Making Her Scream

            “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

“Hey, tis the season.”  Josh swept his arms about the makeshift parking lot.  Wet leaves covered the field like a splotchy quilt.  “I can’t believe you’ve never been in one of these before. 

"With my dad's rules?  Snowball's chance in - heck - "

"Chance in what?" 

"You're so bad.  Look at what I'm starting to say because of you."

            He cocked his head in that sly way he knew she found so cute.  “No one’s making you do anything.  Yet - ”  Three rushed steps and his fingers were worming toward her breasts.

            “Josh!”  Futile little shove, cheeks flushing in embarrassment as incoming headlights passed over them.  Parked cars lurked in the stretching-and-then-vanished shadows as she pulled away from him.

Still, there it was. Fleeting, but definitely there. That husk, that heat behind her choir-trained voice, turning him on like a light switch.  

It wasn’t just the virginity thing.  If Josh wanted to spoil the innocent, he could have had his pick among the unfondled and just-legal freshman. Piercing eyes, blinding teeth, skin tanned to the color of caramel . . . well, he was more or less gorgeous.  Trying to ignore it would be more stupid than modest.  He could wet their white cotton panties with a thick stare if he wanted.  Not arrogance: simple fact.  But Amy now - hmmm, something different there.  Not his soul-mate or other such bullshit.  Her tricks were simpler than true love, and a hell of a lot more impressive.  When he'd broached the idea of this place with her, her mouth had spread, lips barely parted, pure yet not naive, like an angel getting read to deep-throat.   

She’d said, “Well, I’ve never been. “ 

Pause.

“I’d like to give it a try.”

Occasionally he’d catch the coyness in her eyes: purls of desire rippling beneath a mild gaze.  Thinking of her like that made him throb.  She was like driftwood in the ocean: Amy’s good girl image bobbing on lusty undercurrents.  God, he wanted to dive in.   

Enter tonight.

“Oh, baby, don’t run away out here.  Who knows what backwoods men lay in wait.”  He gestured in menace toward the Labyrinth of Horror.  ”In there . . .”

            “You’re terrible.  You’re like one giant hormone.”

            “You wanna see my giant?”

            “Certainly full of yourself tonight.”

            “I was hoping later you’d be full of me.”

            “Ok, I give up.”  She swiveled her hips as she stomped away.  It wasn’t a conscious wiggle – no, not from the Rev’s daughter, flirting is sinful, amen, amen – but nonetheless, his eyes were riveted to that subtle shake, the slight jean curve that slid underneath her sweater.

            He jogged up behind her.  “Ok, we’re in public. I’ll be a good boy.”

            She smiled, 90% wholesome.  He deftly interlaced his fingers through hers, dropping the smile ten percent.                   

            Twisted branches spit leaves at them as they walked. The October air bit lightly at their earlobes, their jean cuffs.  Around them drifted pockets of others, small groups whose nervous laughter buffered and banged back and forth.  Faint wails rode in on the breeze that brushed Josh’s face, swayed Amy’s hair.  Naturally blonde, of course.  Nothing fake about Amy, from her non-dyed hair to her never-been-braced teeth to the cross that hung in simple confidence around her neck.       

He stroked one of her fingers with his own.  “So the Rev proclaimed no haunted houses for little Amy?”

“He’s a deacon, not a reverend.  And no, of course not.  No sex, no violence, no warped little girl.  The Dustin family credo.”

            “No sex and violence? It’s a damn miracle you’re not warped.”

            She scoffed with hazel eyes.  “Oh yes, and you’re so well-balanced.”

            “Shit, I’m a red-neck bumper sticker.  Heaven don’t want me, hell’s afraid I’ll take over.”

            Her grip on his hand loosened.  “Don’t say that,” she disapproved.

Pushed a little too much.  On questionnaires, Josh usually wrote in “born-again atheist” for Religion.   The Church had a good racket going, he’d give ‘em that.   First, teach people the flesh is sin, convince them that what feels good is wrong.  Set a standard so high it can’t possibly be followed.  Then, when the people inevitably fail, guilt them into giving you money to forgive them.  Yep, the truth shall set you free.  Free, broke, and feeling like shit. 

He’d had plenty of convert worries about Amy in the beginning, had kept dreading admonishments about his language or an invite to some Campus Crusade rally.  But as his wait for salvation offers stretched out, a new awareness began to dawn.  Amy wasn’t going to try to convert him.  In fact, Amy didn’t want a good Christian boy.

Looking back, it wasn’t tough to figure out.  By the time he’d entered college, Josh had come to the disappointing conclusion that people were like windows, their motives easily seen once you got rid of the smudges.  And Josh knew instinctively where to wipe.  Ask questions you already know the answers to, give only answers that lead to already-known questions.  Never panic, never lose control.  Josh had made it by campus security several times, piss-drunk but wrapped in a shiny gloss of calm.  He wondered if he should go into negotiations, get paid for this kind of shit.  Josh Grepplin, Drunken Diplomat: ever wise, ever vigilant, come hell or high beer. 

