Crossed wires

**The camera flashes with a steady red light.** 

**"Scene one... Take one!"** Vincent called out, clapping the fake clapperboard with a wide grin. 

Mash Andrews sat in the middle of the stage—or what appeared to be a stage. Around him were studio lights, camera stands, wires, and a backdrop of cracked concrete walls splattered with what looked like fake blood. 

He laughed, half in disbelief, half in excitement. "Man, this is insane! You guys really went all out." 

David smiled from behind the camera. "We wanted it to feel real. This whole project is about immersive horror." 

Vincent handed Mash a thin script clipped together. "The story's simple. You're trapped. You don't know why." 

Mash flipped through the pages, eyebrows raised. "There's barely any dialogue." 

"That's the point," David said quietly. "This is about emotion, body language, instinct. It's raw." 

Mash leaned back in his chair, grinning. "Well, damn, you guys are crazy... and I love it." 

He didn't notice the chains on the floor behind him. Nor the faint chemical smell in the air. Nor the door quietly clicking shut. 

The lights above them flickered slightly. A spotlight flared to life. 

Vincent stepped into the scene, wearing a black apron and gloves. A latex mask covered half his face. 

"Let's begin," he said with dramatic flair. 

Mash laughed. "Alright, Vincent. Looking scary. Where's my cue?" 

But no one answered. 

David raised the camera. Focused. 

Mash blinked. "Wait... are we rolling already?" 

Vincent stepped closer, dragging a metal chair across the floor—a high, screeching sound. He set it directly in front of Mash and sat down, staring at him through the mask. 

"My cue?" Mash asked, laughing nervously. 

Vincent didn't speak. 

He just raised a scalpel. 

Mash blinked, hesitantly smiling. "Okay, what is—that's not a prop, is it?" 

No answer. 

Then Vincent reached out—slowly, deliberately—and touched Mash's cheek with the cold steel. 

Mash jerked back violently, eyes wide. 

"Whoa, okay! That's a bit much, man!" 

David didn't move from behind the camera. 

The red light kept blinking. 

Vincent tilted his head and whispered, *"React naturally. That's what you said you wanted, wasn't it?"* 

Mash laughed again, but there was hesitation now. A tremor in his voice. 

"Yeah, yeah, real funny. You guys are really committed. I love it." 

He tried to stand—but the chair held him in place. 

Metal clinked. 

His ankles were shackled. 

"What the...?" 

Vincent's gloved hand rose, slowly pressing a blindfold over Mash's eyes. 

Mash froze. "Okay, seriously now. Guys?" 

Silence. 

David adjusted the focus. 

*"You wanted the lead role,"* he said, voice smooth as silk. *"This is your scene."* 

The blindfold darkened everything. 

Mash started shaking. 

. 

. 

. 

It started the way most terrible things do—with a smile. 

The university's black box theater was nearly empty that afternoon, save for a few students rehearsing lines or arguing over lighting cues. 

David sat in the back row, flipping through a notebook filled with chaotic sketches and cryptic notes. Vincent lounged beside him, pretending to scroll through his phone. 

Then Mash walked in—all laughter, bravado, and charm. 

He carried an overpriced coffee and an aura of infectious enthusiasm, the kind that made people either adore him or roll their eyes. 

"David Cross, right?" he asked, approaching them. 

David looked up, surprised. "That's me." 

Vincent raised an eyebrow. "You've got the wrong guy if you're looking for a friend." 

Mash laughed. "Nah, I've seen your work. That silent piece you did last semester? Disturbing, but genius. I've got an idea, and I think you're perfect for it." 

David's expression didn't change. "Go on." 

Mash perched on the edge of the stage, legs swinging. "Meta horror performance. Full immersion, no boundaries. No stage, no limits. Real terror. Something that makes people question what's real and what's not. You with me?" 

Vincent let out a low whistle. "You're *that* kind of artist, huh?" 

Mash grinned. "Come on. Don't tell me you're not bored of the same old stuff—monologues, love scenes, sad jazz piano. We could turn the whole department upside down. Shock them. Make them *feel* something." 

Finally, David smiled. Just slightly. 

*"We don't do anything half-assed,"* he said. 

Mash nodded eagerly. "Perfect. I want blood, screams, suspense—I want them squirming in their seats. I want a reaction. We'll figure out the details later. Maybe shoot some test footage off-campus? Like a rehearsal or a short film?" 

David and Vincent exchanged a glance. 

And in that moment, something unspoken passed between them. 

A deal was struck. 

. 

. 

. 

**Thud.** 

The cleaver came down hard. 

Again. 

**Thud.** 

David stood over the corpse, hacking the blade over and over, his body hunched like he was digging into frozen earth. Flesh split. Bones cracked. The wet, sticky sound echoed off the concrete walls, drowning out Mash's terrified breaths. 

