rabbit & hawk

The actress breaks character for a split second, her scowl genuine before she remembers her role and melts back into the shadows. You're not sure why she took it so personally, you were being nice. You gave a compliment!

The next section is a disorienting maze of black-painted plywood walls. The only light is a pulsating red bulb somewhere in the ceiling, casting everything in a hellish glow. Your friends are huddled together, giggling nervously. You trail a few feet behind, your hands in your jacket pockets, utterly detached. This is the part of the movie where someone gets picked off. It’s so cliché.

That's when you see him.

He’s standing at the end of a corridor, bathed in the red light. The Ghostface mask. Of all the lazy, uninspired choices. It’s not even a monster; it’s a costume of a costume. You can’t help but roll your eyes.

As your friends take a different turn, you find yourself walking toward him. After all, you might as well get your money's worth while you're here. Why would you run away. Let him try to scare you.

He closes the distance between you with an unnerving speed, his stride long and silent. Before you can process it, his hand, covered in a black glove, clamps down on your arm. The grip isn’t theatrical. It’s hard. It hurts.

"Hey," you snap, trying to pull away. "The rules say no touching."

No response. He tightens his grip, his fingers digging into your bicep, and begins to pull. Not toward the main path, but toward a section of the black wall that you now see has a nearly invisible seam.

"Okay, seriously, let go of me. That’s enough." Your voice is louder now, sharper. You can hear your friends’ laughter echoing from around a corner. They’re still close.

He pushes the section of wall. It swings inward on silent hinges, revealing a dark, narrow space beyond. He yanks you toward it. Whatever unease was building in you earlier is quickly getting out of control. This isn't part of the show.

"Let go of me!" you scream, digging your heels in. "Help!"

You hear your friend’s voices in the distance. "Oh my god, she’s so dramatic! She’s finally getting into it!" Laughter follows. They think you’re playing along. They think you’ve finally dropped your jaded act and decided to have fun. The sound of their footsteps and laughter moves even farther away, continuing through the maze.

Leaving you.

The door swings shut behind you, plunging you into near-total darkness. The sounds of the haunted house are muffled, a distant thrum of bass and faint screams. The air in here is different. It’s stale, thick with the smell of sweat and dust.

"Don't be scared," a voice says from behind the mask. It’s distorted, low and menacing. "It's just a game."

He shoves you forward until your chest is pressed against a cold, rough wall. His body pins you there. One of his hands holds both of your wrists, pinning them behind your back with brutal efficiency. His other hand snakes around your waist, his fingers digging into the hem of your jeans.

Tears of terror and rage spring to your eyes. You struggle, bucking against him, but he’s impossibly strong. He’s an anchor of muscle and malice, and you are nothing. "Please, don’t," you sob, the sound pathetic and small in the confined space.

"You should have played along. You should have screamed," he says, his voice conversational, chillingly calm. He works the button of your jeans open. "We like the screamers."

His hand slides into your panties. You gasp, your body going rigid. You’re wet. Not from arousal, from the pure, adrenalized terror that has flooded your system.

He rips your underwear aside, the fabric tearing. He fumbles with his own pants. You squeeze your eyes shut, praying for this to be a nightmare, a very elaborate, very cruel prank. But the feeling of his fingers probing you, stretching you, is undeniably real. The pain is real.

"No, please, stop…"

"Scream."

He shoves into you.

You let out a wail, raw and agonizing. It’s a sound of you didn't know you were capable of making. You can tell he likes that, driving harder, his hips slamming against you, forcing your body into the rough wood of the wall with every brutal thrust. The mask is inches from your face, the vacant black eyes of the costume a void that swallows your terror whole.

"Keep screaming," he grunts, his pace quickening. "No one’s coming to help you. They think you’re having fun."

Your mind fractures. One part of you is screaming, a raw, animal terror that can’t process anything beyond the pain. The other part, the cold, analytical part you’re so proud of, clicks into place with horrifying clarity. This is real. Your arrogance led you here. You walked right to him. You dared him. This is your fault.

"You're better this way. Better than that bored little bitch from before."

You wish you could go back. You’d scream at the fake nurse. You’d play their stupid game, you'd do anything if it meant you weren’t here, pinned and broken in the dark.

His thrusts get more frantic. He's close. You can feel the tension coiling in his body. He grabs you tighter, anchoring himself as he drives into you one last time. You feel a hot, deep gush as he empties himself into you. Then it's over. He's pulling out, leaving you hallowed out and raw from the violation.

"I'll be back later. Rest your voice."