“Finally, home sweet hell,” I sighed under my breath, striding through the front door and heading up the stairs. My wooden mules clicked sharply against each step, echoing through the sorority house’s empty hallway. The denim skirt clung snugly as I ascended, my light blue cardigan slipping off one shoulder. I adjusted it impatiently, the ribbon choker around my neck suddenly feeling tighter than it had during my last class.
The day had been long. I, like my sorority sisters, was looking forward to the Halloween weekend. My fingers brushed against the choker ribbon as I reached the top landing, the stiff material scratching lightly against my skin. Below, the house lay quiet—too quiet for a Friday afternoon. Where was everyone? Probably already pre-gaming at Sigma Chi or scrambling for last-minute costume pieces.
Amanda was supposed to have picked up our costumes after class. I pushed open the door to our shared room, expecting chaos—sequins on the floor, feather boas draped over chairs—but found only sterile neatness. My stomach dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, plopping down at my vanity. I dangled one of the mules off my toes, then the other, letting them swing in a silent little game until they finally clattered to the floor. My bare feet felt alien against the cool hardwood—I practically never go barefoot, I don’t even shower without flip-flops. The unfamiliar texture of the floorboards beneath my arches made me shiver.
Slipping my mules back on felt like armor clicking into place, the smooth leather soles hugged my arches, that familiar lift returning my posture to its practiced perfection. I caught my reflection in the vanity mirror—blonde hair slightly mussed, my blue eyes widened with annoyance. My fingers instinctively flew to my purse, pulling out my hairbrush and a compact. A quick dusting of powder banished the shine from my nose, a swipe of gloss restored the perfect pout, and well practiced motions had my hair falling down in a neat golden waterfall.
It didn’t matter that I’d still needed to take a shower, or that once Amanda finally showed up with the costumes we’d all get ready together. Perfection was a lifestyle for me, and I wouldn’t be caught dead without my signature look, not even alone in my own room. My reflection stared back—blonde hair smoothed, gloss reapplied, annoyance replaced by cool composure. Satisfied, I snapped the compact shut with a decisive click, the silence pressed in heavier now. Where ‘was’ Amanda? We were supposed to be dressing in our costumes before heading to Sigma Chi’s bash by now.
I aimed to be head of Omega Phi Alpha someday—that meant never letting standards slip, it also meant the sooner we left the sooner I could stand out. But Amanda’s tardiness frayed my nerves. My phone buzzed—a group text from Chloe: ‘Sigma Chi courtyard already packed! Hurry up losers!’ followed by a blurry selfie of her and Serena laughing, plastic cups raised. Behind them, strobe lights pulsed against frat house windows. My jaw tightened. They hadn’t waited.
They were from the neighboring house—Pi Kappa Phi. “Amanda!” I hissed, as if I’d summoned her out of thin air she stumbled through the doorway, clutching a pair of garment bags to her chest. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes wide and slightly unfocused. Tiffany and Britney followed behind each carrying their own garment bag.
“Where the hell have you been?” I demanded, my voice tight. “Sigma Chi’s courtyard is already packed!”
“I’m sorry! The Spirit Shack was ‘sold out’,” Amanda gasped, dropping the garment bags onto my bed with a puff of glitter. Her fingers trembled as she unzipped the first bag. “Like, completely gutted. Nothing but cheap vampire teeth and ripped fishnets left. I had to drive downtown to Sally’s Boutique, you know that place by the art gallery? These aren’t Party City, Mal. Sally’s does ‘high-end’ costumes. These…” she gestured weakly at the pile, “…cost more than my car payment.”
“Really?” I asked, a smile spreading across my face as I stepped closer.
“Please tell me you’re going to reimburse me, or I’m gonna be eating instant ramen until Christmas,” Amanda pleaded, digging into her purse for the receipt. The slip unfurled like a scroll, nearly brushing the floor. “See? Four hundred eighty-seven dollars.”
“Well first, what’d you get?” I asked curiously, as I looked at the opaque garment bags Amanda had brought with her.
“I got Tiffany a ‘Dark Enchantress’ look,” Amanda announced, pointing to Tiffany who held up a garment bag. Unzipping it revealed a sheer black bodysuit layered under jagged strips of faux leather armor, thigh-high stiletto boots with silver spikes climbing the heels, and a crown of twisted obsidian horns. “It’s edgy, right? Perfect for flirting with Sigma Chi’s president—he’s into goth chicks.”
“Excellent, next?” I asked, eyeing the garment bag Britney was clutching smugly.
“For Britney I got a mermaid princess,” Amanda continued, signaling for Britney to unzip her bag. Inside lay shimmering silver scales—a mermaid costume with a plunging neckline that flowed into a sheer, iridescent tail skirt slit dangerously high on both sides. “She’ll be drowning in attention tonight.” Britney giggled, already holding the costume against herself.
“Looks like I’ll be spending a lot of time poolside,” Britney giggled, already holding the shimmering scales against herself.
“What did you get for you?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. Amanda flushed deeper as she unzipped her own bag. “I’m… uh… ‘Forest Nymph Gone Wild’?” She pulled out a scandalously short tunic made of faux leaves, paired with thigh-high vine-patterned boots and a circlet of glowing plastic mushrooms. The outfit left nothing to imagination, with strategic gaps in the foliage. Britney snorted. “More like ‘Desperate Woodland Creature’.” Amanda shot her a glare but kept unzipping the last bag with theatrical flourish. “And for our queen…”
She paused dramatically, letting the plastic rustle. “I got you…” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “A genuine vintage Playboy Bunny costume.” The hanger slid free, revealing satin ears perched atop a shimmering black leotard. Strappy stilettos dangled from the hanger, impossibly high. “Sally had it in their archival collection. Said it was worn in a 1980s photoshoot.” Amanda’s eyes met mine, gleaming. “Because let’s be real, Mal—you already look like you stepped out of a pin-up calendar every damn Tuesday. Why not own it?”
My fingers brushed the cool, slick satin of the leotard. It felt heavier than I expected, substantial—not the flimsy polyester crap sold at cheap Halloween stores. The black was deep, almost liquid under the overhead light, absorbing it rather than reflecting. The plunging neckline and the high-cut leg openings caught the light with a subtle, expensive shimmer. The matching satin ears felt firm, structured with wire beneath the velvet lining. Even the tail was perfection—a fluffy white powder puff attached with a delicate satin ribbon.
The white dress shirt cuffs and collar were a bright white with gold cufflinks and collar tips. The satin lapels were sharp and stiff. However what really drew my attention were the shoes… oh the shoes. Black five inch patent leather stilettos with a silver buckle strap at the ankle. They weren’t taller than anything I owned, but they were sharper, sleeker, more dangerous looking than my usual Louboutins. The kind of heels that said ‘I’ll stab you with my footwear before you touch me’.
“It's perfect… Amanda when I’m head of Omega Phi Alpha next year, you’re gonna be vice president,” I breathed, tracing the sharp lapel edge. “Alright ladies, let's armor up.”
