thanks for coming with me. I know this isn’t exactly on your list of night-off activities.”
Bell is a freelance graphic designer; often, he’s on his PC until well past the witching hour. Emma, a marketing assistant at a local tech company, works 9-5. Normally, they would safeguard this night off together for a romantic date.
He leans his head against hers. “You know I’d do anything with you.”
She nods. She knows, and yet she often doesn’t believe it, even though they’ve been together for eight years and married for nearly five. Just look at who she last brought to the Malvern Fair. A selfish, distant, disaster of a boy. A storm it took her two years to escape. Anxiety sinks its teeth into the soft vulnerability of her. What if she runs into him tonight?
It’s not just Kyle she’s loath to run into, but everyone from her hometown. If Emma could erase high school and her post-college era in Malvern, she would. She wants to delete the belief that she was never good, smart, or cool enough to fit in at Greenwood High. To forget the mean girls and the nasty nicknames they gifted like cherished prizes. To expunge the friends who picked Kyle over her. She wants to blot out the events of the 2014 fair and what happened after. Being back here, even if she sees no one she knows, is like a deep bruise you forget you have until you brush against it. The kind you can’t help but press, the pain both terrible and exquisite.
Emma lets out an audible sigh and walks with her husband into the fair. They arrive in front of the ticket booth, smaller and plainer than the other structures.
Bell’s phone dings. “They’re pulling in now. Why don’t I grab tickets while there isn’t a line?”
“Great idea, honey. Thanks. I’ll keep an eye out for Ansley and Neal.”
Her husband agrees and steps up to the booth. Emma turns toward the field parking lot. She can’t make out their friends yet. She turns back to the fair, slowly pivoting in place, eyes searching the nearby rides for familiar faces. Her teeth knead her lower lip.
“Got ‘em.”
A hand grips her shoulder. She yelps, her heart thumping in her chest. When she looks over her shoulder, Bell has his hands up in surrender.
“Sorry, it’s just me.”
“You scared me.” Emma presses a hand to her chest; it vibrates against her erratic heartbeat. She’s not usually jumpy like this, however, she feels exposed here, vulnerable to invasions from the past.
“I can see that. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Bell’s eyebrow lifts.
Emma closes her eyes and inhales for four counts before exhaling. You’re okay, she tells herself. You’re not in high school anymore. No one’s going to recognize you. And if they do, you have Bell with you.
Opening her eyes, she fixes a closed-mouth smile onto her face and puts her hands on her husband’s chest. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. I’ll tell you if I need to leave. Plus, with this heat, I doubt we’ll stay more than an hour.”
“Yeah, it’s fucking hot,” he says as he tries to decipher his wife’s code. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Hey, hey, hey!” Neal’s booming voice interrupts.
“Hey,” Bell says.
Emma turns to greet them. Every time she sees Neal, the word teddy bear comes to mind. At six feet tall and burly with flaming orange hair, he’s a snuggly, ginger mammoth of a man who gives the best hugs. If Neal is a bear, then his wife is a lion, though more so in personality than appearance. Her naturally sandy hair is dyed aquamarine; it brushes the tattoos on her shoulders, her arms a patchwork of animals and plants.
After they’ve chatted about their days, Bell mentions he already grabbed tickets.
“Thanks!” Neal says. “What should we do first?”
“We’re up for whatever,” Ansley says. “Except anything too high or flippy.”
Campbell presses a hand to his stomach. “Oh, yeah, my body is too old for those rides.”
Emma rolls her eyes. Bell is nearly a decade older, and since turning 40 last November, he regularly makes comments about having one foot in the grave. “I can’t handle those kinds of rides anymore either. It’s not just reserved for those over 40, babe.”
Bell sticks his tongue out.
She grins. “What about the Swings? Or the Ferris Wheel?”
Ansley shrugs, the animals and plants on her arms stretching and shrinking. “Either should be okay.”
“So, Swings first? Then Ferris Wheel?”
“Sounds good to me,” Neal chimes.
Bell and Ansley agree.
They walk over to the Swings, which are just beyond the ticket booth. Campbell rips off tickets for the four of them and hands them to the ride operator. He motions to the other ride goers, who are all children. “This doesn’t make me feel old at all.”
Neal chuckles. “You’re only as old as you feel.”
“Oh, believe me, I feel pretty old.”
Emma gently pushes her husband forward. “C’mon, gramps, let’s get you buckled in.”
He groans at her, but she can tell he’s having fun. The husbands take two swings side-by-side, so the wives climb into the row behind them. As the ride begins, the mechanism lifts them into the air, and Emma notices a lanky, bearded man standing by the Haunted House, tattoos swallowing his legs. She sits forward in her seat, the belt digging into her belly. Kyle?
Her torso is thrown back against the metal seat as the swings begin to fly through the air in a circle. Beside her, Ansley’s arms are out like a soaring bird, and she whoops as they go around. Emma squints, trying to get a better look at the guy by the Haunted House; concentrating makes her dizzy. She inhales, telling herself to enjoy the fair with her friends, then exhales. She moves her legs up and down, feeling the wind through her toes and the perspiration on her legs and arms drying. The children on the ride shout and Emma joins them.
