We paid the bored teenager manning the ticket booth, and since there wasn't a line, we went straight in.
The air shifted the moment we stepped inside—cooler, damp, and stale, like the place hadn't been properly aired out since Halloween three years ago. A low fog hugged the floor, pumped out in intervals by a machine hissing in the corner like it was on its last legs.
Black lights buzzed overhead, making the paint-splattered walls glow an eerie green. On either side of the narrow path were plywood "rooms" staged to look like twisted scenes from horror movies—one had a bloody operating table with fake limbs scattered around, the other a nursery filled with cracked baby dolls and a rocking chair that creaked on its own, thanks to a hidden motor.
Jasmine reached for my arm. "Just in case," she whispered, but her fingers lingered longer than they needed to.
Kim stayed close to my other side, her shoulder brushing mine. Whether it was intentional or not, I didn't ask.