A quick yet thorough shower later the four of us sat in nothing but towels shoulder to shoulder as we did our makeup and hair. Tiffany went full dark enchantress—smoky eyeshadow layered to near-black, sharp winged liner extending like dagger points, and lips stained a deep, vampiric plum. Her dark hair was slicked back into a severe high ponytail, strands escaping to frame her face in calculated disarray. Britney embraced the mermaid fantasy: iridescent blue and green shimmer dusted across her lids, highlighter blazing on her cheekbones like captured moonlight, and lips glossed with pearly pink. Her blonde waves were twisted into a messy fishtail braid, tendrils escaping to cling damply to her neck.
Amanda leaned into her woodland persona with earthy bronze tones smudged around her eyes like forest shadows, freckles painted across her nose bridge with liquid liner, and lips stained purple. She braided sections of her auburn hair with plastic ivy, leaving the rest wild around her shoulders. “Desperate Woodland Creature reporting for duty,” she muttered, winking at Britney while adjusting a glowing mushroom clip above her ear.
Me, I decided to take a vintage route as a classic Hollywood bombshell, my makeup palette was all about precision. First, the eyes: smoky, but sharp. I blended charcoal gray into the deepest corners, building it layer by layer with a tiny angled brush until it looked like smoldering velvet. Silver highlighter dusted the inner corners and brow bones, catching the light with every blink. False lashes—individual clusters, painstakingly applied—gave them that heavy-lidded, come-hither weight. No clumpy spider-legs here, just perfection.
The lips were next, man-eater red. Not orange-red, not blue-red—true crimson, thick and velvety. I lined them first, exaggerating the Cupid’s bow into a sharp, defined point. Then came the matte lipstick itself, applied with a brush for crisp edges. One coat, blot, another coat. Deep, saturated, impossible to ignore. A final slick of clear gloss over the center made them look wet, dangerous. Like freshly spilled blood.
“Armor on, let's get dressed,” I commanded, snapping open the garment bag. First things first, fishnet stockings, not the cheap kind that would tear at a glance. These were sheer perfection, diamond-patterned with a single long seam going up the back. I rolled them slowly up my legs, the nylon whispering against freshly shaved skin, next came the leotard. The satin was cool and slick as I stepped into it, pulling it up carefully over my hips. The fit was shockingly snug, sculpting every curve without pinching. The satin lapels framed my cleavage like a picture frame. The collar tips and cufflinks gleamed coldly under the vanity lights. The tail—a fluffy white powder puff—felt delightfully ridiculous as I pinned it securely at the base of my spine.
All that was left were the ears and shoes. I lifted the satin ears—velvet-lined inside, surprisingly sturdy—and settled them atop my freshly blown-out hair. My blonde locks cascaded straight down my shoulders, gleaming under the vanity lights, with just the faintest hint of wave kissing the ends. A final adjustment, and they perched perfectly, tilted forward with playful intent.
Stepping fishnet covered toes delicately into the patent leather heels felt like clicking a loaded weapon into place. Five inches of lethal elevation. The silver buckle strap snapped snug around my ankle, cold metal kissing bone. My reflection in the vanity mirror wasn’t Mallory anymore—it was pure, predatory allure. I was a pin-up like Amanda said, but sharper, darker.
“Everyone ready?” I asked, turning from my reflection to face my sisters. Three costumed beauties met my gaze—Tiffany’s dark enchantress smolder, Britney’s aquatic shimmer, Amanda’s chaotic woodland charm—together with my own vintage bombshell allure, we were a visual symphony. “Let’s go own that party.”
~•~ Twenty Minutes Later ~•~
“Damn, look at that,” Britney groaned, leaning out Tiffany’s convertible window as we crawled toward Sigma Chi. The street was choked with cars—Ubers, Lyfts, frat bros’ jacked-up trucks—all idling under pulsing strobe lights bleeding from the house. Music thumped like a heartbeat gone feral, bass vibrating through the pavement into the car’s chassis. The air smelled like spilled beer, cheap cologne, and the sharp tang of dry ice fog machines. Already, costumed bodies spilled onto the lawn: zombies staggering with plastic cups, superheroes posing for selfies, a group of guys in inflatable T-rex suits stumbling toward the keg line.
“We’re gonna turn some heads. Tiffany, find a place to park so we-what is that?” I asked, pointing the house next door to Sigma Chi.
Pi Kappa Phi’s house stood darkly beside the pulsing Sigma Chi mansion, transformed into something unnerving. Fog machines choked its porch with thick, gray vapor that spilled onto the lawn like spectral fingers. Strings of flickering orange lights—bulbs shaped like hollowed-out pumpkins—cast jagged shadows across boarded-up windows. A massive, ratty spiderweb stretched across the entire second-floor balcony, complete with a foam spider the size of a beach ball. The front door hung slightly ajar, revealing only pitch blackness inside. A cardboard sign nailed crookedly to the porch railing read “BLOODBATH MANOR” in dripping red paint. It looked less like a Halloween decoration and more like a warning.
Britney wrinkled her nose, pointing a glitter-dusted finger. “Oh, ‘that’ disaster? Total humiliation.” She leaned further out the window, raising her voice over the thumping bass bleeding from Sigma Chi. “Pi Kap lost some stupid bet to Sigma Chi last week—something about who could shotgun a beer faster while blindfolded? Anyway, the losers had to turn ‘their’ house into the other’s personal haunted house for tonight.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “As the winner, Sigma Chi has planned some ‘games’… they’re keeping secret until later. Probably some dumb test of courage bullshit or a scavenger hunt through the fog machine soup.”
“Whatever, just find us a spot,” I snapped, already annoyed by the delay. Tiffany squeezed her convertible into a tiny little spot up the street, wedged between a jacked-up truck and an overflowing dumpster. The walk back toward Sigma Chi was ridiculous—my stilettos clicking furiously on the pavement, but I owned that walk. Heads turned, a zombie frat bro dropped his red Solo cup, cheap beer splashing his ripped jeans. “Damn, Bunny,” he slurred, eyes glued to my fishnets. I didn’t break stride. Perfection demanded attention.
Inside Sigma Chi’s courtyard, chaos reigned, bodies pressed together under pulsing strobe lights. The air was thick with sweat, cheap beer, and the cloying sweetness of fog machine juice. Britney vanished instantly into the crowd, probably hunting for Sigma Chi’s treasurer—her current fling. Tiffany scanned the room like a hawk, zeroing in on the goth-leaning Sigma Chi president lurking near the keg. Amanda clung to my elbow, looking slightly overwhelmed by the sensory assault.
“Stick close,” I murmured, leaning in so she could hear me over the bass. “And keep your eyes peeled for Silus.” My gaze swept the room, sharp and assessing looking for the Sigma Chi quarterback. “He’s mine tonight.” Amanda nodded, her glowing mushroom circlet bobbing. “Tall, dark, and currently single? Consider him hunted.”
We pushed deeper into the pulsing heart of the party. Sweat-slicked bodies pressed against us on all sides—a zombie with peeling face paint leered too close, a pirate missing an eye patch reached out with grubby fingers. I kept my elbows tucked in, my posture a fortress of practiced elegance. A hand shot out from a cluster of drunken Spartans, aiming for the satin curve of my hip.
I sidestepped smoothly, letting the grab brush only air. The stilettos became weapons, extensions of my will—I planted one sharp heel squarely on the instep of a stumbling cowboy who got too handsy. His yelp was swallowed by the bass as I sailed past without a backward glance. Amanda stayed glued to my side, her vine-patterned boots navigating the sticky floor with surprising agility.