For a few minutes, her anxiety about running into Kyle or anyone else from Greenwood slips away. Nausea swirls in her stomach, making her grateful the ride’s almost over. As the swings lower and the circling slows, Emma feels eyes on her. She scans the crowd. One person stands out. They’re wearing a mask that looks like Greenwood High’s mascot, the Patriot, with a black sweatshirt and skinny jeans. Even without the mask, the outfit is noticeable—who wears all black long sleeves and pants in 100-degree weather? The mascot’s pale face mocks her with its wide eye holes, bulbous nose, and strange grin. She shivers. The ride rotates until the stranger’s no longer in view. As soon as Emma’s sandals brush the grass, she unbuckles her belt and jumps off the ride. Her movements clumsy, she runs over to the fence, but the stranger in the mask is gone.
“Em, what’s up?” Bell is by her side, his face flushed from running.
She squints, three vertical lines materializing between her reddish blond eyebrows. “Did you see that guy in the mask?”
He frowns, shaking his head. “No, what guy in the mask?”
Emma sighs. “He was in a black hoodie and jeans. Wearing a Patriot’s mask.”
“Patriot’s?”
“My high school mascot.” She can hear the frustration in her voice, that she’s unfairly directing at him.
Ansley and Neal walk over then. “Woah,” Ansley says, holding her arms out to balance. “We’re not 25 anymore.”
Neal snorts. “Says the baby of the group. You aren’t even 30 yet!”
“One more month. And then it’ll be Leo season, baby!” She lets out a roar that makes Neal laugh.
Ignoring them, Emma’s head swivels from one direction to the next in search of the masked person. Whoever they were vanished like a magician’s trick.
“Hey, you alright?” Bell asks.
Emma swallows a mucusy lump of bitter saliva. “Yeah.” She shakes her head and claps her hands together. “Should we ride something else? Get some food? Play some games?”
Ansley, still looking a little green from the swings, replies, “Maybe some games while my stomach returns to earth.”
“There’s a ring toss.” Neal points forward to a booth set up a couple of yards away.
“To the ring toss!” Ansley hooks arms with Emma and leads them to the booth.
Dozens of empty glass bottles are arranged in rows. Giant stuffed dogs, cats, and unicorns hang from the back wall and ceiling under blinding yellow lights. Neal hands over their tickets and receives six rings. He winds up his arm, throwing the first one. It skids across the tops of several bottles without catching the lip of any. He tries to toss the next ring with less force; this one circles a bottle before catching.
“Yes,” he cries, a huge grin on his face. He turns to his wife, asking if she’d like a turn. Ansley takes one of his rings and whips it, shattering a bottle.
“Shit.”
The glazed eyes of the young woman working the booth barely register the broken bottle. She blows a large bubble with the Pepto pink gum in her mouth. When it pops, she sucks it back in and continues chewing.
Ding. Emma pulls her iPhone from the pocket of her crossbody purse. There’s one new text message from an unknown number.
You shouldn’t have come back here.
Emma frowns, unable to make sense of the text preview. She unlocks her phone, thinking there must be more to this. Some kind of spam text or practical joke. She rereads the message: You shouldn’t have come back here. Ice slithers along her limbs, gooseflesh that seems impossible in this heat. Three dots appear under the message, signaling the texter is typing.
You’ll be sorry.
Another text.
See you soon, gingham.
Emma’s free hand lifts to her gingham tank, tracing its cotton exterior. Whoever just texted is also watching her. She turns her head one way and then the other, but she sees nothing out of the ordinary. Just kids running around, playing games, and shrieking as the rides speed up. Parents chattering as their kids let loose, the creases in their faces evidence of their exhaustion. Bell high-fives their friends as the disinterested booth worker hands Ansley a purple unicorn that is nearly her height.
Ansley holds their prize out to Emma. “Whatcha think?”
She glances down at her phone before looking at her friend. The words hover on her tongue, ready to be unearthed. She licks her lips and swallows.
Ansley takes a step closer. “You okay, bud?”
Emma’s phone buzzes in her hand and her gaze drops to read.
Shh. This is our little secret.
Her hand vibrates, her grip on her iPhone loosening. “I shouldn’t have come back here.”
“Honey?” The warmth of her husband’s hand burns her chilled flesh.
Another text.
You’re good at secrets, aren’t you?
Emma digs her upper teeth into her chin to keep back the tears building. She takes a deep breath in through her nose and releases it, feeling a tiny bit of tension dissipating. She doesn’t know who’s texting or why, but she’s not going to let it ruin this night. Besides, it’s probably just someone from her high school’s idea of a prank. Maybe it’s Kyle. It’s precisely the kind of thing he would do. Fucking asshole.
“I’m fine,” she says, her voice a raspy hum.
Bell tilts his head. “You sure?”
She nods. “Yeah, I—think I saw someone from high school. It freaked me out a bit.” She puts her cell phone into the front pocket of her purse. Noticing her other hand is still caressing the fabric of her shirt, she drops it and takes her husband’s hand. “It’s strange being back here after so long.”
He squeezes her hand. “And this is precisely why you’ll never catch me at my hometown’s fair.”
The twinkle in his eyes makes her smirk. “Aren’t your classmates in retirement homes at this point?”