Blood splattered across David's face. He didn't flinch. 

He laughed—low, ragged, delighted. His eyes were wild, alive. 

He dropped the cleaver with a heavy metallic clang and turned slowly, face streaked red, lips stretched in a crooked smile. 

*"See?"* he said, voice hoarse from exertion. *"This is all part of the scene."* 

Mash trembled in his chair. "W-what the hell, David..." 

David wiped his face with his sleeve, leaving a red smear on his cheek. Then he walked to the corner and picked up something long and wooden. 

An axe. 

He turned, held it out like an offering, and tossed it underhand toward Mash. 

It clattered loudly at his feet. 

*"Your turn."* 

Mash stared at the weapon. 

"I... I can't. I'm not—" 

*"She's not real,"* David interrupted. *"None of this is real. That's what you wanted, wasn't it? Extreme realism. Method acting. Push the line until you forget where it was."* 

He pointed at the second corpse—still wrapped, still limp. A pool of blood had begun seeping out from under the plastic. 

Mash stared. 

*"It's fake,"* David insisted. *"Stuffed with tomato juice, pig bones, rubber. You'll see when you hit it."* 

Mash reached out, slowly, and picked up the axe. 

His hand shook. 

He walked to the corpse, knees barely holding him up. His breaths were quick, shallow. His reflection stared back at him from a nearby metal surface—actor, artist, fool. 

He raised the weapon. 

Hesitated. 

Then swung. 

The axe sank in. 

There was resistance. 

A deep, wet sound. 

"Tomato juice" splattered. 

Mash staggered back in shock, horrified—but somewhere deep in his mind, he tried to believe it still wasn't real. 

David clapped once. *"Beautiful. Really. You sold the moment."* 

**Ring—** 

A sharp phone chime cut through the air. 

David froze. 

Then Vincent did too. 

**Ring.** Their phones vibrated. 

David pulled his out of his pocket. Read the screen. His face darkened. 

*"We have to go."* 

Vincent shut off the camera abruptly. *"Now?"* 

*"Now."* 

Without another word, they started gathering things—gloves, knives, the clapperboard. Vincent slipped memory cards into a small bag. David kicked the cleaver under a nearby table. 

Mash stood there, panting, the axe still in his hands, blood dripping from the blade. 

"Wait... you're *leaving?*" he asked. 

David stopped at the door, looked at him over his shoulder. 

*"Enjoy,"* he said softly. 

*"We'll be back soon. We haven't even started the real game with you yet."* 

The door slammed shut behind them. 

The ceiling lights flickered slightly. 

Mash was left alone. 

With two corpses. 

A bloodied weapon. 

. 

. 

. 

Silence. 

The ceiling lights hummed faintly, one of them flickering in a spastic rhythm. The cold basement air felt heavier now, pressing against Mash's skin. 

His knuckles were white around the axe handle. 

Blood dripped from the blade. 

It wasn't tomato juice. 

It never had been. 

He backed away slowly from the bodies, chest rising and falling rapidly. The silence seemed to swell... then— 

A whimper. 

Soft. 

Sharp. 

A child's crying. 

Mash froze. 

It was faint, coming from the far corner of the basement, behind a pile of props and shadowed equipment. 

He hesitated. Then moved, cautiously, legs trembling beneath him. He passed a wall of broken set pieces—a shattered mirror, rusted chains, a fake coffin. The crying grew louder. 

He rounded a pillar, and then he saw her. 

A little girl. 

Maybe eight or nine. 

Sitting on the ground, knees pulled to her chest, rocking gently. 

Her long blonde hair was matted with blood, sticking to her cheeks. Her white dress—or what had once been white—was now crimson, soaked from the chest down. A few patches of the original color remained near the edges. 

One of her legs was bent the wrong way, twisted grotesquely, like a broken doll someone had tried to force back together. 

Mash swallowed hard, crouching slowly. His voice cracked: 

"H-hey... hey, it's okay. I won't hurt you. Are you... okay?" 

At first, the girl didn't look at him. She kept rocking, her voice a whisper. 

Then she lifted her eyes. 

They were pale blue and unfocused. But she nodded. 

Mash set the small axe down and held up his hands. 

"My name's... I'm Mash. Mash Andrews." 

Silence. 

Then she said, "I'm Sharon. I'm nine." 

Her voice was flat. 

Mash took a step closer. "Sharon... what happened to you? What are you doing here?" 

She blinked slowly. 

"I was at the park," she whispered. "With my mom. Two days ago." 

Mash listened, breath caught in his throat. 