“Remind me,” she hissed, ducking beneath a swaying inflatable T-rex arm, “why we thought this was a good idea?”
“How else am I supposed to land Silus?” I shot back, scanning the writhing mass of bodies.
“Mallory!” The sound of our sorority’s current president Audrey cut through the thumping bass. She pushed through the crowd toward us, her Cleopatra costume shimmering with gold lamé. Her eyes widened as she took in my outfit. “Holy shit, Mal. You look… lethal.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Come on, there’s some guys I wanna introduce you to.”
‘Great, all I need is for Audrey to try and pimp me out to some random pledges,’ I thought bitterly.
With Amanda following close behind, we headed upstairs to Sigma Chi’s notorious third-floor lounge. The air thickened with the scent of spilled whiskey and clove cigarettes. Bodies packed the dim space, illuminated only by flickering orange bulbs strung haphazardly across the ceiling beams. A group of guys in torn lab coats laughed raucously around a beer pong table littered with red cups. Audrey navigated through them like royalty, her gold lamé gown shimmering in the gloom.
“There they are,” Audrey announced, leading us towards a set of lounge chairs surrounding a low table littered with shot glasses and beer bottles. Silus stood near the window, unmistakable even in his Thor costume—the ridiculous plastic muscles stretched taut over his quarterback shoulders, blond wig slightly askew. My pulse quickened. ‘Finally.’ But Audrey veered sharply left, bypassing him entirely. She stopped before a plush velvet armchair occupied by a man draped in a crimson silk robe worn open over a bare, hairy chest. Fake gray chest hair tufted over the collar, thick-framed black glasses perched on his nose, and a pipe—unlit—clenched between his teeth. Hugh Hefner. Or rather, Pi Kappa Phi’s president, Derek Vance.
“Hey Derek, talk about serendipity huh, look who I found!” Audrey announced, steering me toward the armchair with a proprietary hand on my satin-clad shoulder. My smile froze mid-pout. Derek Vance—Pi Kap’s president—peered up through thick-framed glasses, a lazy smug smile spreading as he looked me up and down with slow, deliberate appreciation that made my fishnets crawl. “Well now,” he drawled, plucking the unlit pipe from his mouth. “I wondered where my bunnies escaped to tonight.” His robe gaped wider, revealing more of the ridiculous fake chest hair glued to his sternum.
Before I could deliver a cutting remark, a familiar voice cut through the smoky air. “Vance! You promised us carnage by ten.” Silus materialized beside Derek’s chair, Thor’s plastic hammer dangling carelessly from his wrist strap. “My brothers are getting restless, when do the games start?”
“Games?” I asked, hoping Silus would take notice of me. Silus finally turned, his gaze sliding past Audrey and landing squarely on me. His eyes—a startlingly clear blue beneath the crooked Thor wig—widened slightly. A slow grin spread across his face.
“Yeah, we set up Bloodbath Manor next door,” Silus said, nodding toward the boarded-up Pi Kap house visible through the window. His gaze lingered on my fishnets before snapping back to my face. “It's based on that horror game ‘Midnight Hunt’. A single classic horror villain—Jason, Michael Myers, Leatherface—hunts sorority girls collecting items. Derek’s frat house is perfect for it.” He gestured vaguely at Derek, who smirked around his pipe. “Sororities from both our university and the university on the other side of town are competing. Each team sends three girls inside. They have to find three specific items hidden in different rooms: a porcelain doll head, a rusted garden shears, and a vial of fake blood. The frat next door provides a hunter whose job is to capture them, if you’re caught, you get tied up and if you can’t get free, you become part of the haunted house display for an hour; you get hogtied and gagged like a true damsel in distress. Doesn’t that sound fun?”
The Idea sounded horrifying—dark, confined spaces, being chased by some masked frat bro hopped up on testosterone and cheap beer. Amanda recoiled beside me, whispering, “Mal, absolutely not.” Audrey wrinkled her nose. “Barbaric.”
Silus frowned at their reactions, seeing the opportunity garner his favor I stepped forward, my patent leather stilettos clicking sharply on the hardwood floor. “Barbaric? Sounds thrilling,” I purred, placing a hand on Silus’s plastic-armored forearm.
“See uh…”
“Mallory.” I filled in the blank for Silus, flashing a smile sharp enough to cut glass.
“Right, Mallory here has the spirit,” Silus grinned, his plastic hammer swinging as he gestured toward me. “See? Someone gets it.” His gaze lingered on my fishnets, then traveled slowly up to meet my eyes. “It’s not barbaric—it’s immersive. Like stepping into your own horror flick.”
“Well Mallory, if you're that eager, your sorority is first. Audrey you need to get two more of your sisters ready,” Derek announced, his grin widening as he looked me up and down.
Audrey groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fine. But if anyone loses an eye, I’m blaming you, Vance.” Derek merely chuckled, puffing his unlit pipe.
Amanda grabbed my elbow, her plastic ivy trembling. “Mal, are you insane? Those Pi Kap idiots probably rigged the whole thing!”
I shook her off gently. “Relax, it’s just a game and Silus will be watching.” My gaze locked onto the quarterback’s amused blue eyes.
~•~
“Why me?” Amanda hissed, clutching my arm as she and a pledge whose name I couldn’t remember stood in front of Bloodbath Manor’s gaping doorway. Fog poured out, thick and cold, smelling of damp earth and cheap chemicals. The porch groaned under our heels. “Because,” I whispered back, adjusting my satin ears, “I need someone I trust to watch my back, and Silus is ‘right there’.” I nodded toward the Sigma Chi porch where Silus along with a crowd of onlookers watched.
“But we’re supposed to split up!” Amanda whisper-hissed, her vine-patterned boots shifting nervously on the creaking porch boards. The pledge—Sarah, I finally remembered—stood frozen beside her, clutching her cheap witch’s hat like a shield.
“Pfff, you stand guard at whichever room’s door I’m searching,” I countered, keeping my voice low as fog curled around my ankles. “If you see anything moving, you let me know that way we don’t get snuck up on.”
“But what if I get caught?” Amanda whispered, her voice tight as fog slithered around her legs.
“It’s just a game, how bad could it be?” I whispered back, ignoring the icy knot in my stomach. The idea sounded horrible—being hunted in that decaying looking mansion by some frat boy in a mask. But Silus was watching, his blue eyes fixed on me from Sigma Chi’s porch. This was my chance. My fingers tightened around the cool metal of a flashlight Silus had shoved into my hand.
The sound of a whistle blowing echoed through the fog—sharp, piercing. Game time. Amanda shot me one last panicked glance before we plunged through the doorway into absolute darkness. Cold, damp air slapped my face, thick with the scent of mildew and something metallic—fake blood, probably. The scents smelled very authentic, you’d almost forget everything was an illusion and not genuine rot. My flashlight beam cut a shaky path through swirling gray mist, illuminating peeling floral wallpaper and warped floorboards coated in dust. Somewhere deeper in the house, a floorboard creaked ominously.