Bell’s mouth twists in mock anger, and he tries to take his hand away. She latches on tighter and grins. “Kidding, baby. Until we’re dust.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. According to you, I’ll be dust very soon.”
Emma lifts onto her toes to kiss him. She releases her grip on his hand and wraps her arms around his shoulders. When she pulls away, she whispers, “My dust. You’ll always be my dust. Finders, keepers.”
He presses his lips against hers.
A whistle disrupts their kissing. “Hey, love birds,” Neal says. “How do we feel about some food? Our treat!”
“Ooh, carnival food,” Ansley says, her sage-green eyes igniting. “Thelma is hungry, too. She told me so.”
“Thelma?” Emma asks.
Ansley motions to the giant unicorn in her arms.
“Ah, of course. My apologies, dear Thelma. What are you in the mood for?”
“Hm,” Ansley says, drawing out the sound. “She says funnel cake.”
“Funnel cake sounds good to me.”
“Let’s go then,” Neal says, and the group follows him toward the nearest concessions. Migraine-inducing lights assault their eyes as they approach the counter of the fried food stall. Neal orders two funnel cakes, a Sprite for himself and Ansley, and a Cherry Coke for Emma and Bell. The person working the register, who’s probably in their mid-twenties, hands over the sodas and says the food will be a few minutes.
The husbands take their sodas and carry them to a nearby picnic table. Ansley waits by the window with Emma, the unicorn tucked under her arm. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seemed pretty spooked back there.”
Someone clears their throat, interrupting the inquiry. A hand holds out a white paper plate overrun by funnel cake and powdered sugar. “Thanks,” Ansley says. She takes the plate and uses both hands to support the weight of the fried dough. She motions to their picnic table with her head. “See you in a sec?”
“Yeah.” Emma flicks the nail of her ring finger with her thumb, a nervous habit. Her thumb rubs against a loose piece of skin. She looks down at it. A white rectangular hangnail protrudes from her ring finger. She brings the finger to her mouth and works the hangnail free with her teeth.
“Ahem,” the person working the booth clears their throat again.
Removing her finger from her mouth, she plucks the torn hangnail from the tip of her tongue and lets it fall to the ground. Emma brings her hands together to support the funnel cake. “Thanks,” she says, expecting to see the same person they ordered from. Instead, that jeering, lifeless Patriot’s mask watches her, the funnel cake in the mascot’s outstretched hands.
She grabs the plate and hurries over to the picnic table, where she drops the funnel cake on the table with a splat; powdered sugar launches into the air. Emma points to the food truck and manages to choke out, “Did you see them? Th—there’s a person in a mask. I think they’re following me. I—” Her shallow wheezes overwhelm her ability to speak.
“Em?” Bell jumps up from the table and rushes over. He grabs her shoulders and searches her face before searching the booth. She twists her neck to look. The person who took their order catches them staring and waves.
“What the fuck.”
“Em?”
“They were wearing a Patriot’s mask.”
“A Patriot’s mask?” Ansley asks.
Emma keeps her eyes on the food truck, convinced the masked figure will pop up as soon as she looks away.
“Her high school mascot,” Bell answers.
“Could just be a weirdo from your high school,” Neal offers. “Maybe someone from the football team or something. I bet the whole team is here, bonding or whatever.”
Uncertainty tiptoes around her mind. What if Neal’s right? She never really cared about school spirit or the sports teams. Doesn’t preseason start around now? She nods her head as she follows this line of thought. The mask, the weird texts. It could all just be some teenager’s twisted idea of a joke. But why her?
Again, she circles back to her ex. Things didn’t end on the best note, but that was nine years ago. Why would he still care?
Bell leans in to kiss his wife on the forehead. Her cheeks rise from the comfort of his embrace. The stiffness in her neck and shoulders tapers, becoming a near afterthought. She rolls her neck right and then left.
For the seemingly millionth time, he asks, “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Being back here brings up a lot.”
He pulls her into his arms. “I know it does. Do you think—?”
She finishes the sentence for him, “It’s Kyle?” She sighs. “I don’t know. We haven’t spoken since you and I started dating.”
“Ah, so I saved you?”
Bell’s heart drums steadily under her face. “You sure did.”
“So, that makes me your knight in shining armor?”
Emma laughs. “More like my knight in ironed J.Crew.”
She hears his heart skip a beat as her husband chuckles. “J.Crew is 21st-century armor.”
She stifles a giggle and lifts her head. “Of course it is, honey.”
“Still hungry?”
“For funnel cake? Always.”
He chuckles. “Good.”
They rejoin their friends at the picnic table and Emma promises she’s okay. A few minutes later, after everyone has powdered sugar on their fingertips and chins, Neal asks, “Ready for another ride?”
The group agrees.
“Ans, think you can handle the Ferris Wheel?”
“I think so.”
After throwing out their plates and sodas, the four friends head to the Ferris Wheel. It’s in the middle of the fairground, with the entrance facing the street. They walk past the Haunted House, the Spinning Bears (Ansley asks, “What happened to tea cups?”), a tiny train ride for kids, the Pirate Ship, Carousel, and Dunk Tank. They step into the chain-linked line for the Ferris Wheel.
When it’s their turn, the worker tells them the cabins can only fit two adults. Ansley and Neal take the first cart with Thelma on their laps, Emma and Bell the second.