It was Josh the Drunken Diplomat who’d sniffed it all out. Amy’s desire for somebody outside the flock. How she wanted him in a way that overwhelmed the Rev’s prohibitions against dirty words or haunted houses.  And then the most important discovery, made just days ago. Plainly put, Amy got horny when she got scared.  Not the 1950s put-your-arm-around-me-when-the-werewolf-howls kinda thing.   Scared as in claw-marks across his knee while they watched horror movies in his dorm room.  Scared as in screaming so loud the RA had checked on them twice to make sure Josh wasn’t date-raping her.  Horny as in laughing incessantly at dirty jokes they both knew should be offending her.  Horny as in Miss Morals initiating the post-movie make-out session.  Horny as in dropping her hand below his belt during the goodnight kiss, cupping the bulge in his jeans, her fingers lingering at the head.  And all that without him even making a move for second base. 

She’d pulled back from him that night, a sigh sneaking out as their lips parted.  “I better get going.”  As in I-gotta-leave-before-I-rip-your-jeans-off.  She left hesitantly, her cross pulling her in one direction, her crotch in the other.  Josh could partially sympathize.  He jerked-off twice that night: messy self-manipulations that left him very unsatisfied.

Later, the haunted house idea came to him halfway between sleep and dream, like something slithering in silk pajamas.

·         

             The religious tension dissipated as Josh and Amy flowed with the other droplets of people, all clustering toward the sign proclaiming "Labyrinth of Horro."  Beneath the drippy red letters, a small ticket booth glowedgaudy orange by tiki torchlight.  The flames flickered in rhythm with industrial guitars and pounding drum tracks.  Josh could pick out screechs of static attempting to be words: "Journey down with me/ to a graveyard embrace/ A knife's sharp prophecy/ as I open up your face."  It was much eaiser to discern the chainsaw roars. 

The creature in the ticket shack wore a beard and a witch’s hat.  His or her nose bore two warts that didn’t look like part of the Halloween costume.  The voice wasn’t much more of a gender clue.  “For two?  Twelve dollars.  Have fun!”  It tried for a spooky grimace as they passed, but all that came out was a dirty leer.  At Josh or Amy?  Hell, maybe both of us.           

Her face was dubious as they entered the roped-off trailhead.  “How did you find this place?”

            “Last year with Brad.  They did a kick-ass job.”

            “Brad?  Your Halloween date last year was Brad?”

            “Well, he can’t kiss for shit, but he’s got a killer ass.”

            “You think I want to kiss you after you compliment Brad’s ass?”

Josh threw back his head as she realized her slip.  “Oh baby, Dustin’s droppin’ the bad words.  Let the night of sin begin.”

“Stop”.  She flicked a hand before her face, as if to whisk away the embarassment.  It was a simple movement, easy and honest in its grace.  A giddy, seventh-grade-dance feeling swept down his throat, through this stomach and into his groin, which began to harden.

“No, this place is seriously awesome.  This whole thing is just some guy’s yard. We passed his house on the way in. That’s what’s so freaky.  I think he owns this whole field, all the way back to the woods.  Him and his family or whoever just build all these tunnels and winding rooms.  Real easy to get lost, and you’re stuck until you find your way out.  Took Brad and I almost an hour last year.”

“Is that long?”

“Oh God yeah.  Most of these houses run like ten to fifteen.  With all the people and labor, I can’t imagine how they make money.”

Dank leaves clung to the bottom of their shoes.  Straying toward the edge of the wood, the roped path was flanked by more torches; the propane smell assaulted Josh’s nose. Nestled before the trees, a cluster of decrepit trailers grew up from thickets of weeds.  Their busted-out windows glinted from spastic lights strobbing somewhere deeper in the woods.  Black plywood walls twisted throughout the trailers, forming crouched rooms and weaving passages. Several groans thumped along the walls, as if something large wanted out.  Labyrinth of Horror was spray-painted across the longest passage.  Then, beneath, Prepare to Lose Your Way!     

Amy took it all in, critically hesitant.  “So if they don’t make much money, why do they do it?”

 “I think the guy just loves Halloween.”  Pause.  “It’s good to follow your passion.”

She burst into laughter.  “Oh, please.”

He gave her a you-got-me smile, to build her confidence.  “What?  What’d I -“   He ceased as a shadow loomed over her.  Amy turned and found herself face-to-face with a bloody-mouthed clown in a butcher’s apron. 

“What’a YOU laughing at?” He swiped at her with fingers the color of spoiled sausage.

            Her scream was right out of a movie: high resonance, good echo.  She even fluttered her hands in front of her face.  More grace on her part, more tumescence on Josh’s. Pathetic, the Drunken Diplomat heckled.

            The people ahead on the trail turned in their direction.  Laughter, rolled eyes.  Two pre-teen girls gave startled yelps of their own.  A high-school kid with blue hair and a Screeching Weasels t-shirt shouted, “Dude, she’s a screamer.  Tear that shit up!”

            “I’ll tear you up!”  The demented clown stepped over the rope and pulled a chainsaw from behind his back.   He revved it twice and charged toward Blue Hair, scattering those before him.    