Signaling the pledge to head into the dining room to the right while Amanda and I headed into the large den to the left. My flashlight beam swept across the room—a forgotten looking space choked with dust-covered furniture draped in ghostly white sheets. Fog curled around claw-footed armchairs, thickening near the boarded-up bay window where moonlight struggled to penetrate. The air tasted stale, thick with decay. Somewhere nearby, footsteps thumped—heavy, deliberate. Amanda whimpered beside me, her vine-patterned boots shuffling nervously on the creaking floorboards. “Mal, I swear I just heard—”
“Oh for Pete’s sake, it’s just a ga-“ the sound of Sarah’s screaming cut me off mid-sentence—a raw, ragged shriek that tore through the stale air like shattered glass, followed by heavy footsteps pounding down the hallway toward the stairs. The sound of dragging heels and muffled crying echoed through the walls. Amanda froze, her breath catching in her throat as her fingers dug into my satin sleeve.
Frozen in the den’s suffocating gloom, Amanda’s grip on my arm tightened like a vise. Sarah’s screams echoed—not just fear, but pain—raw and jagged, swallowed by the house’s oppressive silence. The sounds of a struggle snapped me out of my hesitation. This wasn’t just frat boy theatrics anymore, that scream held real terror. My pulse hammered against my ribs, but beneath the fear, a sharp thrill ignited. Silus was watching. The entire Sigma Chi porch was watching. This was my stage.
“Come on, let’s hurry while he’s distracted!” I hissed, pulling Amanda deeper into the den’s gloom. The flashlight beam trembled in my hand as I swept it over sheet-draped furniture. Dust motes danced wildly in the light while my ears strained to hear past Amanda’s ragged breathing—listening for the sound of heavy footsteps returning. Finally I spotted it, a porcelain doll head lying discarded on the seat of a rocking chair. Its painted blue eyes stared blankly upward. “Got one!” I whispered triumphantly, snatching it up. The cold porcelain felt unnervingly smooth against my satin-covered palm.
“O-okay, w-where do we g-go next?” Amanda stammered, her vine-patterned boots shuffling closer as fog curled around our ankles. The doll head’s cold porcelain pressed against my palm—proof I could conquer this ridiculous game.
“Let’s check the kitchen,” I hissed, shoving the doll head into the satin bag that had been provided. Amanda nodded frantically, her glowing mushroom circlet casting eerie green shadows on the peeling wallpaper as we crept toward the back hallway. The house groaned around us—old wood settling like dying breaths, whether the sound was actually coming from the building or speakers hidden in the fog I couldn’t tell. The sounds of struggling had lessened and a muffled moaning echoed from upstairs. Amanda flinched at every creak. “Mal, this feels… wrong. That scream—”
“Think about it later, come on,” I snapped, pulling her toward the kitchen doorway. “Now, wait here and keep an eye out.”
Amanda pressed herself against the peeling wallpaper beside the door while I slipped into the kitchen. The stench hit me first—rancid grease and something sour, like spoiled milk mixed with copper. My flashlight beam cut through thick fog, revealing cracked linoleum tiles and a chipped porcelain sink piled high with dirty dishes. Cobwebs draped the cabinets like dusty lace. My stilettos clicked softly on the grimy floor as I scanned the room. Where would they hide garden shears? A tool drawer? The pantry?
I moved toward a warped wooden pantry door, its handle slick with grime. As I reached for it, a soft, choked squeak came from the hallway. Amanda, probably just startled by a rat. I rolled my eyes internally—typical Amanda despite being one of us she tended to be an alarmist. Gripping the handle, I yanked the pantry door open. Inside, shelves sagged under cans of expired vegetables and dusty jars. No garden shears, disappointed, I turned back toward the hallway. “Amanda, anything out there?”
…
“Amanda?” Looking up from the pantry’s gloom, I scanned the fog-choked hallway. Empty, only peeling wallpaper and swirling gray mist greeted me. My grip tightened on the flashlight. “Amanda, this isn’t funny!”
Silence answered, thick and suffocating. Then, a faint glimmer near the floorboards caught my eye—a soft, phosphorescent green glow seeping from beneath a sheet-draped side table. My breath hitched. ‘Her mushroom circlet.’
Taking quick dainty steps I quickly made my way over to the doorway just in time to see a masked figure dragging Amanda away. She was struggling against the masked figure who wore a dirty mechanic’s jumpsuit and a grotesque leather mask—stitched together crudely like Frankenstein’s monster. Amanda’s vine-patterned boots scraped desperately against the dusty floorboards as she was hauled backward into the swirling fog choking the staircase landing. Her muffled cries sounded too real—too raw—for cheap theatrics.
The masked figure wasn't simply guiding his captured ‘victim’ away, he was dragging Amanda backwards by her torso, her fingers clawing uselessly at the leather-gloved hand clamped over her mouth. I watched, frozen, as she was dragged up the stairs, her terrified eyes locked onto mine through the banister rails until they vanished into the second-floor gloom.
‘Shit, this is way too intense.’ Still, if I wanted to impress Silus I needed to get the other items. The doll head felt unnervingly cold against my hip inside the satin bag. Amanda was gone—captured. Panic clawed at my throat, but I swallowed it down. The kitchen had been a let down, moving to the nearest doorway I looked inside to find a dusty looking study. Bookshelves lined the walls, their contents obscured by thick layers of dust and fog. An ancient-looking desk dominated the center, its surface littered with fake cobwebs and scattered papers.
There, laying in the middle of the desk on a crumpled stack of newspapers was a vial filled with thick, crimson liquid—the fake blood. ‘Gotcha.’ My pulse hammered against my ribs—half terror, half exhilaration. Creeping inside as the sounds of struggles from the second floor intensified, I snatched the vial. The cold glass burned my palm as I shoved it into the satin bag beside the doll head. Two down, one to go. Rusted garden shears. Where would Pi Kap idiots hide— ‘gotta be upstairs.’
Sighing with resignation I made my way out of the study and towards the stairs, my stilettos sinking into the thick dust coating the hallway runner. The second floor landing loomed ahead, shrouded in thicker fog that reeked of damp plaster and something faintly coppery. Amanda’s muffled cries had stopped, replaced by whimpering and the rhythmic ‘thump-thump-thump’ of something heavy being dragged across floorboards somewhere overhead.
Reaching the second floor I had to decide left or right, which given the whimpers coming from the right made it an easy choice. Left it was. The hallway stretched long and dark, at least up here I didn’t have any fog to contend with. The air hung thick and stale, smelling of old wood and dust. Moonlight filtered through cracks in the boarded-up window at the end of the hall, casting jagged strips of silver across peeling wallpaper and bare floorboards. My flashlight beam trembled slightly as I swept it ahead—nothing but closed doors and shadows.
Picking a door at random, I pushed it open—a bathroom. Empty clawfoot tub, cracked sink, but no sign of garden shears. The next door revealed a linen closet stacked with moth-eaten towels. Frustration prickled my skin. Where were they? Amanda’s muffled sobs echoed from down the hall, sharpening my focus.
After another two empty rooms—a dusty nursery with a rocking horse draped in cobwebs, and a maid’s closet smelling sharply of bleach—I finally pushed open the last door on the left. The hinges screamed in protest. Inside, moonlight poured through a gap in the boarded window, illuminating a bedroom. Well, maybe it had been a bedroom at one point, now it looked more like a gore-styled workshop. Chains hung from the ceiling beams, dangling hooks above a stained workbench littered with fake knives, duct tape rolls, and coils of frayed rope.