“You got this, Ans,” Emma shouts as the ride sweeps them backward and up into the clouds.
Ansley yelps in response.
The first loop is slow and relaxing. Bell wraps his arm around Emma’s shoulders, and she leans into him. The wind whips at their faces; she laughs at the cooling, ticklish sensation. “This is nice.”
Campbell kisses her head. “It is.”
Despite the humidity, she burrows deeper into her husband’s shoulder. She watches the Pirate Ship swing like a pendulum in the distance.
The Ferris Wheel lurches, gaining momentum with the next loop until they’re moving so fast the ship is a blur. Above them, Ansley wails as though she’s being murdered.
“Woah,” Emma says, sitting up straight.
Bell’s arm tightens around her. “Little fast, huh?”
Nausea curdles in her gut, squirming toward her throat. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Breathe, babe. The ride is almost over.”
Emma inhales and exhales until the Ferris Wheel slows and they’re back at the start, the ride jerking to a stop. She winces and massages a twinge in her neck. Campbell offers his hand to help her climb out of the cabin.
Back on solid ground, the couple sways as they reacclimate. They walk into the grass, waiting for their friends.
Neal and Ansley find them about a minute later; the latter propped up like a marionette by her husband. The unicorn dangles from her hand, dragging along the grass. Neal’s naturally reddened face is the color of dried blood.
“What—the—fuck—was—that?” Ansley pauses between each word to keep herself from vomiting.
Emma grimaces. “Sorry. I didn’t expect it to go that fast.”
Clapping a hand to her mouth, Ansley mutters, “I think I need to go to the bathroom.”
Neal points in the direction of the Haunted House. “Looks like there are porta-potties over there. Want me to walk you?”
She shakes her head. “No, no. I’m fine. You go and ride something else. I’ll catch up.” She takes an unsteady step forward.
“You sure, Ans?”
“Yeah. Go ahead. Have fun.” She starts to walk away and stops. She hands him the unicorn. “Watch Thelma.”
He takes the stuffed animal. To Emma and Bell, he says, “What do you think? One more ride and we head out?” He shoots a glance at his wife, who is teetering as she makes her slow journey to the bathroom.
Campbell says, “Yeah, that sounds good. One more ride.”
Emma watches her friend inch closer to the bathrooms. Now that her equilibrium has returned, she can’t help but think of the masked figure and the threatening texts. “Yeah,” she agrees. The sooner we get out of here, the better.
Neal suggests the Haunted House since it’s near the porta-potties. “I’ll send Ansley a text to meet us there.”
“Sounds good,” Bell says.
Though she agrees, a small voice in the back of her head warns about going into the Haunted House. If someone is messing with her, this is the perfect setting. There’s no telling what will jump out at her in the dark.
They split the remaining tickets and step in line. Up close, the attraction is much smaller than Emma expected. Candy corn orange letters broadcast HAUNTED HOUSE across a very poorly painted brick facade. Windows freckle the face of the house, with werewolves and skeletons peeking out. It all looks incredibly cheesy. She feels her anxiety fade to a quiet thud in her chest. “This wasn’t here last time. I wonder if it’s a ride or a self-guided thing.”
“We’ll find out,” Bell says. Apprehension slices into his forehead. “You can sit this one out, you know.”
It seems he’s remembered the texts, too.
Emma shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant. “This is a small town fair. I doubt it’s even scary.”
He chews on his lip, obviously thinking about saying something else.
Neal, who has managed to text with a giant unicorn under his arm, interrupts. “Hey, guys, are we ready? Ansley made it to the bathroom and is puking.” He bears his clenched teeth to communicate his remorse. “Hopefully, she’ll feel better by the time we’re through this.”
“We’re ready,” Emma responds before her husband can say anything.
“Great!” Neal’s grimace shifts into a smile and he steps up to the ride worker. The man is middle-aged with long, scraggly dark hair and stubble. The kind of person who, with one look, you can tell is a lifelong smoker. He holds up his hand to stop them; grease is etched like veins into his palm. When he opens his mouth, his voice is a deep wheeze, “The carts were on the fritz, so youse will walk through the Haunted House. One atta time.”
“No problem.” Neal hands over his tickets. The ride operator undoes the chain gate. “Thelma and I will see you on the other side!” He waves to them as he steps into a pitch black hallway, disappearing into the void of the attraction entrance.
“Do you want to go next or should I?”
“You go first, honey. I’ll be right behind you.”
He frowns. “I’ll see you on the other side.”
“Yeah. See you in a few.” She forces her lips and cheeks to rise into a closed-mouth smile.
Emma watches her husband hand over his tickets and enter the attraction. The ride operator motions for her to step forward. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”
Disgust sours her tongue. She hands over her tickets without meeting his gaze and counts down the seconds until he unhooks the chain. He waits a moment past comfort before doing so. Her sandals squeak against the sticky floor as she steps into the black mouth of the attraction.
Emma holds one hand out in front of her. Steam blows into her face, making her recoil. It’s just some air, she tells herself. Her feet shuffle forward until her hand finds a smooth wall. She pats it as she moves, a guide in the obscurity. As she rounds a corner, something jumps out at her, stopping an inch from her face. Gooseflesh sprouting on her arms and legs, she screams. A neon blue light flickers on, showing an animatronic ghoul. “Get a hold of yourself, Emma.”
