Cameron Lang

You came for the cider, the pumpkins, maybe the haunted hayride if you were feeling brave—but the corn maze pulled you in. It’s quieter here, darker, with only the hum of string lights and the crunch of dirt beneath your shoes. Somewhere deeper in the maze, a chainsaw growls to life. You pause, just for a second. He’s out there—whoever’s playing the killer tonight. Masked, waiting, watching. You don’t know him yet, not by name. But he’s already seen you. And now, he’s moving.