I shivered in fear and was about to turn around when I spotted them—gleaming dully on the workbench beneath a coiled rope—the rusted garden shears. My breath caught. ‘Got it.’ I darted forward, satin bag bouncing against my hip. Just as my fingers brushed the cold metal handles, a leather clad hand clamped over my mouth.
“MMMMPHH!” I screamed against the leather glove crushing my lips, the sound muffled and thick. The masked figure—Frankenstein’s monster, crude stitches gleaming in the moonlight—wrenched me backwards. My stilettos skidded uselessly on the dusty floorboards. He spun me in a full circle disorienting me before slamming me face-first onto the grimy workbench. Fake knives clattered to the floor. My satin bag slid away, spilling the porcelain doll head and vial of fake blood.
The gloved hand slid down my face prying open my jaw. Before I could scream again, something thick and foul-tasting—damp wool, sour sweat—was crammed deep into my mouth. I gagged violently, tears springing to my eyes. The sock filled every crevice, pressing my tongue flat. A rough bandana followed, knotted savagely behind my teeth, cleave gagging me and sealing the horror inside. My muffled screams were pathetic whimpers against the leather mask’s hollow gaze.
The room spun—workbench, moonlight, dangling chains—as the masked figure hurled me back and downwards. My stilettos caught nothing but air and I crashed onto the dusty floorboards, the impact jarring my teeth against the foul gag. Before I could twist away, I found my thighs being straddled by the heavy leather jumpsuit clad figure, trapping my legs beneath his weight. My wrists were seized in a pair of gloved hands, and wrenched behind my back with brutal efficiency. Rough hemp rope bit into my skin, looped once, twice—I thrashed, but he pinned me effortlessly—three, four times, the coils tightening with each pass. Five. Six. A final savage cinch knotted at the center yanked my shoulder blades together, stealing my breath and agony lanced through my bound arms as circulation fled.
More cords snaked around my upper arms, looping just above the elbows. Six harsh circles, each cinched tighter than the last, biting into the bare skin of my arms. As each twist pulled my elbows closer together behind my back, an excruciating pressure built across my shoulders, forcing them sharply backward. The unnatural arch thrust my chest painfully outward against the satin bustier, straining the fabric and making my bound position impossibly vulnerable.
Every breath became a shallow gasp against the gag, my chest straining against the tight satin as the masked figure shifted his weight. His gloved hands seized my ankles, wrenching them together and crossing them at the shins. The rough hemp rope bit instantly, looped once, twice—my fishnets offered no protection—three, four times around my ankles. Each coil cinched tighter than the last, grinding bone against bone until my feet felt like they were going numb. A fifth loop secured the knot, crushing my stilettos awkwardly against each other.
My bound ankles screamed as he bent my legs backwards, folding my calves toward my thighs. The rough rope bit deeper into my wrists and ankles as he pulled them closer together. My spine arched painfully, thrusting my chest forward against the floor while my shoulders screamed from the unnatural angle. Another length of rope snaked around the wrist bindings and ankle coils, yanking them brutally together.
When he’d tied the last knot, the masked figure hauled me up like a sack of grain and dumped me onto a stained mattress in the corner of the room. My gagged screams were useless against the thick wool sock packed deep in my mouth, sealed by the cleave gag. Laying there on my stomach, bound and helpless, I could only stare in fear…
Fear that this would go further than ropes clawed at my flesh, but the masked figure merely straightened his leather apron. He surveyed his handiwork—my hogtied form straining uselessly against the ropes—before turning away. Stopping at the door, he spoke, “Just so you know,” the masked figure rasped, his voice muffled behind the crude leather stitches, “your whole team’s been caught.” He gestured vaguely toward the hallway where Amanda and Sarah were undoubtedly tied somewhere beyond my line of sight. “But hey…” He leaned closer, the stale scent of beer and sweat washing over me. “Rules say if you get free and manage to escape within the next… twenty minutes, you still win.” He tapped a cheap plastic watch strapped over his glove, with a final, unsettling chuckle, he slammed the door shut.
Darkness swallowed me whole, thick, suffocating, and absolute. Panic surged—hot and electric—but I forced it down, ‘Focus.’ I squeezed my eyes shut, counted to five, then opened them slowly. Gradually, shapes emerged from the ink-black void like ghosts materializing. Light bled through the gap in the boarded window, painting a jagged silver stripe across the dusty floorboards.
It illuminated swirling dust motes dancing in the frigid air and glinted dully off the chains dangling from the ceiling beams overhead. The scent of mildew, fake blood, and something sharp—chemical, like ammonia—clung to the back of my throat, mixing sickeningly with the sour wool taste of the gag. Once I’d managed to somewhat calm myself down I tested my bindings one at a time, starting with my legs. The ropes were wrapped tightly around my ankles, biting into the fishnets and skin beneath. I attempted to rotate my ankles inward and outward, but the ropes held firm, grinding bone against bone. Pain shot through my legs with each movement, and the awkward angle of my stilettos pressed together made any leverage impossible and to make things worse my fishnets offered zero protection against the harsh hemp.
Next, I strained against the ropes binding my wrists behind my back. The hemp dug deep, unforgiving, as I twisted my palms inward and outward. No slack. Just burning friction against my skin. I arched my spine, trying to create space between my elbows—but the upper-arm cords only bit deeper, pulling my shoulders back until the satin bustier threatened to rip. Each movement sent fresh agony through my pinned arms as I squirmed about.
Finally I stretched my arms and legs testing the hogtie’s limits. My spine screamed as I arched backward, forcing my chest forward against the straining fabric. The ropes connecting my wrists to my ankles went taut, digging deeper into my wrists and shins. I held the position—breath ragged against the gag—counting precious seconds. ‘One… two… three…’ Agony bloomed across my shoulders. ‘Four… five…’ With a gasp, I collapsed forward onto the dusty mattress. Dust plumed around me, thick and choking… the ropes hadn’t budged an inch.
Whatever kinky bastard Pi Kap had playing the monster knew his knots, probably a former eagle scout or devout fisherman. Hogties weren’t supposed to feel like this—like every tendon was stretched on a medieval rack, at least I didn’t think so, the kinkiest I’d ever gotten was with a pair of fuzzy handcuffs. My breath came in frantic puffs against the wool sock crammed deep in my mouth, the cleave gag digging grooves into my cheeks. Panic bubbled, acidic and sharp as I began wriggling once more unwilling to give up. My bound ankles twisted inward first, straining against the harsh hemp ropes biting through the fishnets. Pain flared instantly—a grinding ache where bone met rope. My stilettos scraped uselessly against each other, offering no leverage, just awkward pressure.
Rocking back and forth, I leveraged my hips sideways until momentum tipped me onto my side. More dust plumed from the mattress, thick and choking, as my bound legs slammed down. Keeping the momentum going, I rolled fully onto my back—a clumsy, graceless maneuver that sent fresh agony shooting through my bound limbs as I landed on the hard floorboards beside the mattress. My stilettos scraped against the wood, the sound jarringly loud in the suffocating silence. My knees spread wide from the hogtie, forcing my thighs apart in a horrifyingly vulnerable position. The satin bustier strained dangerously tight across my chest, the boning digging painfully into my ribs with every frantic gasp against the gag. Above me, the chains dangling from the ceiling beams swayed slightly, casting long, shifting shadows in the thin strip of moonlight.