The next section of the Haunted House has dangling cobwebs, a monolithic spider, and a jaw-snapping werewolf. Recorded screeches reverberate, making it impossible to know where they’re coming from. The disorienting sensation is effective; she can’t tell if she’s alone inside the house.
The sound cuts off, immersing Emma in total silence. She turns her head left and right, but she can’t hear anything. She keeps moving, and for what feels like several minutes, she winds around the twists and turns of the Haunted House.
She clicks her lips. This can’t be right. She saw the front of the attraction; the structure wasn’t that large. I should be out of here by now. “Fuck this,” she says, and locates her iPhone in her purse. She switches on the flashlight and shines it around her, creating a halo of yellow-white illumination. Now that she can see, she walks with more confidence. In the distance, Emma can make out a speck of light; she’s almost to the end.
Ding. Expecting it to be Bell, she pauses to read the message. Blue light assaults her eyes; she blinks before they adjust enough to read the words on the screen.
Look down, gingham.
Emma’s body freezes, her limbs freezing. The text isn’t from her husband. It’s from the same number as before. The person in the Patriot’s mask has been watching her, and she’s worried about their sinister intentions.
Her phone dings again.
And again.
And again.
She holds her breath as she reads the string of messages.
Secrets don’t stay buried forever.
Just ask Kyle.
He learned his lesson, and so will you.
Emma knows what she’ll see when she follows the masked figure’s directions. This is the moment, she tells herself, when the heroine realizes she’s in a horror movie.
Tears blur her vision. Using her phone like a lantern, she points it toward the ground in front of her. Thunder booms nearby, deep and cracking like the cannonballs that were fired during the historic battle on this ground. She nearly drops her phone. Swallowing, she lifts her still-shaking hand to illuminate the path. When she sees him, her lips melt into each other to stifle a sob.
If she had taken just two more steps, she would have tripped over his body. Her teeth stab her mouth to keep the seams closed. She sinks to the floor, her free hand over her heart. She imagines the muscle splintering into mutant chunks. Emma has seen a dead body before, at her Mommom’s funeral. Her corpse was stuffed and painted, everything expertly arranged to cloak the rancid smell of death. This body in front of her, however, is emptied. Blood and viscera arranged almost like a piece of modern art. There is nothing hidden here, nothing sanitized.
Emma hasn’t seen her ex-boyfriend in a decade, and yet before her is the same boy she fell in love with on the Zipper. His dark hair pulled into a bun, and tattoos splattered on his long limbs. She cups face in her palm. “I’m sorry, Kyle,” she cries, tears dripping onto his body. “I’m so, so sorry.”
He learned his lesson, and so will you. The haunting text pierces her grief. Thunder crackles again, a perfect backdrop to the horror movie she’s found herself in. The Patriot killed Kyle. And, if she doesn’t stop them, she’ll be next.
Emma whispers a prayer for Kyle. Rising to her feet, she runs out of the Haunted House, leaving its horrors behind.
She smacks into Campbell, her heart ricocheting through her ribcage.
“Holy shit,” he says, the breath knocked out of him.
Emma throws her arms around her beautiful, wonderful, very alive husband. Fat raindrops pelt them.
“Em,” he grunts, “you’re squishing me.”
She pulls back to look at him. Her hands find his. “We gotta go.”
Misunderstanding her, he replies, “The storm came on quick.” He motions to the bruised sky above them, only a sliver of peach sunlight surviving against the blackening clouds.
She shakes her head. Rain tangles in her eyelashes. “We have to leave right now.”
Concern glimmers on his face, but then his skin smooths, and he searches his wife’s face. “Okay. Let’s grab Neal and Ansley, and we’ll go.”
Panic swells in her chest. She forgot about her friend getting sick in the porta-potty. She gnaws on her lower lip before nodding. “Okay,” she sighs more than speaks, “let’s go find them. And then we have to get the fuck out of here.”
“What is going—?”
She releases one of Campbell’s hands and turns, prepared to rush to the bathrooms when Neal comes into focus, his t-shirt and face covered in a bright red liquid. Due to the rain, it slips down him like dripping paint. In a parallel universe, Emma might think he’d gotten a comical amount of ketchup on himself. All of the tension in her body seizes, preparing for impact. They are in this universe, and in this universe, people she loves are being hunted like game.
Bell drops her hand and runs to Neal. “What happened? Are you okay? Is Ansley okay?”
For the first time in their relationship, words spill from her husband’s mouth in tangled succession.
Neal’s face crumbles, his lips trembling as he manages one word, “Help.”
The couple looks at each other, and they know what they’ll find at the porta-potties.
The door to the bathroom is open and the putrid smell of vomit wafts toward them. Still on her knees, hands pressed into the sides of the plastic toilet, Ansley’s body is motionless. Blood gurgles from a wide knife wound along her spine.
Bell starts to approach their friend, but Emma grabs his arm. It’s too late. Vibrant, wonderful Ansley is dead. Through her tears, she scans the fairground for anyone who can help them out of this nightmare.
