I put on all of my makeup, which takes about an hour, dress in rags and reapply the coatings of fake blood to my neck. It looks horrific and the rest of me is done up to match. The smell of gasoline is still faint on my hands from nights before. A zombie with a chainsaw is what I am tonight.
It’s Friday night and groups of teenagers are waiting in the dark. They’re waiting to be scared,  waiting to feel the adrenaline in their bodies, hearts pounding in their chests, ready to take off running at any moment. I walk out into the darkness and immediately catch the attention of a group of girls that appear as if they were forced to enter. They watch me, wide-eyed and motionless. They know they are my targets and they don’t like it. I inch closer, groaning and limping, chainsaw dragging at my side, ever so slowly. They panic, hiding behind one another, a few even put up their hoods and turn away. One of them squeals what sounds like the words hide me, but it’s too high-pitched for me to be sure.
Too late,  I think to myself.
Still moving in a forward motion, I  pull the chainsaw cord and it begins to roar. They all jump and their screams sound as if they are traumatized. The blob of teens takes off running in absolute chaos.
I reach out and grab the slowest runner, a tall brunette, and hesitate until the rest are out of the room completely. She is now the ideal victim, helpless and alone.
Anyone on the outside could hear the revving of a chainsaw and the screaming of a teenage girl. The sounds of a typical haunted house, what people on the outside would not know is the scream they heard will be her last. Her limbs will be severed by the weapon I possess the various detached body parts around the rest of the room. A pool of blood where a head should be, the thick metallic smell in the air. They are not plastic and artificial, but real flesh and blood. People would never know what really happens here, in this haunted house.