“Oh, my God.”  Amy coughed a half-laugh.

“I can’t believe you fell for that.  They always come up behind you when you least expect it.  You’re gonna be screaming all night.”  He let that one lie, waiting to see if she’d pick up on it.  

            She re-linked hands with him.  “Well, you know what they say.”

            “What?”

            “You never forget your first time.”  She led him ahead, not looking back.

            And from a corner booth, the Diplomat tilted his drink.  For those about to get laid, we salute you.

·         

The path snaked it’s way to a plywood cul-de-sac.  Huge purple faces gaped at them from curved walls.  Labyrinth Entrance was splashed above an arch covered in black sheets and jutting with teeth.  The curtains heaved and sighed in stale breaths.  To the side of the great opening stood the Grim Reaper, scythe cradled in a crock of elbow. 

Amy eyed him warily.  “You promised me they can’t touch you.”

“I did?”

“Josh – “ Her confidence slipping in spite of herself.

“What’s wrong with being touched?”

“Come on, I’m serious, this –“

“The only one touching you will be me.”  He traced the back of her neck with a finger.  The gesture was a near-reflex, not really planned on his part, but the effect was automatic.  Suddenly, her hand was guiding his check, steering his mouth toward her own.  She kissed like tender fire.  Her initiative totally disarmed him: for once, the Diplomat had nothing to say.  He just opened his lips and let her tongue explore.  She released him reluctantly, their faces close, her smile mysterious.

The scythe slammed into the wall beside them.  They both jerked as the Reaper reared up before them.  He beckoned toward the mouth.

“Oh, I can’t believe you talked me into this.”  Light fingers on his shoulders.  “You first.”

“Good.”  Josh pushed the curtains aside.  “I always liked virgins in the rear.”

“Excuse me?”

The Reaper whacked the scythe against the wall again, scurrying Amy through the mouth.

Beyond the mouth was a throat: a bowling lane-sized room whose walls bled into enclosed darkness.   Tiny shafts of night poked down through a wire-mesh ceiling.  Things dangled from the mesh: long, jointed, ill-defined.

“Oh God.”

“Too late.  Let’ s go.” 

Josh groped for her hand and closed his palm around the cool nubs of her fingertips.   They crept forward, carefully brushing aside the hanging things.  From the cold metal and ribbed texture, Josh guessed them to be chains. 

“This is like one of my ex’s bedrooms.”

“Ha ha, you’re a rio-“

 The ceiling panels immediately above their heads slammed open.  Bones rained down around them; a skeletal hand grabbed lustily for Amy’s shoulder.   She shrieked, turning in circles and batting the air.  Heavy boots stalked them from above as Josh gleefully pulled her through the door.  A voice roared down:

“Welcome to the Labyrinth!”

They bumbled their way down the next tunnel, laughing and yelling.  The footfalls followed them, unfettered by any walls, apparently crossing the chicken-wire roof on  wooden support beams. Josh flung open the closet door at the end of the tunnel only to find a werewolf waiting.

“Oh, shit!”  Two of them, Amy’s higher and more genuine.

They back-pedaled as the wolfman loped toward them in awkward loops.  Josh pushed to the left, a wall swinging open to his touch.  He dragged Amy through too fast, so that she clambered into his back.  He reached outto catch her and managed to grope her right breast: smallish, taunt, poke of a nipple against his palm.

 “Oops. ”  

Her voice was too stern.  “Watch yourself, sir.”

“I didn’t mean  . . .”

The werewolf’s head burst through the wall in an explosion of growls.  They ran further down this new hallway.  Suddenly, a sharp smack on his ass as Amy raced by him, her broad smile visible even in the dim lighting.  

“Now we’re even!”   She called back over her shoulder.

I need another drink.

·         

And so it went, through tunnel and chamber and to tunnel again. Speakers and other things pounded and roared as they ran by.  The monsters homed in on Amy.  He’d figured as much; they always targeted the loud pretty ones.  For a while he would drag her along, until something that had trailed them rushed up on her heels.  Then she would squeal forward, taking the lead just in time for one of the chainsaw guys to leap out.  Her giggling screams seemed to wash them down the halls.

Heavy fabric grabbed at his arms as he brushed the walls.  Josh knew they were just being switch-backed over and over, but his sense of direction had been shot since the werewolf.  At times the black surrounding them surged so intensely that he couldn’t make out the skinny glove of his outstretched hand.  The adrenalin speed-balled through him.  God, he loved this shit.  Disoriented, things lurking ahead and behind . . . it was almost enough to give him a hard-on, even without Amy’s screaming. The air crackled with anticipation, fearful longing whipped to an almost tangible froth. Sure, Josh the Diplomat had analyzed it, worked all the angles, but to experience it, to be in the moment, hearing Amy sucking at the air, flinching in heavy blackness, and Jesus it was easy to imagine her beneath him, hitching in time to his thrusts, panting-

Multiple snap-shots of her face, dancing before him.  A strobe light had kicked on, revealing creeping ghouls.   They hissed as they approached, close enough that Josh could smell their sweat.  He and Amy charged past the dirty alabaster faces.