Not a single person is in sight; the fair has become a ghost town. “Of course,” Emma snorts. She slicks back her soaked hair.
Her husband looks at her, his eyebrow lifted into a question mark.
“There is a psycho killer after us.” She jabs a finger at her chest. “After me. They fucking killed Ansley. And Kyle.”
“Kyle?”
She waves away his question. “And, of course, there’s a storm, so the fair is completely empty. The perfect setting for a summer slasher.”
Bell reaches into his back pocket and his face contorts.
“What?” she barks at him. They don’t have time for this.
“My phone.” His hand dives into his other pockets. “It’s gone.”
After searching, they realize Neal is gone.
“Shit.”
“Em—”
Her phone chimes, and with dread, she pulls it from her pocket and reads.
Look what you made me do.
She swallows the bile rising in her throat. Steeling herself, Emma’s free hand balls into a fist. “We have to find Neal. We have to find him right now.”
Like veins, lightning sweeps its electric trail across the midnight sky. Bell gestures to her phone. The killer stole his phone, but not hers. She can call for help. After she dials 9-1-1, Emma grabs her husband’s hand and drags him after their friend.
“Yes,” she yells into the phone at the emergency dispatcher. “We need police right now. Yes, they have a weapon. A knife. They killed my friend.”
She grits her teeth as the operator tells her to stay on the line and help will be on its way soon. “Soon might be too fucking late,” she grumbles, and tucks the phone into her crossbody.
The ground is so swampy under their sandaled feet as they search for Neal that Emma rips them off, leaving them on the ground. “Neal,” she yells until her voice is hoarse.
“Ma’am, are you still there?” The operator’s question is muffled by the fabric of Emma’s bag.
When they’ve circled the fair twice, Campbell puts a hand out in front of her chest. She smacks into it and groans from the impact. She squints through the steady rain at the dunk tank ahead. At first, she sees a swatch of ginger, and then…a face she knows and loves very much.
“No,” the protestation falls from her mouth, more a sob than intelligible words. She falls back into the solidness of Bell and lets herself be enveloped in his embrace. How could a silly trip to the Malvern Fair end up so—? There is no word for what this is, what this evening has become. She was supposed to ride rides, eat too much fried food, and learn just how trivial high school and this small town were.
The sound of her husband crying brings Emma back to the terrifying present. She turns to face him. He’s so beautiful, her Bell. Thoughtful, decent, and caring. She lifts her hand to his cheek, and then she kisses him like it’s the end of the world…because it really might be.
In another universe, in a different kind of movie, this would be a romantic comedy, where the main characters kiss in the rain. Emma’s forehead wrinkles at an approaching noise. It sounds like flapping of some kind. She breaks off the kiss and pulls away from Campbell. A slender figure in all black wearing a Patriot’s mask runs toward them, a knife in their hand.
“Run,” she screams.
Surprise slashes the joy from his face. The lines between his eyebrows deepen into stiff ridges as he cranes his neck to see the approaching harbinger of death. The killer is only inches away from them; Emma pulls on Bell’s arm, tells him they need to run, but it’s too late. The blade of the Patriot’s knife slides into her husband, blood gushing from his core. They stagger back from the blow, and she tries to steady him.
“Go,” Bell mutters, water creating a film over his eyes.
Emma shakes her head no. She won’t leave him. ‘Til we’re dust; that’s the way it was supposed to be. Not this. Nothing like this. The killer pulls the knife out, and Bell uses the opportunity to shove his elbow into the masked figure’s collarbone. The Patriot grunts, stumbling back.
“Go now. The police will be here soon, and I’m right behind you.”
Her eyes dart from him to the killer. Bell turns to face the masked figure, fists raised. “Go!”
His plea finally moves Emma’s bare feet from the muddy ground. She runs in the opposite direction of the dunk tank, searching for any signs of help. The fair is still deserted from the storm. “Fuck.”
She keeps running, dirt and water splashing her legs. Think, dammit. I need a weapon. I need to get the car and go back for Bell. But the car is probably a five-minute sprint from where I am. She slaps herself to focus, a smacking sound from the moisture on her face and palm. “I have to go for it,” she whispers, not daring to speak any louder.
Inhale. Exhale. Emma flaps her arms and legs to loosen the stress in her body in preparation for her sprint. Before she takes off, her eyes land on a concession stand nearby. The door is ajar, pulsing open and closed with the wind. There might be a knife. She closes the distance, throws open the door to the stand, and rifles through disorganized piles of paper products and jugs of oil. There are no knives.
“Fuck.” She slams her hands down on the metal countertop. Something glints by the fryer, and she dashes over to it, hope bubbling in her core. What she finds is a folding thermometer. Better than nothing. She slides it into the front pocket of her shorts.
Peeking out the door, she decides it’s now or never. She runs in the direction of the parking lot, the soaked ground squelching each time her feet lift and land.
When Emma’s hand finds the smooth handle of her car, she sputters, the breaths she’s been holding rushing out, becoming a geyser of air. She locks the doors and pushes the start button, cheering when the car purrs to life. Her gaze flits to the rearview mirror and her heart stops. Bell is slumped against the backseat, dark red and brown stains maring his t-shirt and flesh, creating a macabre tie-dye. He is still and silent. Grief drives her head to the steering wheel and she sobs into the worn leather. The car hums around her.