‘Nails. Use your nails Mallory.’ My acrylics—long, sharp points painted a perfect, glossy crimson—were my only weapon. Twisting my torso sideways again, I rolled onto my hip, straining against the hogtie until my bound wrists angled upward. My fingers scrabbled blindly behind my back, searching for the rough knot securing my ankles to my wrists. Dust coated my fingertips, gritty and thick. The ropes bit deeper with every movement, but I ignored the burn. ‘There.’ The knot felt massive, a tangled lump of hemp. I hooked my thumb under the stiff cord and wedged the pointed tip of my index fingernail into the tightest loop. Each frantic scrape sent jolts of pain through my shoulders from the unnatural arch. Dust coated my throat, mixing with the sour wool gag taste. ‘Come on, come on…’ The rope fibers frayed slightly under my nail’s edge as the knot loosened.
After maybe five minutes, although who could tell, the knot finally loosened enough for me to wrench my ankles free from the wrist bindings. The rope connecting them fell slack, though my wrists remained tightly bound behind my back and my ankles were still lashed together. I rolled onto my stomach, gasping against the gag, and began working frantically on my ankle bonds next.
The knot at my ankles I quickly found must have tightened from all my struggling because it wasn’t loosening one bit. My crimson acrylics scraped uselessly against the hemp cord, fraying the polish but barely scratching the fibers. Every frantic twist only seemed to cinch it tighter, grinding my fishnets into my skin. Panic surged hotter as I pictured Silus watching the clock tick down outside. Twenty minutes? How much had passed?
‘Cut it. Need something sharp.’ I rolled onto my back again, ignoring the agony in my shoulders, and scanned the room through the gloom. The jagged strip of moonlight illuminated dust motes dancing above the stained mattress and glinted faintly off the chains dangling from the ceiling beams. Too high. The workbench stood dark and cluttered near the boarded window—fake knives, duct tape rolls, coils of rope… but no blades. Pi Kap wouldn’t leave real weapons lying around. Would they?
‘The shears!’
They’d been sent flying when I was grabbed—the rusted garden shears. They had to be here somewhere. My gaze darted frantically across the moonlit patch of floorboards near the workbench. Dust motes danced in the silver light. Nothing. ‘Move.’ Rolling onto my stomach again, I ignored the screaming protest from my shoulders and began crawling—inch by agonizing inch—toward the workbench.
My bound ankles scraped against the dusty wood, useless anchors. My wrists, lashed behind me, throbbed with every drag forward. The sour wool gag choked my breath, but I kept my eyes locked on the cluttered shadow beneath the bench. ‘There.’ A dull gleam near the leg. One blade buried in dust, the other angled upward.
I heaved myself closer, ignoring the sharp bite of rope into skin. My acrylics clicked against the floorboards as I stretched my bound hands toward the shears. Fingertips brushed cold metal. ‘Almost.’ I strained, shoulder joints screaming, my middle finger hooked the curved handle. Dragged it an inch, hooked again, pulled it within reach.
Finally grasping the cold metal handle, I dragged the shears closer. Positioning them upright against the floorboards was agony—my bound wrists screamed at the unnatural angle. Gripping both handles tight, I squeezed. Rust had fused the blades open. ‘No.’ Desperation clawed. I slammed the shears sideways against the floor. Once. Twice. On the third impact, the blades screeched closed a fraction, showering rust flakes.
Just as I lifted the shears toward my ankle ropes, heavy footsteps thundered down the hallway outside. ‘No, no, not yet!’ The door slammed open with brutal force, crashing against the wall. Silhouetted against the dim hallway light was the masked figure—Frankenstein’s crude stitches stark in the gloom. His plastic watch glinted as he strode in, boots thudding on the dusty floorboards.
“Well, well,” the masked figure rasped, his voice muffled behind the crude leather stitches. Boots thudded closer, stopping inches from my bound legs. “Time’s up, Bunny.” He tapped the cheap plastic watch strapped over his glove. Moonlight glinted off its face. “Twenty minutes flew right by.”
“Mmm mmm mmmm!” I shook my head violently against the gag, straining toward the shears still clutched in my bound hands. The masked figure chuckled—a low, grating sound behind the leather stitches—and casually kicked the rusted garden shears from my grasp. They skittered across the dusty floorboards and vanished into the shadows beneath the workbench.
“If it makes you feel any better,” the masked figure rasped, leaning down until his crude leather stitches filled my vision. The stale beer scent washed over me again. “Your little Forest Nymph and that pledge. They got free, barely made it out in time.” He chuckled, a low, grating sound. “Seems you’re the only damsel left in distress from your team.” He straightened, surveying my bound form sprawled near the workbench.
The news that Amanda had not only gotten free, but left me trapped here, hit like a physical blow. My muffled protest died against the thick wool sock. ‘She escaped? Without me?’ Betrayal coiled hot and sharp beneath the panic. The masked figure chuckled again, the sound grating against the oppressive silence of the room. He bent down, his leather apron creaking, and seized my bound arms. With a grunt, he hauled me upright, my stilettos scraping uselessly on the dusty floorboards. My shoulders screamed as my arms were wrenched further behind me.
“Well, now then, I need to get you positioned for your new role as damsel in distress,” the masked figure rasped, his leather glove tightening around my upper arm. He dragged me stumbling toward the center of the room, my heels scraping and tapping across the dusty floorboards. “Rules state losers get displayed for the next hour. Consider it… motivation for the next team to try harder.” He chuckled again, that low, grating sound muffled behind the crude stitches.
With my ankles crossed I struggled as I was forced to bunny hop towards the door. Each hop sent jarring pain through my bound legs as my stilettos slammed onto the dusty floorboards. The masked figure gripped my upper arm providing me with support while steering me like a broken puppet toward the hallway. The trip down the hallway was awkward and painful, my bound legs forcing me to hop awkwardly as I struggled to keep balance. The hallway seemed impossibly long, shadows dancing in my peripheral vision as my gag muffled every gasp of effort.
Once we reached the stairs, dread coiled in my stomach. The masked figure shoved me forward. “Hop.” The command rasped behind the leather stitches. My stilettos scraped the top step. I took a shaky breath and jumped down onto the first stair tread. The impact jarred my knees, sending pain shooting up my thighs. ‘Hop.’ Down to the next and the next, each landing sent vibrations through my bound ankles and strained shoulders. Dust choked the air as I descended blindly, the masked figure a looming presence behind me, his gloved hand occasionally steadying my elbow only to shove me forward again. My gagged whimpers echoed faintly in the stairwell, swallowed by the oppressive silence.
Each hop also had the effect of causing my breasts to bounce, and the way the dude’s mask was angled as we reached the dining room I could tell he was enjoying the view. He forced me to bunny hop awkwardly over to the dining room table where I was forced to sit down on a dining chair. The chair was sturdy oak, cold against the backs of my thighs where the fishnets ended. My arms were still bound tightly behind my back, pressing painfully against the chair’s hard slats. The masked figure loomed over me, his crude Frankenstein stitches catching the flickering candlelight from the centerpiece.