Back to the comfort of enhanced night.  Amy’s grabbings became less and less aimed at his hands.  Josh looped an arm around her back, just barely sliding his pinky into the tight slot of her jeans pocket.  The strobe cut out, dropping them into deeper darkness.   He worked his other three fingers into her pocket, began to knead as her check tensed in response.   Her arms swarmed around him. 

If her kiss outside the maze had been from a romance novel, then this was a soft-core promo, filled with greedy lips and lashing tongues.  Wow, where did that come from?  Her eagerness threw him off-balance.  He staggered back, and something opened behind him.

“Hey, come back here,” she mummered.

“Hold on.”  His fingers groped unseen behind his back.  Unbefuckinglievable.  Thank you. The door to his back scraped reluctantly against the ground before swinging inward.   They stumbled into the tight room together, banging around.  It was less than a closet; Josh knocked his elbows against the walls as he wrapped his arms around her.  He barely noticed the small quarters; all his blind attention was fixated on sliding home and locking the push-latch he’d discovered.     

            “Waiting room, “ Josh explained.  “Where the monsters hide.”  Lock and everything.

            Her voice was the sound of a cascade – sweetly reluctant, and inevitable – the last remnants of a barrier dropping away.  “So let’s hide.”

            No puns, no more double entendres.  All his stud bluster and bullshit was gone, lost somewhere in the maze.  Josh was left with only a thousand neurons flaming as her forearms slid around his neck.  He sidled his hands beneath her sweater, his fingers digging under wire cups.  Her bra was a front-clasp; he popped it open with a well-practiced tweak of both thumbs.  The hot, petite mounds almost bound into his hands.  She emitted little humming grunts while she worked his ear, his neck, the base of his throat.  He dropped one hand to the small of her back, tracing her panty line.   

Time unbound in their kisses.  It was like swimming against her, lost in black waters, their movements speeding up, blurring into each other.  At some point his belt was free, and he felt hurried little fingers break open his jeans.  Who’s this little vix - ohhh He practically jumped out of his underwear.  His hand impulsively dove between her legs; god she’s wet through her jeans. . . A slight noise as denim scuffed past pale hips. I can’t believe she’s going for this.  He yanked her panties down, too fast. Everything was too fast, this was a terrible idea, you’re in a goddamn closet, you’re not even going for the rubber – then the Diplomat’s voice was gone too, drowned out by the wonderfully harsh pounding in his heads.

 They’d managed to grind around, so that her back was against the wall.  She braced herself against it as he entered her.  She gasped.  Her heel stabbed into his calf, driving him deeper into her.  He thrust from his knees, steadily rocking them both, his legs jammed between her skinny thighs.  His fingers twined around crinkly pubic hair as he rubbed her in response to her breathing.  He had no eyes, but he felt her hands on his shoulders, her fingernails clamping down through his shirt.  He tightened and strained with deeper thrusts, trying to grow longer.  The wall creaked in response, adding its whisper to their own.   Her leg friction-burned against his.  He guided off that: a little more to the left, a little higher with his thumb, and now a pulsing from within her, grabbing at his head, her panting ascending toward climax, creak creak, left and deeper, more leg, more burn, creak creak, noises like puddles being stomped, creak, ah god, leg, creak, burn throbbing, throbbing, CREAK Amy Jesus ahhh I I GOD I AHH ACREAKMY CREAK AMY CRACK AMCRAAACKK- 

Josh felt the wall going, couldn’t care as it collapsed around him, simultaneous with the shuddering clamping of her around his shaft.  He was blinded by dim light, by the falling sensation, by the orgasm he was diagonally pumping into her.  Vertigo swept over him, free-falling into another shudder.  They crashed down to the floor with a third shudder from him and more inner grasping from her.  Her face struggled to register what was happening.  Useless; she remained trapped in orgasm, helplessly hitching her legs like a frog wired to a battery.

The blood was draining from his ears; new sound jumbled in its place.   Different brands of laughter, nervous tongue clickings, disgusted exhales.  Josh looked up.   Dull ovals with narrow peering dots.  Below most, wavering lines.  Below some, curved slashes too cruel to be smiles.  It took him a moment to piece these geometric puzzles into faces.  Once that was done, it was easy to make out the small crowd – five, no, six – surveying them from across the room.  

Shit.

He vaguely registered a cool breeze tickling his thigh hair.   The crowd continued to gawk.  After a second, he flashed them a foolish grin.  What the hell else could he do?  His roommate had once walked in on a blow-job-in-progress, so this wasn’t exactly new territory.  Amy, though . . . Josh risked a look down. I hope she can laugh this off. 

No.  Oh fuck no.  Not a laughing matter at all.

Her face had broken free of orgasmic muscle-lock. She cranned her neck around, taking in the upside-down gawkers.  The color in her face died, pale reality replacing it.  Josh watched it go, the abandon in her eyes diluting to a horrible self-awareness.  Awareness of where she was, of what she was doing.  Of the people, with their stunned mouths and sly snickers.   Of the hickies, raw strawberries burning on her neck. Her underwear, stretched and soaking around her knees.  Him, still shrinking out of her, slinking back home after a successful corruption.  He winced as he surveyed himself; don’t see the blood, don’t see the blood.  But she couldn’t miss the scarlet scribble, like a signature across his penis.