“Hi, honey.”
Emma pulls herself upright and turns to face her husband, who, miraculously, is alive. He’s a husk of his usual self, wheezes falling from his pale lips and his head against the headrest.
She strains to grasp his hand. “You scared me to death. I thought—”
Bell’s eyes flutter closed. “I needed somewhere to hide. My keys—I couldn’t find my keys.”
Realization churns in her gut—the car was already unlocked. “Baby,” she begins, “we have to get out of the car.”
His eyes still closed, her husband grumbles.
She squeezes his hand. “Bell.”
Squeak. Crunch. Campbell’s eyes rip open and his arm goes taut. No sound escapes Emma’s mouth as she watches the blade emerge from her husband’s chest, the leering eyes of the Patriot’s mask studying her from the trunk to see how much she liked their deadliest trick.
Blood flows from Bell’s lips as he mouths the words I love you.
“I love you, too,” she cries, tears racing down her face.
The trunk mechanism whirrs and the door swings open to the night sky. Emma shivers. She watches the killer turn to the electric-white lightning branching across the black expanse like a cluster of constellations, and she knows she needs to move.
Her hand gripping the gear shift, she waits for the masked figure to climb out of the trunk. Once they’re out of sight, she clicks the car into Reverse and the engine revs under the lead pressure of her foot on the gas. “Hold on, honey,” she says, focusing on the path behind them instead of her husband’s ghostly face.
The SUV rockets backward across the wheel-tracked lawn. They’re almost to the gravel road when she slams on the brakes to avoid a massive fallen tree blocking their path. “Shit.”
Lightning flashes and she sees the killer running toward them. She curses and cranks the car into Drive. The car barrels forward toward the masked figure, the engine groaning from the abrupt acceleration. The Patriot dives away from the approaching vehicle, and Emma hears a distinct thump.
Foot pressing the gas pedal all the way down, she drives them through the fair, jerking the wheel to avoid the ticket booth, concessions, and games. On the other side of the Pirate Ship and Carousel is the road into the borough. If she can squeeze through the rides, they might just be okay. The low tire pressure alert dings and the car loses momentum until it rocks and rolls forward with effort. “Shit.”
She looks back at her husband, whose eyes are closed. Instinct tells her to wake him, but she doesn’t want to move him after so much blood loss. She pulls a pack of tissues from her purse and, leaning over the center console, presses it to his wounds. The white fibers turn bright red within seconds. “Help is on the way, ma’am,” she hears the crackly voice of the operator.
Emma takes off her crossbody and places it next to Bell. “I love you. Please don’t die.”
Out of the car, she checks the tires. Long slits spill air. That asshole slashed my tires. Out of breath and ideas, she sputters a string of curses. The killer has to be close. Neon lights dance up and down the steel arcs of the Pirate Ship, like a giant arrow. She growls, and pumping her arms, races to the ride’s ramp. Her feet slide against the slick floor, and she falls, her head colliding into the base of the first row of seats.
Her head thrums with pain, but adrenaline drives her onward. With a grunt, she grabs the seat bar and stands. She moves to the back row of the ship and climbs onto its bow. Her teeth scrape her lower lip as she uses her high ground to look for the killer. Cloudy stars twinkle in her eyeline. She rubs the thermometer in her pocket and waits.
The Patriot appears like a black dot in the distance, until they materialize, a monster coming for her. Emma blinks to try to clear her vision and weighs her options. The clock is running out—on Bell’s chances of surviving his wounds, on the minutes until the police arrive. I just have to wait them out, she tells herself. Stay alive until the cops come.
Blaring music foretells the movement of the Pirate Ship. The killer exits from the control both and strides up the metal walkway. They tilt their head, taunting her as they step onto the ride, the bloody knife glinting in the fluorescent lights. The Patriot approaches with careful steps, a predator savoring its prey.
Emma can taste the funnel cake fighting to come back up. Thunder claps around them. She sets her jaw. “Why are you doing this?”
“You shouldn’t have come back here, Emma.”
The voice is masculine and unfamiliar. She frowns, squinting against the rain and her migraine. The ship begins to rock. Emma wraps her arms around one of the arcs. “Do I know you?”
“You and Kyle,” he barks her ex-boyfriend’s name, “thought you could ruin lives and not have any consequences.” The killer points the knife toward their chest. “I’m the consequence.”
“What are you talking about? I haven’t spoken to Kyle in ten years.”
“You know what you did, and you’ll pay for it.”
The ship gains speed, hurtling them toward the lightning-streaked sky.
“Stop speaking in riddles and tell me what you think I did.”
With their free hand, the Patriot removes the plastic mask and tosses it into the air, revealing a face Emma wouldn’t be able to pick out in a crowd.
“You and your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—sorry. Slamming a knife through Kyle’s spine gives new meaning to the word ex-boyfriend, doesn’t it?”
The ship swings, a pendulum of nightmares, and Emma uses the shift to climb down into the last row of seats. She grips the handle bars until veins pop along her knuckles.
The killer holds onto the handle bar in the first row, the knife jabbing the air with his other hand. “The fair was the start of so many things for you two. Your budding relationship and all the messiness that ensued. And then, of course, there was the accident.”