“Now sit still, I need to… enhance your bindings,” the masked figure rasped. He pulled a coil of thick, rough hemp rope from a leather pouch on his apron. It seemed impossibly long, unspooling with a heavy ‘thump’ onto the dusty floorboards near my chair. Without preamble, he began winding it around my torso over the straining satin of the bustier.
He made four passes below my breasts first, the rope biting through the thin satin as he hauled it tight with each circuit. It crushed the fabric against my ribs, forcing my breath shallow and rapid against the gag. Next he repeated the process above my breasts, wrapping the rope four times higher across my chest. Each loop pulled tighter than the last, pinning my arms flat against my sides and practically making it impossible to move. The ropes crossed directly above the straining satin of the bustier, creating harsh ridges that emphasized my breasts while constricting my lungs.
The result of the ropes had an effect of framing my chest like a crude painting, the harsh hemp ridges causing my breasts to bulge obscenely. The masked figure surveyed his handiwork—my chest straining against the crossed ropes—with a low, appreciative grunt muffled behind the leather stitches. He pulled the rope ends taut against my back, cinching them together with a brutal knot I’d have no way of reaching.
“Much better,” he rasped. “Now up.” His gloved hands seized my bound arms, hauling me upright. My stilettos scraped the dusty floorboards as he shoved me toward the heavy oak dining table. “Hop.” The command was sharp. I bunny-hopped awkwardly, the ropes biting deeper with every jarring landing. He gripped my waist, lifted me roughly onto my stomach on the the tabletop, and shoved me forward until I laid in the very center.
The cold oak pressed against my cheekbone, dust coated my gagged lips, and before I knew it his gloved hands seized my bound ankles behind me, yanking them upward. The rope dug into my shoulders, forcing my chest painfully against the tabletop. He hauled my ankles higher, bending my legs backward until my wrists—still lashed tight behind me—were pulled toward my ankles once again. The hogtie rope snapped taut again, arching my spine into a brutal curve. My muffled scream died against the wool sock as agony bloomed across my shoulders and ribs.
Not thinking this could get any worse I was proven wrong as he pulled out a thin coil of twine. He grabbed my thumbs behind my back—already crushed together by the wrist ropes—and began wrapping the thin cord around them. The twine bit like wire, cinching my thumbs together at the joint until they throbbed. My breath hitched against the gag. ‘Why?’ The cruelty felt personal now, beyond the game.
“Can’t have you picking at those knots again, Bunny,” the masked figure rasped, his voice muffled and cruel behind the crude leather stitches.
Shame and horror coiled tight in my throat as the masked figure stood back and pulled out a sleek smartphone. The screen glowed unnaturally bright in the dim candlelight of the dining room. He held it up, angling it downward toward my bound, arched form pinned atop the oak table. My chest strained obscenely against the crossed ropes, the satin bustier stretched dangerously thin beneath the hemp ridges. My fishnets despite being sturdy were torn at the knees from crawling, and my stilettos were now scuffed as hell. Worst of all was my face—I could feel mascara smeared beneath my eyes, cheeks hollowed against the cleave gag, and my blonde hair plastered to my forehead with sweat and dust. He tapped the screen.
‘Flash, flash, flash.’
The blinding flash exploded against my eyelids, etching the horror of my position onto the digital canvas. ‘Flash.’ The harsh light captured every degrading detail: the ropes biting into the satin, forcing my breasts into obscene prominence; the torn fishnets exposing scraped knees; the stilettos clacking uselessly; my gagged mouth stretched wide, mascara-streaked terror frozen on my face. ‘Flash.’ Another burst seared my vision, freezing the brutal arch of my spine, the hogtie rope straining, my thumbs bound cruelly together behind me. The cold oak table pressed against my cheekbone, unforgiving and public. ‘Flash.’ A final, lingering burst illuminated the dust motes dancing above me like mocking spectators. Each flash felt like a physical violation, branding the image of my helplessness deeper than the ropes ever could.
“Insurance,” the masked hunter rasped, tucking the phone away. The screen’s glow vanished, leaving only the flickering candlelight to dance across my bound form. “Well, time for the next team.” He tapped at the plastic watch again. “You’ve got an hour up here, Bunny. Try not to scare the freshmen ‘too’ much.” His chuckle scraped against the oppressive silence as he strode toward the dining room door. His boots echoed on the floorboards, each step a hammer blow to my dignity as he closed the doors and headed back upstairs to wait for his next set of victims.
~•~ Five Minutes Later ~•~
The screech of door hinges just outside the dining room sliced through the suffocating silence. My breath hitched against the wool gag, straining against the ropes crushing my ribs. Whispers drifted in first—young, tentative, laced with nervous excitement. Female voices. Another sorority team.
The last five minutes had gone by agonizingly slow, the knowledge that I was trapped on display twisting my stomach. Then, the faintest scrape of wood against wood echoed from the hallway outside the dining room door. My body tensed instantly, straining against the ropes that pinned me to the oak tabletop. A muffled gasp escaped my gagged mouth. ‘They’re here.’
The doors opened slowly, hinges groaning like a tomb. Two figures slipped inside, silhouetted against the dim hallway light. Their costumes were cheap polyester—a ghost sheet and a hastily assembled witch. Freshman pledges, judging by the trembling glow of their flashlights sweeping the room. The beams danced over dusty portraits, cobwebbed chandeliers, and finally, froze on me.
“Holy shit,” the ghost sheet breathed, flashlight beam trembling across my ropes. The witch froze mid-step, plastic cauldron clattering to the floorboards. Their cheap flashlights pinned me to the oak tabletop like a grotesque centerpiece—the harsh hemp ridges biting into the straining satin bustier, my legs bent brutally backward in the hogtie, thumbs bound cruelly behind me. Dust motes danced in their beams above my gagged face.
“Wow, is that really Mallory from Gamma Phi?” The witch whispered, flashlight beam trembling across my ropes. “She looks like one of those girls on one of those ‘bondage’ websites…”
“Mmmph!” The desperate, muffled sound tore from my gagged throat as the flashlight beams crawled over me. Shame burned hotter than the ropes digging into my ribs.
“Wow, she even sounds like one,” the ghost sheet whispered back, flashlight beam lingering on my gagged mouth. The light felt like acid on my skin. “Do you think she’s… part of the game?”
“Yeah, don’t you remember the rules?” The witch whispered back, her flashlight beam crawling over the ropes crushing my ribs. “Losers get displayed, as in like part of the decour. But… holy crap.” Her beam froze on my bound thumbs behind me, then traveled slowly up the brutal arch of my spine to my gagged face. “She looks completely trussed.”
“Hey, do you think we should…” the witch whispered into the ghost sheet’s ear, her flashlight beam trembling across my ropes. “Oh totally! When else will we get a chance like this?” the ghost sheet whispered back. To my horror, the witch walked forward and pushed down my top. Her cold fingers fumbled against the straining satin, peeling the bustier’s cups down until my breasts spilled obscenely over the ropes and fabric. The sudden exposure made my skin prickle with goosebumps and my nipples harden beneath the flashlight beams.