He began to say something – he had no idea what – but the mortification leapt out from her and hit him like a punch in the stomach. Well, at least you had an audience for popping this one.   The Diplomat’s betrayal felt like a second blow.  Her cheeks twitched, a parody of her thights just minutes ago.  On the silver chain chinked up around her throat, the cross gather the meager light and threw it in his eyes.  She shoved off him and stood up too fast, almost falling over, jutting her bare rear-end out as she caught her balance.  A bearded guy in a pro-wrestling shirt whistled.   The woman next to him smack ed him on the chest, cursing.  Amy didn't notice; too many different areas to try to cover, not enough hands.  Her features cracked, leaking and spurting. 

Josh had to say something.  “Fuck you, ” to the man.

A bearded guffaw.  ”Whatever, kid.  You already got yours.” 

Good.  A target, a reason not to look at her.  He yanked his pants up and pointed at the woman next to the man.  “At least I’m not fucking my sister - ”   

“Oh stop it!”  Amy spun hatefully toward him.  “Just shut up!   Shut up!”  Her hands contorted into claws, and Josh stepped back, afraid she’d go for his eyes. 

“What the fuck-“

“Don’tsayit. Don’t dare say that to me.”  Her hand clamped her neck, hiding the hickies.

“Amy-“

“No, ” she denied, scurrying toward a door.  It burst open before she could touch it, kicked by a hockey-masked figure brandishing a machete.

“OhGOD oH GooDDAMniT!" 

Josh winced; it sounded like an alley cat being raped.  Her voice broke around the words, shrill fear warbling in rage and humiliation .  The shriek muted her onlookers; a couple actually covered their ears.  Josh couldn't watch, was forced to turn away in abrupt embarrassment.  For her, for him, for all of it.  How did everything get this fucked up?  His legs quivered, as if the ground had stirred in response to her screams. The stalker froze before Amy, almost wavering in the dissonant echo.  

            The breaded man was impressed.  “Damn, baby.”

            The masked head slowly twisted toward him.  He advanced, winging his machete arm in large circles, winding up.  

Apparently the show was back on.  The man laughed and puffed out his barely-contained chest.  “OK, you maniac sum’bitch, come get me.” 

            The masked man brought the machete down, a full-bodied whoosh whose follow-through bent him forward.  A muffled clang spilled across the floor. 

The bearded man began to step back.   “Goddamn man, that was pretty clo-" 

He realized the front third of his foot still lay on the floor.   He dumbly gazed down  at the suddenly-dark lump of shoe that contained his toes, then looked up questioningly at the mask.  The machete whipped across his face, taking off a sliver of lip and replacing his nose with a gory triangle.  Now fully in shock, the bearded man reached hesitantly for his face and stumpy foot, as if uncertain which bits of himself to gather up.  He was still uncertain when the machete slammed through his chest and erupted out his back.

            Like glass breaking in slow motion. The small crowd barked and jumped but  made no other move.   A cold calm trickled over Josh. They don’t know what to do.  It’s a haunted house. Special effects, right?  The chill creeping over him scared Josh more than anything else.   This is what shock feels like.  You’ve got to move.  MOVE!  GET AMY! 

            The masked man dismissed the body from his machete with a kick. Suddenly, he was horribly quick.  A second man dropped, his neck like a waterfall.  A chunk of chin landed.  The chin’s owner a second later, gibbering at the loop of intestine squirming through her shirt.

            Josh didn’t feel his feet as he ran.  The crowd was scattered now, yelling.  Accustomed to such noise, the walls ate their voices with easy.  The masked man hacked another one down as Josh raced behind his back.  Amy was an open-mouthed statue, the bearded redneck prostrate before her. Josh reached to shake her by the shoulders, to get her to MOVE!  She dismissed his grab with a red-streaked wave of her hand.  Not her blood, not her’s, the other guy’s.  She was splattered with it.  Her half-zipped jeans revealed a quarter-sized splotch on her underwear; it stared at Josh, lidless red eye.  Josh smeared her hand into his and yanked her through the door in front of them.    

            He bounded down the tunnel, towing Amy’s dead weight.  He was flying, soaring, high on fear, and then he slammed into a plywood wall.  Splinters bit his check.  He stumbled after that, trying to find a voice to call with.

            “Help!  Somebody help!”

            “Shut up.”  Amy: resentful, hopeless.

            “Help us!”       

            “He might hear you.  HE MIGHT HEAR YOU!”  She wrenched his arm downward and charged ahead in a clumsy half-trot.  He grabbed at her, missed, said nothing as he heard her sobbing in the darkness.  

            “Amy . . .”

            “Don’t touch me.”     

They ran in silence.  Ahead, a pale light seeped, revealing a room cast in sickly blue.  Dry-ice vapor draped itself around bulky man-shapes that creaked and swayed from the ceiling.  Amy’s hand lingered near him, a spectral presence unwilling to make contact. 

