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He’ll move right first. The corridor curves that way. Most people follow the path of least resistance, especially when adrenaline is still burning through them.
Adrian, however, he’ll clock the nearest exit.
“Four.”
There’s only one public way out, but Adrian doesn’t know the layout like I do, so he’d be running like a headless chicken through the corridors looking for that final exit.
“Three.”
There’s an emergency exit halfway down the third corridor. Big red light with clear signage. It is a direct access to the service alley behind the haunted house.
I peeked in the direction he ran; if he keeps going, he’ll run straight into that door.
“Two.”
The staff entrances are concealed behind swinging panels. Only someone who’s worked the layout would recognize them. He doesn’t know those exists. If I’m right, which I always am, he’ll choose the emergency exit.
“One.”
I drop my hands from the frame and start running. Purposefully, just like the way we were taught when one becomes a scare actor, especially for a company like Phantom Productions.
The first hallway erupts into strobe light as I clear the doorway. Actors leap at guests. Mechanisms roar. Someone collides with my shoulder and apologizes mid-scream, before realizing what I am and bolting in the opposite direction.
I cut right, through a side panel hidden between fake brick facades; that’s a staff shortcut.
Two strides.
Three.
I re-enter the public corridor ahead of where he’ll emerge from the strobe section.
He’s agile, but that I already know, and so does the scar on my leg.
I catch a glimpse of him through the hanging plastic strips. Adrian’s head snaps toward the glowing red emergency sign, just like I predicted.
I move again. This time I let my boots hit harder against the plywood floor. I let him hear me now. The hunt only works if the prey knows he’s being chased.
The red bar crashes open. Then darkness second.
The emergency door slams shut behind us with a metallic clang that swallows the music and the screams in one clean cut.
We find ourselves in the service alley. Generator units hum along the wall. Coiled cables snake across the ground in thick black loops. A stack of spare props leans against a chain-link fence that separates the event grounds from the empty lot beyond that meets forest.
Motion detection security lights buzz overhead in harsh white pools.
Adrian doesn’t stop running immediately. He clears the door and puts six, maybe seven strides between us before turning sharply, scanning for exits. Fence to the left with a locked gate. Dumpster to the right with a narrow passage leading toward the generator cluster.
While he calculates in silence, I pull the ram skull mask off again and let it hang loosely in my hand for a second before dropping it onto a stack of crates.
No need for theatre now.
His attention pins back onto me. His breathing is controlled again—not perfect, but steady enough.
“You picked the right door,” I say conversationally, stepping into the alley proper as I pull one hand through charcoal-painted strands.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he moves first. He darts right, toward the narrow passage between the generator and the temporary fencing. It’s a gamble with its tight spacing and limited mobility, but he’s betting on reducing my reach.
Smart.