“Look at those things, not so high and mighty now!” the witch giggled, her flashlight beam crawling over my exposed breasts. The cold air hit bare skin, tightening my nipples even further beneath the harsh light. Her companion—the ghost sheet—fumbled with her phone, its screen glowing unnaturally bright. “Hold still, bunnygirl,” she whispered, voice trembling with excitement. The flash exploded against my eyelids, freezing the humiliating exposure—breasts spilling over hemp ropes, gag stretched wide, terror etched into my mascara-streaked face. ‘Flash.’ Another burst seared my vision. ‘Flash.’ Each snapshot felt like a branding iron on my soul.
“Ha! This is awes-“ the witch’s words died as a scream tore through the manor. Distant, female, choked off abruptly. Both pledges froze, flashlights jerking toward the hallway door. The ghost sheet whimpered. “That sounded like… Jane?”
“Shit! We better go before we end up like her!” the ghost sheet hissed, flashlight beam swinging wildly toward the hallway. Both pledges scrambled backward, abandoning the spilled cauldron. The witch hesitated, casting one last flashlight glare across my exposed humiliation—breasts spilling over ropes, gag stretched obscenely—before bolting after her companion. The dining room doors slammed shut behind them, plunging me back into the suffocating gloom.
The next hour dragged by with two other teams entering and exiting the dining room. Each encounter was a fresh humiliation. The pledges from Delta Chi giggled nervously while taking photos on their phones, their flashlight beams crawling over my exposed breasts and hogtied form. A junior Kappa team lingered longer, one girl even tracing a cold finger along the rope ridges digging into my skin. “Gamma Phi’s future queen bee looks better like this,” she whispered before they moved on. Each flash of a camera felt like a branding iron on my soul.
I had no way of knowing if anyone ended up in a similar position to me, but judging by the screams echoing through the manor, Pi Kappa Phi’s Midnight Hunt had to have claimed more victims. The distant thuds and muffled protests only amplified my own helplessness. My shoulders burned from the constant strain of the hogtie, and the gag had soaked through with saliva, making breathing a laborious chore through my nose.
Finally after what seemed like an eternity the dining room opened once more, but it wasn’t another group of pledges nor was it the masked hunter. Instead, Derek Vance stood silhouetted in the doorway, his Hugh Hefner robe hanging open to reveal pajama pants and a stained wife beater underneath. He surveyed my bound form on the tabletop with detached amusement, swirling amber liquid in a crystal tumbler.
“Well hey there Mallory, I’m here to inform you your hour on display is up,” Derek announced, his voice smooth and detached as he stepped into the candlelit gloom. He took a slow sip from a tumbler in his hand, amber liquid catching the flickering light. His gaze crawled over my bound form—the ropes framing my exposed breasts, the brutal arch of my spine, the gag stretching my lips. “Jake mentioned you were… creatively restrained.” A low chuckle escaped him. “Seems he outdid himself.”
“Mmmph mmm mmmmm!” I strained against the ropes, my muffled plea thick with anger and desperation. Derek merely raised an eyebrow, swirling his drink.
“Don’t worry your time as a living canvas is over,” Derek said as he walked over, set down the tumbler and began undoing the rope keeping me hogtied. However to my horror once my legs flopped down onto the tabletop he didn’t continue untying my wrists, nor the ropes around my torso. Instead he pulled me over to the edge of the table and forced me to stand on my stilettos, my legs trembling violently from numbness and strain. The ropes still pinned my arms tightly against my sides, the hemp digging into my ribs with every shallow breath which meant all I could do was endure his touch.
“Mmmm!” I squealed as I was lifted up and tossed over Derek’s shoulder. My bound wrists dug into my lower back, the ropes crushing my torso as I bounced against his stained robes. The sudden inversion made blood rush to my head, blurring the dusty chandelier above. My exposed breasts swung freely beneath me, scraping against the rough fabric of his robe with each step. He carried me like a sack of grain, my stilettos dangling helplessly near his waist.
“Oh I said your time on display was over, however this Hefner will still need a bunny after this farce of a party is over,” Derek chuckled, his shoulder digging into my stomach as he climbed the creaking stairs. Each step jolted my spine, my exposed breasts scraping against the rough terrycloth of his robe.
When we reached the top of the stairs, Derek turned right down the dim hallway. My vision swam from hanging upside down over his shoulder—dusty floorboards blurred beneath his shuffling slippers. The hallway stretched longer than I remembered, lined with doors hiding horrors I’d glimpsed earlier. Distant muffled screams echoed through the walls—Pi Kap’s Midnight Hunt still claiming victims. Derek ignored them, humming tunelessly as he fished a key from his robe pocket.
At the hallway’s end, he paused before an unremarkable oak door indistinguishable from the others. The key scraped in the lock. The click echoed sharply in the corridor’s silence. He shoved the door open with his hip, revealing a room untouched by the manor’s refurbished state. Inside lay a typical college bedroom chaos: unmade queen sized bed shoved against the wall, dirty laundry spilling from a hamper, textbooks stacked haphazardly beside a gaming PC humming softly. The scent of stale pizza and cheap cologne hit me as Derek dumped me unceremoniously onto the scratchy polyester comforter.
My bound body bounced once before settling awkwardly on my side, ropes digging deeper. Before I could even attempt to roll over, Derek seized my bound ankles. He hauled them toward the wrought-iron bed frame at the foot of the mattress. A fresh coil of rope appeared from somewhere within his robe. He looped it around the cinch of my ankle bindings, then threaded the end through the ornate scrollwork of the bed frame. A brutal knot secured it, leaving my legs stretched taut and immobile.
“There, all nice and secure,” Derek murmured, giving the rope a final tug. My ankles jerked against the iron scrollwork, the hemp biting deeper into my skin. He straightened, wiping his hands on his robe as if touching me had soiled them. His gaze lingered on my bound form—the ropes still cinching my arms to my sides, my breasts exposed and heaving against the hemp ridges, the gag forcing my lips apart. A detached smile touched his mouth. “Be a good bunny and stay put and when the party’s over I’ll be back to… unwind you. In fact just so you know, unlike the rest of my brothers, as the president I’m the only one who got to keep his room untouched by the bet. Which means Mallory, we’ll have all weekend to get to know one another as the decorations don’t get taken down til Monday.”
With that foreboding statement the door clicked shut behind him, and the lock turned with a decisive ‘snick’.
The reality of my situation crashed over me as Derek’s footsteps faded down the hallway. Alone in his stale-smelling bedroom, I tested the ropes securing my ankles to the iron bedframe. The hemp bit deeper with every desperate twist. My shoulders screamed from the torso bindings pinning my arms against my sides. The gag, soaked and foul, forced my jaw wide. Panic clawed its way up my throat, muffled into a wet whimper against the wool sock stuffing my mouth.
I wasn’t going anywhere, and judging by the sounds of distant screams and muffled thuds through the walls, Pi Kap’s Midnight Hunt was still in full swing and would be for quite awhile.
No one was coming for me.
I was about to take a moment to consider my options when the lock clicked again. The door popped back open a foot, and Derek’s face poked through the gap, grinning like a jack-o’-lantern. “Almost forgot,” he chuckled, his grin widening as he took in my bound form stretched across his messy bed. “Happy Halloween.”