A tall figure materialized, flowing out of the vapor toward them.

            “Hold up man, somebody went crazy –“

            “This is a place of insanity.”  Stupid fake growl.

            Josh grabbed his shoulder.  “Cut the bullshit, thi-“

            “ – Hey, no touching the actors! – “ An indignant voice bumbled through the mask. 

            “Look at me! LOOK AT ME!”  Amy thrust her bloody self at the worker, like a battered exhibitionist.  He stepped back in confusion and pulled off his mask, revealing a narrow nose and wire-frame glasses.  The eyes behind the lenses scanned the glistening streaks covering her. 

            Josh jumped in.  “Guy with a machete, white mask.  There’s no way this was faked, he rammed the blade completely through this other guy.”

            The nose wrinkled.  “Wait a minute.”  He fumbled for a small walkie-talkie on his belt.  “Tony?  Tony, come in.”  Static squaked at him.

            “I can’t believe this.” 

            Josh wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or herself.  He ventured a response.  “Fucked-up people.”

            She barked sarcasm.  “Yeah.  F-fucked up.  Standing up.”

            In the background: “Tony, would you come down – Tony, hold up, I got a problem-“

I don’t believe it.   All this, and she’s worried about her morality.    “Amy, it’s . . . the wall just – it’s not a big deal-“

He hastily reconsidered his words as her eyes burrowed into him.

 “- that’s not what I meant.  It’s just – weird things happen.”  Oh, much better.  Come on, hot shit, ask the question you know the answer to.  He couldn’t read her, that was the problem.  Her body had closing up on itself like a clam.  It was more than her slouched figure, though.  She looked different, though it was hard to tell with all the blood.   Flushed.  Afterglow.

Amy exploded into screams as the killer appeared out of the mist before them.  Josh’s heart lurched for a second, no, wait that’s not the guy, it’s a different mask, different guy.  He moved to calm Amy, but she flinched and back-pedaled, voice still wailing.  

            The worker turned and addressed the killer. “Yeah, Tony, go back and check the oth-uh”.  He looked down.  

His mask, which he held by the edge of the neck flap, had begun to sway back and forth.  The movement grew violent, a pendulum out of control.  The face on the mask suddenly contorted, as though caught in a seizure. 

“Ahhh!”   The man let out a strangled cry and reached for his wrist.  The neck flap swallowed his hand with a peculiar sucking sound.  Josh heard the snapping of tiny twigs.  He numbly reached for Amy.

            The man she had mistaken for the killer had dropped to his knees; he was yanking and pulling at his own mask.  His fingernails dug as the mask’s seam sunk beneath his skin.  The other man tugged with his free arm at his hand, which had fully disappeared into the mask’s gaping neck.  He was still struggling when the mask opened its eyes.  He had a second to stare in stupid awe at the head growing from the end of his arm, and then the head snapped forward. 

The mask had a mixture of bear’s teeth and boar’s tusks in its mouth, and so its first bite took off everything north of the man’s mouth.   His glasses got wedged in the teeth as it gobbled.  In five bites that shot sheets of red against the wall like the throw-off from a snow-blower, nothing was left of the man’s head except for the back shell of his skull.

Amy was practically howling.  The man whose mask had melted into his face was rising up; suddenly, he didn’t look so different from the first killer.  Josh slammed Amy into one of the hanging mannequins as he shoved her forward.  He didn’t even give her time to fall, just began dragging her.  Someone was screaming, “Get up, fucking get up!”  It sounded a lot like him.

They banged their way across the room and through the hole of blackness at its end.  Josh tried not to think of the pink and grey wrinkles stuck in the mask’s tee – then a hard spasm and a warm stickiness settled against his shirt.  The sharp smell of bile almost made him wretch again. Josh tried to ignore it, just as he tried to ignore Amy’s whispered mantra: Oh Jesus help us oh Jesus help us . . .

“Help! Somebody help!”  A female voice, ahead and to the left.

“Where are you?”

“Red room.  Oh please hurry, somebody’s gone crazy –“

“I know, I know, we were there.”  Josh had spotted the crimson glow leaking into the hall.  He raced forward, breaking contact with Amy.  “Amy, come on!”

“Oh Jesus, forgive me, I know I’ve sinned . . .”  

He tried to get hold of her again, but she just smacked his hand away.  Goddamn it – He reached back, locked onto the flailing hand and pinched three of the fingers tight in his grip.  She drew a pained breath as he yanked her into the fringe of the room’s light.  

She looked like one of the monsters.  Her wild eyes bore into Josh so dangerously that he dropped her hand. She’s losing it.  

“Come on, we have to go.”

Silence.

 Was it really so horrible?  Us fucking?  He felt the rapist’s chorus burning in his throat: it takes two, wasn’t all me, goddamn it you know you wanted to. . .

Something between a cough and a sob choked out of her, and she was past him.  At least she was moving again. Ten minutes ago the whole world had been sweet and wet.  Before the wall.  The masked man.  Glasses jammed between furious teeth.  What the hell is happening?