She chokes on his last word.
“Surely, you remember. After the fair, Kyle was driving you home.” He twirls the knife as he talks. “It was an eventful car ride, wasn’t it?”
Memory shoves its prickly fingers through her brain as the Pirate Ship changes courses again.
“At Boot Road, you slammed into another car. Seemed like minor enough damage, so you and Kyle went on your merry little way, totally forgetting about what happened.”
She begins to interrupt him. He takes a step forward, the knife pointed at Emma like a bull’s-eye. She lifts one hand to appease him. Just a little more time, she tells herself.
“Liz Shaffer couldn’t forget what happened to her, though. I mean, at first she didn’t think it was a big deal. She had headaches and her neck hurt, but she didn’t go to the ER. She couldn’t afford to take the time off from work or the co-pay. She didn’t realize she had a concussion from the accident you,” spit sprays the air, “caused. Liz thought she’d feel better in a few days, and she had a life. She couldn’t stop everything for something like this.
“So, when her little brother begged her to play soccer at the local park, she said yes. When the ball hit her in the forehead, she fell,” he sniffles, “but then she got back up. She was fine, but then she started to have trouble with her memory and balance and the headaches never went away. A year ago, she went to sleep and didn’t wake up. The doctors said it was second impact syndrome,” he enunciates each word, “a second concussion before the first could heal.”
Emma’s jaw trembles.
He’s at the third row of seats now. “She was in a coma until last week. Because of you. You killed her. My sister.”
“I didn’t know.”
Liz Shaffer’s younger brother snorts. “More like you didn’t care.”
Rage nests in her core. “You want to know what really happened? We were just down the road from my parents’ house, and when Kyle turned onto Boot a car from the other lane smacked into the driver’s side.”
Her right hand slides to the pocket on her shorts. “Liz hit us. She and came into our lane. She asked us not to call the cops. Promised she’d pay for any damage to Kyle’s car.” Emma pulls the thermometer into her palm. “Liz was just a kid. Why get her in trouble when we didn’t have to?”
“Liar!” He lets go of the handle bar and races forward, ignorant of the rhythm of the ship. The killer falls backward, the knife slipping from his hand, the blade landing somewhere on the ground below. When he climbs to his feet, he’s at the other end of the ship.
One way or another, Emma thinks, this is where it’s going to end. She grips the thermometer, and begins to climb over each row of seats, pausing to steady herself with each lurch of the ride.
They reach the crow’s nest at the same time and square off around the pole of the fake lookout. The killer’s eyes are as stormy as the sky.
“You don’t want to do this.”
He snickers. “I really, really do.”
Sirens whirl in the distance. Any second he’ll come for her, fury a deadly weapon. She squeezes the thermometer tucked into her fist.
“Please,” she whispers, making her voice shake. “What’s your name?”
He leans so close Emma can smell iron and sweat. She lets him see her swallow. Sells her fear like he’s a paying audience. The sirens grow closer, yet they’re almost background noise now. She unfolds the thermometer. She’ll have to be fast.
“Jeremy,” he says, saliva landing on her face. One of his hands seizes her hair and tugs her chin up. Their mouths are close enough to kiss, and Emma keeps herself from gagging.
“Jeremy,” she murmurs. “Fuck you.”
She swings the thermometer into his skull. His pupils dilate with confusion, and Jeremy releases her, his body flying into the grass below with a crunch.
Her legs wobbly, Emma grips the metal pole with both hands and slides down. As she waits for the police, she rests her eyes. The swaying of the Pirate Ship coupled with the rain is melodic. When she wakes, she experiences everything in flashes of movement and noise. She hears the words concussion and broken ribs and critical condition. A gentle hand presses her to sit back against the stiff stretcher.
“The doctors will do everything they can,” a female paramedic says to Emma.
Bell. She’s talking about Bell. Hope tugs at the corner of her mouth. The final girl is usually alone at the end of the story, but maybe this time she doesn’t have to be. She watches the rain fall, washing away the violence. Her eyes flicker until they close.
Her head nods forward, jolting her awake. She’s still in the ambulance, the doors open. The paramedic is gone. Someone hovers outside of the vehicle, with a pale, shiny face, large eyes, and spine-tingling grin. No, no, no. This can’t be happening. Jeremy’s dead. I killed him. Emma shrieks.
The figure curses under their breath and lifts the mask from their face. It’s just a teenage kid. His eyes are bloodshot, and she realizes he probably ducked somewhere to smoke weed during the storm. Emma’s heartbeat taps furiously under her skin. She struggles to catch her breath.
“Sorry,” the kid says. “I—”
“Sir, you can’t be back here,” the paramedic scolds, and the kid walks off. She climbs into the ambulance.
“Ready?”
Emma looks at the fair laid out before her, at the Zipper she rode all those years ago with Kyle, the Swings she rode just a couple of hours ago with Ansley and Neal, and the Ferris Wheel where she snuggled into her husband’s warmth. She wants to remember their laughter, the greasy, delicious funnel cake, and all the good times before that. Her eyes shift to the Pirate Ship. This will be her last time at the Malvern Fair, and maybe now she can leave everything from her hometown in the past.
“I’m ready.”