CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Benjamin Clarke hated Halloween. No, worse than that. He loathed it with a passion that bordered on the pathological. The incessant screaming, the cheap jump scares, the sugar-fueled brats running around like gremlins on crack. It was his idea of a personal hell.

But an electrician needed to eat, and bills didn't pay themselves. So here he was, perched atop a ladder in the bowels of some haunted house, trying to ignore the cacophony of shrieks and artificial thunder that echoed through the place like a banshee's mating call.

Fake terror, manufactured horror. What a load of garbage. Benjamin had seen real terror. He'd felt it in his bones when the doctor told him his wife had six months to live. He'd tasted it in the back of his throat when he opened that final medical bill.

The stuff going on beyond the walls of this room? Child's play.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and left a smear of grime in its place. ‘Goddamn cheapskate wiring,' he muttered as he fiddled with a jumble of cables that looked like they'd been installed by a drunk chimp. ‘Gonna get someone killed one of these days.'

Not that anyone would notice an extra body or two in this place. The way these haunted houses kept popping up around Yamhill, it was like the whole damn town had a death wish.

According to the stenciled sign in front of him, this room was the Execution Chamber. The owner of this place had called Benny up yesterday evening, practically begging him to fix the lighting in here on the quick. Benny had idly hoped that he could get in and get out before the afternoon patrons arrived and turned this place into a shriek-fest, but luck hadn't been in his favor. Two hours in and he was still barely halfway into untangling this mess.

He yanked at a particularly stubborn wire. The electrical system in this place was a joke, a fire hazard waiting to happen. But the owner, some trust fund brat with more money than sense, had insisted on authenticity. Wanted the lights to flicker just so, wanted the timing perfect for maximum scares.

Benny shifted on the ladder, rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck. Two hours of staring upwards and his neck muscles had turned to concrete. He might only be fifty, but he'd finally consigned to the belief that he was too old for this crap. Late nights, crawling around in dusty attics and dank basements, all to keep the lights on for a bunch of jaded teenagers and bored housewives looking for cheap thrills.

A particularly shrill scream pierced the air, followed by a chorus of laughter. Benny rolled his eyes. Probably some sorority chick getting felt up by a dude in a rubber mask. Real classy joint, this place.

He took a deep breath, trying to center himself. Focus on the job, Benny. Get it done, get paid, get out. Simple as that.

Benny reached for his pliers, his mind already on the six-pack waiting for him at home, when a sound made him pause.

Footsteps, echoing up the narrow corridor that led to this restricted corner of the attraction.

Benny frowned. This section was supposed to be off-limits, closed for repairs. He'd made damn sure of that, even hung up a sign and everything. The last thing he needed was some half-drunk teen stumbling in and getting a face full of live wires. Then they'd know what a real shock felt like.

‘Hey,' he called out, not bothering to turn around. ‘This area's off-limits. Can't you read the signs?'

‘Apologies,' a voice replied, smooth as oil on water. ‘I work here. I just need to grab something.'

Benny grunted, not in the mood for conversation. ‘Whatever. Just don't touch anything.'

‘Just ignore me. I'll be out of your hair in a second.'

He glanced back at the man, who was now standing alarmingly close to the base of the ladder. If this creep knocked him, then Benny would have no hesitation going scorched earth after the day he'd had. He'd been for hours, and he sure as hell hadn't seen this guy before. As far as he knew, the only other person here was the owner and those dumb actors.

But hey, what did he know? Maybe the owner had hired some new blood and forgotten to mention it. Wouldn't be the first time the management had left him in the dark.

Benny shook his head and turned back to the tangled mess of wires. He fished out his voltage tester from his tool belt, determined to locate the short that was causing the flickering. These old places were a nightmare of knob-and-tube wiring, aluminum circuits mixed with copper. It was like playing Operation, except instead of a buzzer, one wrong move could fry you to a crisp.

He prodded at a suspicious-looking connection, watching the needle on the tester jump. There, that was the culprit. A loose neutral wire, probably shaken free by all the tromping around overhead. He'd need to shut off the main power, splice in a new section.

Benny was so engrossed in his task that he barely registered the sound of movement behind him. The stranger, probably, grabbing whatever he needed. Benny paid him no mind, focused on splicing a new length of 12-gauge wire into the existing circuit.

‘Just need to tie this neutral into the bus bar,' he murmured to himself, ‘then we can start testing the…'

White-hot agony exploded in his right calf, cutting off his words mid-sentence. The pain was so sudden, so intense, that for a moment Benny's mind went completely blank.

The shock of it ripped a scream from his throat before he could bite it back. He looked down, expecting to see a live wire or an exposed nail. But instead, he saw the glint of a steel blade protruding from his leg.

His brain struggled to process the image, to reconcile it with reality. This wasn't right. This wasn't supposed to happen. Injuries on the job meant a frayed wire or a bruised thumb. Not…. this.

The pain radiated up his leg like liquid fire. His vision swam, his grip on the ladder faltering. He grappled for purchase, but his hands were slick with sweat, his muscles seized with agony. He felt himself falling, a dizzying rush of motion. The concrete floor rose up to meet him, and the impact forced the air from his lungs.

Benny lay there, gasping, trying to blink away the black spots dancing across his vision.

Then a shadow fell over him, and he squinted up at the figure looming above.

A man in a mask. The same stranger who'd come in a minute ago? Benny didn't know. All he could see was a stark white face leering down at him. And the eyes – they were weeping, bloody tears streaming down the pallid cheeks.

Terror seized him then, colder and sharper than the pain in his leg. This was no accident, no random act of violence.

Then the man was kneeling beside him, and Benny caught a glimpse of what was in his hands.

A coil of rope in one, the glint of the bloody knife in the other.

The stranger raised the knife, and Benny's own fuse blew for good.