"I lost her. I was looking... crying. Then David and Vincent found me. They were nice. Said they'd help me find her." 

A bitter smile flickered at the corner of her mouth. 

"They said we'd look together. But we never found her. So they said I could go to their house instead." 

Mash felt his stomach twist. *"They took you."* 

Sharon nodded. 

"They locked the doors. Laughed a lot. Made me scream. Said if I screamed loud enough, maybe my mom would come back. Maybe she'd hear me through the walls." 

Mash felt cold. 

A deep, biting cold. 

He wanted to cry, or vomit, or run—but his body refused. 

Sharon looked down at her twisted leg. 

"It hurts," she said quietly. "All the time." 

Mash stepped closer. "We're getting out of here. I promise. I'll help you." 

Then he remembered. 

"Were you... hearing what was happening with me?" 

"Yes. And watching. There's a screen behind you showing where you were." 

"So the bodies... the ones they gave me to 'act' with. The props. Sharon... were they—?" 

She looked at him—and this time, her face was cold, almost amused. 

"They're not props." 

Mash's mouth went dry. 

"They're people. People they killed last night." 

She tilted her head. 

"You're kinda stupid." 

Mash blinked. 

"What?" 

"You believed them," she said. "That it was tomato juice. That this was acting. You're really dumb." 

Tears stung his eyes. He looked away, ashamed. 

But then he took a deep breath and stood. 

"No more games. We're leaving. Together. Now." 

He held out his hand to Sharon. 

She looked at it—then laughed. 

Mash frowned. "What?" 

"You're funny," she said. "You want me to *walk*?" 

He blinked, confused. "Yeah... we'll go slow. I'll help. Just—" 

She laughed again, but this time it was darker. A brittle laugh that didn't fit her age. 

"I can't walk, Mash." 

She pushed herself back slightly, revealing her leg fully. The skin around it was gray and stiff, the ankle bent completely backward, bone piercing through. 

Mash stumbled back a step. 

"You can't walk but..." 

Then, after a hesitation— 

"But you can carry me." 

. 

. 

. 

Mash carried the girl in his arms as he limped through the dimly lit basement, desperately searching for an exit. 

Sharon hung limply against him, arms around his neck, her voice calm—too calm—compared to the storm raging in his skull. 

"You walk like a drunk goat," she muttered. 

Mash panted. "Okay, rude." 

She shrugged. "Just saying. If they catch us, it's 'cause you're out of shape." 

"I was chained to a chair all day." 

"And I'm nine. What's your excuse?" 

Mash nearly tripped over a loose brick. "Sharon, I swear to God..." 

"You curse a lot for someone who's really bad at surviving." 

He exhaled, adjusting her weight. "I'm trying to *save* you!" 

"Technically, I'm the one who told you what's happening." 

He opened his mouth, then closed it. "Okay, fair." 

After several minutes of stumbling through side passages and avoiding rusted equipment, Mash found a small ladder—the kind maintenance workers used. At the top was a rusted hatch. 

He pushed it open with one hand while holding Sharon. The hinges screeched, then gave way with a loud creak. 

Cold night air flooded his lungs. 

"We're out," he gasped. "We're actually out!" 

Sharon stared at the stars. "Cool. I'm still bleeding, though." 

They emerged behind the house—a dilapidated building overgrown with weeds and ivy. Beyond it was a dark tree line. 

"The woods," Mash whispered. "We'll keep running. They won't find us there." 

Sharon raised an eyebrow. "You know how to not trip over roots, right?" 

He glared at her. "I'm a theater major, not a park ranger." 

"Couldn't tell." 

He tightened his grip and started toward the trees, his legs screaming in pain, his heart pounding. The grass was wet under his feet, the wind sharp on his face. Every shadow looked like a person. Every rustle made him flinch. 

But they'd made it. 

The trees enveloped them like guardians, offering safety for a moment. 

"We're alive," he gasped. "Oh my God. We're alive." 

Sharon blinked. "Don't jinx it." 

Too late. 

A voice came from ahead. 

"Well, well..." 

Mash froze. 

He turned slowly. 

There, standing between the trees, silhouetted in the moonlight— 

David. 

Beside him, slightly behind, Vincent, smiling like he was about to film the final shot of a masterpiece. 

David took a step forwar

d, arms relaxed. 

*"What do we have here?"* 

Mash stumbled back, heart hammering. "Stay away." 

Sharon sighed. "Told you you were out of shape." 

Mash whispered, "Not the time." 

David tilted his head. "Points for escaping, but that's mostly on me for leaving you unchained, Mash." 

Vincent raised a hand. *"Mash, let's go back. We still have footage to finish."* 

Mash tightened his grip on Sharon. 

And Sharon? 

She smiled. 

. 

. 

.