She entered the room and snorted bitterly.  “Of course, of course.”

The room was a narrow bridge across Hell.   Mannequins hung from inverted crosses flanking the bridge.  Hidden amid violently crimson lights, speakers gurgled out an imitation of the river Styx.  The woman stood just before the beginning of the metal walkway.  Josh needed a second to recognize her as the bearded man’s sister.  Remember, the one you said he was fucking.

Her face broke apart when she saw them.  “Oh God, you got t’help me.  We’ve got t’go back, get Everett -” The tears clogged up the rest.

Josh stepped forward, uncertain what to say, and the Devil dropped from the ceiling.  Amy barked out a cry as the satanic dummy landed between her and Josh. Stepped on a pressure plate – That was all Josh had time for.

Satan jerked to life. He’d dropped from the ceiling via a long two-by-four extending out of his back.  When he began writhing, he looked like the live catch on the end of a harpoon.   He wrenched to the side, breaking the two-by-four with a decisive crunk.   Satan whirled the other way.  The half-foot of wood still jutting from his back caught Josh in the stomach, dropping him.  He coughed and sputtered from his knees  

The realization slammed though Josh, as Amy’s mouth ripped open again.  The high-pitched wailing rushed down the hall, and this time Josh could see the change as it happened.  The sound rippled through the walls, the bridge, the crosses, reality flickering in an inexplicable wave.  And as the wave passed, plywood walls hardened to granite, imitation water gurgles swelled into an oily tide, and what had hung as rubbery dummies now twitched with torn flesh and mind-blasted cries.

“Heeeeelp, heeelllpp usssss . . .”

She’s the gateway.  The Drunken Diplomat, sounding as though he’d dumped a scotch and soda down his lap.  She’s bringing this to life.  A ridiculous thought, utterly insane; such denial had no impact on the sights before him.  Jesus God, I don’t know how but she’s making this real.  Her lust, guilt, fear, it’s all twisting things around, somehow . . .

Satan jitter-bugged toward the redneck’s sister, swinging his hips and giggling.  The woman had begun to fold her hands, to pray, when Satan leapt into a graceful pirouette.  The stake of wood from his back smacked her across the face, knocking her three steps to the right when she only had two.  She dropped toward the water with a whimper, but she only made it halfway there.  Something black and obscenely oblong met her, bursting her open.  The thing dropped back below the water’s surface, ignoring the greasy spot on the wall where an arm sluggishly scraped its way down.

Satan landed from his jump and dropped into a bow. He never saw Amy coming.  She blurred past a kneeling Josh, grunting and snorting hysterically.  She collided with the Prince of Darkness as he was straightening up. Flailing her arms like clumsy clubs, she bashed into him, teetering him to the edge of the platform.   He casually looked over her frantic shoulder and threw Josh a smile like something out of a shark attack.  Satan back-flipped into a half-gainer, breaking the surface with hardly a piddle of oil squirting up.  Amy didn’t stop to savor her victory.  She fled down the bridge, her footsteps a deluge of metallic thuds.

Josh made it to his feet and tore after her.  He cast his eyes down, away from the moanings of the crucified, and caught sight of a sleek shape tracking him beneath the bridge.  He ran faster, bursting through the curtains at the end –

– into a room blistering with light and his selves.  Dozens of two-dimensional heads, all blue-eyed and candy-skinned, searched for Amy.  Six blonde streaks flashed to his right. 

All the Joshs waggled their jaws.  “Amy! Amy!”

The flashes stopped, solidified into one form, still to his right.  Her hands searched the air.  She’s trying to distinguish between the mirrors and the clear passages.

"Amy, stay there?  We're almost out!"

That broke through.  "How do you know?"  "This is the Mirror Maze.   Last year there was a slide from here to the final room.  Just stay put, let me get to you."

His images crept around him.  Some disappeared into corners and emerged at different angles.   The faces looked less and less like him, bending into squiggle mouths and bulging eyes.   He could smell unstale air, though, breezes not trapped in by the twisting Laybirnth walls.  Just a little bit further.  Ahead of him, her body pivoted back and forth in distraction, an animal in a too-small cage.

Oh please stay calm.   “Amy, take it easy, I’m almost there.”

“I hear something!”

“No you don’t, there’s nothing in here but us.”  "There's something coming, I know it!" 

She made as to charge off and then stopped, trapped by reflection. 

He whacked his hand against a pane he’d misjudged.  “Amy, stay cool.  We’ll be fi-“

“Josh!”  She was pointing, her arm thrust like a spear.

He looked over his shoulder in spite of himself.  He caught a light movement in his peripheral vision, a demonic ballerina looking for a new jitter-bug partner.  No!  “Amy, don’t think about him, I’m almost to you.”

“I gotta get out of here!”  She was trying to shove a mirror aside.

“Don’t start screaming! Goddamn it, listen, you’ll make it worse!”  He was within ten feet of her. No, wait. The passage opened up sharp left, so that he was immediately behind her. 

“I’m right here.”  He laid a hand on her shoulder. 

