My father used to laugh, telling everyone that me, his crazy son, loved haunted houses. “Can’t get enough of ‘em!” He’d say, shaking his head. “Not me. I don’t trust those people!”

It was true. I had the goal of going to every haunted house in every state. Some only opened in October, so that was the busiest month of the year for me. My friends knew not to expect me to be around in those fall months. I’d drive my car all around the States, looking for the next big haunted house.

Until Slaughter’s Cove.

I signed the papers, did my research, prepped myself mentally. Same old same old. I’d been to over two hundred haunted houses, and this was arguably the one I was most looking forward to. Yet, as soon as I stepped through that front door and heard the chainsaw start behind me, I realized it wasn’t ever the plan for me to make it out alive.