JV Hampton-VanSant

Your hyperventilating mind can't keep up.

That razorblade glove is famous, like MTV famous, though you feel anything but starstruck.

You shrink back into your seat and press your hacked-up hand against your chest.

Blood slicks your fingers.

But despite yourself, you grin.

The key digs into your palm.

Your watcher observes you with a daft tilt of head, flickery gaze blinding and amused.

He could easily reach over the seat and end you fast.

Slash, slash.

But where's the carnival in that?

He taps one razor-sharp finger against his forehead, then slices a red-rimmed line from brow to chin, splitting his egg face with a gruesome vertical smile.

Twin flaps of flesh curl away, one broken disguise blooming to reveal another.

Studded with shining eyes, the face beneath once gave your great-great-grandparents gaunt-cheeked nightmares.

An undead horror with pointed ears and pointier teeth.

Victorian victims drained of blood.

Filmmakers accused of plagiarism.

It all flashes before you in a black and white blur.

Then your watcher swings his projector stare away from you and begins a leisurely ghoulish stroll down his row, gliding past seat after seat.

Where's he going?

Quickly, trembling, you open your bloody hand.