If she’d been looking up, maybe she would have seen his reflection, realized who it was.  But she was looking down, futilely struggling with the mirror, and so his touch yanked a crisp, terror-filled shriek right through her.  His hand clamped involuntarily on her shoulder.  Goddamn it! 

  The mirrors vibrated and shimmered, her echo bouncing from polished surface to polished surface.  Amy turned to face him, her features swollen and disoriented.   And still raging from before, even in the middle of all this shit.  And doomed, as if the echo all around them was like a final bell tolling -

A hand landed on Josh’s shoulder.  It was his own.  Rather, it was his reflection’s, reaching out of its shiny prison.  The reflection flashed Josh’s bedroom grin at him as its palm and fingers sank into Josh’s shoulder.

It felt like dry ice being ground into his skin. Next to him but very distant, he heard more frantic noise from Amy.  The reflection’s wrist was embedded on top of his shoulder blade. He twisted, trying to get a hold of the arm.  His reflection yanked.  Josh tottered, and for a horrible second he thought the reflection would pull him all the way into the mirror.   He swung a clumsy blow forward, a lunging punch that ended with a dull crack.  The frigid touch flittered away.  

Blood spooled around his knuckles like red yarn.  Josh’s reflection had backed deeper into the mirror, as if shrinking.    It’s cleaveged face, one eye now lower than the nose, grimaced at him.  But, oh God, the scene playing out next to the reflection . . .

Amy’s images were dribbling everywhere.  A smirking, clutching horde of arms groped for any purchase against the real Amy’s weak struggles.  One reflection had wrapped itself around her leg; it resembled a scared child grasping a parent, except that it’s face was melting into her leg through a taffy-colored proboscis. Her right arm reached for Josh, burdened by the two other arms that had bled into it.   Amy’s left shoulder and left leg were flatly bending, a right-angled distortion, she’s going into the mirror –

    He spun around in a blind grab, snagging a fistful of sweater.  Immediately three hands collapsed on his own.  He didn’t feel the cold sear of his flesh; all that registered was the dragging, slowly slipping fibers of the wool under his fingers.

“Don’t leave me, Josh.”  Whispered from a limp slit, as if knowing her command is powerless.  Don’t let them take me  -”

And then they did, and her eyes pinched in a final betrayal as she was sucked into the mirror.

The loss of her weight toppled Josh backward.  He spun as he fell, meeting a mirror head-on.  A hot stream opened across his forehead.  He stumbled in a half-crouch, swinging wildly.  His foot hit a plastic slickness; suddenly he was on his stomach, the blood-veiled forms of the Mirror Maze retreating as gravity twisted him down the spiral slide.  An old mattress barely cushioned his landing.            

Absolute darkness: above him, around him, below him.  Hundreds of tiny white speckles glowed like stars; somehow they cast no light.  It felt like he was floating through space.  Alone.  Forsaken. He remembered this room from last year. He hadn’t been lying to Amy; this was the final room of the Labyrinth. You were so close.  He closed his sticky eyes, blocking out the vision of her last look.

He knew there were people in the room, everywhere around him, dressed in black clothing dotted with fluorescent white paint. Only when they charged at you, so that the night itself seemed to come alive, was the final door out revealed.   He stepped tentatively, arms stretched before him.  “Hello? Hello, please, somebody-“ 

And then he heard it.  No need for light.  He could feel it above and behind him; a clamoring, sliding its way down, voiced by something almost too big for the slide.  Its flesh reluctantly skidded against the plastic as it worked its way down.

“Turn on the lights! Hurry! Turn on the lights!” Josh ran deeper into the room, reached out toward the invisible people. “Please! Help me!”  But they wouldn't come out, not yet.  Not quite time, the final scare hand't been unleashed.  The workers coudlnt' see his charms in the night, his beautiful eyes and his tawny skin, and his cries were not impressive.  Just a few more pleadings in a long night of cries for mercy. 

He never heard her hit the mattress. All that filled his ears was the music of a church choir, its members flayed alive.  He felt himself turning to face her, even though he’d made no conscious decision to do so.  No choice, the Drunken Diplomat chimed in softly. His voice was so distant now, probably up at the bar paying his tab. Last call.

She was drooling from all five of her mouths.  Her original.  Two on her arm.  One on her ribcage, almost touched by the eyeball that dangled like a raindrop from her nipple.  The final one emerging vertically from a nest of pubic hair, as if imitating the opening below.  Josh attempted to make some kind of sound: perhaps the last of his sanity, wheezing out from between clenched teeth.  It was lost in the cacophony coming from her.  The gibbering wails pulsed from her, whipping out into the starscape, changing pinpoints of light into gaseous bodies millions of light years away.

But the minions of the sky were closer, and much bigger.  Josh feebly continued to make his indeterminate noise as the night bore down on him, multiple humanoid outlines dark and bounding.  They collapsed on him with the weight of a dropped building.   How many of them?  A dozen? A hundred?  Didn’t matter.  Nothing mattered except for the oblivion of all night bearing down on him, into him, so that breath was gone, his voice undramatically snuffed out.   No sound at all: only the pleading of blood in his ears, thudding in time to the undying echo of her screams.