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He gives me a twisted grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Should we have just taken one each? We never do that. Two is our normal. This is routine. We take drugs all the time. We know our limits.

Except for tonight, everything feels just one notch too bright, too loud, too much.

I tighten my grip on the bag strap until my knuckles go white and start walking, forcing my legs to move, forcing Max to follow. The building we’re heading for looms in the distance, dark and waiting, like a mouth held wide open.

It ends tonight.

At least, that’s what we promised.

I stop in front of our corn maze, the one that we were very lucky to have approved. I was for sure convinced they would say no, but look at us now; now a ticket desk sits at the front of our maze, and some guy who was hired seems to be working, and thank God, because I’m shit when it comes to money.

I look around, trying to pick out any of the other people who should be here. I’m working when I land my eyes on Knox, his brown hair with a slight stripe of silver, and he clocks me running over before he lifts me in his arms, twirling me around.

“What’s this about a guy and a cinnamon roll?” Knox knocks me back down.

“Oh, you know he took what was mine.” He sniffles a laugh before Jessa is calling me back. I wave him off before Max and I walk into the corn maze.

I walk further inside, deeper going forward than left-right, another right and left before I’m in the middle. I open the bag and pull out our masks wrapped in messy clingfilm. My idea was that they would stay perfect, but I think I underestimated my driving skills. After all, I don’t even have a license.

I’m doomed and I’m high as fuck right now. I think I’m starting to lose my vision, and if I went blind, who would help me? I don’t have anyone, and that’s really fucking sad.

I lay out the tools in a straight line. Maybe tonight should be the end. I’m in my thirties, and Max is in his forties, so it’s not like we haven’t seen life; what’s wrong with deciding to end it on our terms? At least we are getting another thrill out of it.

CHAPTER 7

MAX

Seven six five four three two one…

The gates to Hallow Fest are now open. Creepy music plays from hidden speakers, the kind that crackles every few seconds like a broken radio, and fake smoke snakes across the ground, curling around people’s ankles as they shuffle inside. But what I love most are the bones. Every single one of those is real. People think they’re plastic because they’re sprayed with glow-in-the-dark paint wired together with fairy lights, but I know exactly where each piece came from. I helped clean some of them. I know which skulls had gold fillings, which ribs cracked under pressure, and which femur took more than one swing.

Emma is already inside the maze, buried somewhere in the corn, ready to catch whoever she needs to, while I’m keeping track of everyone going in. I want people to think I won’t be there at all, that I’m just a guy with a bored expression and a bad posture. I’ll be joining Emma again as soon as we go in and set up. I came back out to the front, slipping between stalks and screams, ready to commit my own sins.

I scan every person at the ticket desk. I don’t just look at faces; I take in shoes, hands, the way their shoulders sit, the way their eyes jump between the light and the shadow. Terrified people are easy. Overconfident people are even easier.

The front of the maze is lit up with a flickering neon sign: CORN MAZE THIS WAY. I know, it’s boring, but we really didn’t see the point of coming up with a fancy name when the whole venue is called Hallow Fest. The sign buzzes and hums like it’s alive, throwing out this sickly yellow light that stains everyone’s skin when they walk by. Seven years in, and it’s bittersweet that this will be the last. I’d rather go on my own terms than be imprisoned, pissing in front of my fellow inmate in some fluorescent-lit box while a camera watches me sleep.

For now, I slide my mask over my face and breathe in the chemical from the PVA glue she used. The mask is dark blue, with fake blood splatters across and a creepy red smile. The two holes for my eyes are too small; the edges dig into the corners of my sockets. All I can see, in my head, are the newspapers—every headline, every front-page photo—jotting down every person I ever killed. Every person we killed. Sometimes I imagine the clippings glued inside the mask, the ink soaking into my skin.

I wish I had some sad sob story of why we became serial killers—tragic childhood, an evil stepfather, something the cops could chew on when they’re out for our arrest. Still, the truth is I thrive off this. It makes me feel something that nothing else can. The world feels too quiet, too flat, until someone is begging. Until someone realizes it’s not a joke. Maybe that makes me a psychopath—That’s what’s on my mind. I’m dying. I’m not so sure Emma will do it. Still, she has to. It’s not a matter of giving a shit about her feelings; it’s a matter of a promise. She has to realize we won’t get out alive. We made it in the dark.

This isn’t about choice; it's about not spending the rest of our lives in prison.

Three VIPs walk up to the entrance, laughing and smiling like this is just another seasonal scare. They have no idea what they’re walking into. The first is tall, messy urban hair that looks like it took an hour to style, tight leather pants clenched around his butt hole—yes, it’s as disgusting as you think. The leather creaks when he moves, and every time he shifts his weight, I imagine how easily those pants would tear if he tried to run through the corn.

I’m fighting the urge to gag.

The second one, I almost like. Blonde hair, long, pushed back into a ponytail that swings when they laugh. A tight off-brown top clings to their abs like second skin, showing off a body they clearly starve or torture at the gym. There’s confidence in the way they stand, chin up, arms loose at their sides. They scan the maze entrance like they’re ready for anything, like nothing here can touch them.

If they weren’t wearing a red pin. I’d think we could be friends. That’s our mark, tiny, almost invisible, stamped on their wrist when they checked in for their oh-so-special VIP experience. But they’re here to die. That’s the whole point of the extra money they spent and the waiver they didn’t bother to read properly.

The third one hangs back, quieter, fiddling with their wristband, laughing a beat too late at every joke the other two make. Nervous. Jumpy. Keeps glancing at the fake smoke like they suspect there’s something solid hiding in it. They’re my favorite kind. Easy to split off from the herd.

I just know Emma, and I will have more than enough fun with them.

They step under the neon glow, their skin turning that sickly yellow, their teeth flashing like they’re already bones. They reach the booth, before being told the rules, I stand looking at every person coming through and making a note of the people with the red pins-the ones that I can do whatever I want, no rule, no need to stop it, all mine.