Statesville Prison

Steve pulled up to the Statesville Haunted Prison in his black, weather-beaten pick-up truck to begin his first shift at his new job that night. After bypassing the seemingly mile- long line of future victims waiting to get into the attraction and entering the building through a side door hidden by the surrounding untrimmed bushes, he walked into a bright room where his gaze was instantly met with the six, beady eyes of the makeup crew that sat chatting in the corner. The room was silent for a few seconds as the makeup crew stared at the new guy.

After exchanging a few awkward hellos with the three middle-aged women, Steve continued on to the dressing room where his costume was hanging on the clothes rack and his fake chainsaw lay somewhere in the props bin. It only took a few minutes for him to change into his “blood” stained costume – a strait jacket that had had the seams ripped off both sleeves so that his arm use was unrestricted and matching white pants - before he went back into the main room for his ten-minute makeup job. His hair had been gelled to look as though he had just rolled out of bed, and red paint dripped down his face from a “gash” in his forehead and multiple “cuts” in his lip and right cheek. As he left the makeup room, he looked back at the three sitting back in corner, snickering as he walked out the door, and knew he wouldn’t be back the following day.

Outside, he wandered about the lines, entertaining those who had been waiting for hours to get into the popular attraction. He crept up behind those who seemed as though they would be scared easily and then fired up his plastic chainsaw and quickly backed away, anticipating the ear-piercing scream that soon followed and the roaring laughter of the friends that had quietly watched it all happen. He did this for hours, yet by the time his five-hour shift was almost over, the reactions were still just as amusing.

By this time, it was almost the end of his shift, but there was enough time for one last scare. He slowly scanned the crowd before settling on a young girl who was standing with her back to him and talking loudly to a group of girls nearby. Those surrounding her were all looking on in disgust and had annoyed looks on their faces. As he tiptoed closer to the girl, he held his index finger up to his lips, grimacing, as everyone else watching gave him thumbs up and excitedly nodded their heads in approval. This time, though, instead of readying his chainsaw, he slipped his plastic weapon into a buckle in his pants. When he was just two feet away from the young girl, he yanked her from the ground and slung her flailing body over his shoulder as he dashed down the hill to his truck. The audience behind him was still cheering, mostly out of confusion for what had just happened, and the group of girls who had been chatting just seconds ago stood speechless.

When he finally reached his car, he threw the girl into the back of his truck and tied her down with the ropes he had readied prior to arriving at work that day and covered her mouth with duct tape so he wouldn’t have to hear her screaming and drove off into the night. The next day, the young girl was found dead in a ditch dressed in a strait jacket just like the one he had been wearing that night, except stained with real blood this time, and on top of her lay the newspaper from that day with the headline that read, “High Security Convict Escapes from USP Marion, Takes Another Victim.”





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