When the Days Grow Short

Chapter 9
Enter If You Dare

Chapter Description: Dan refuses to be left behind when his friends enter Honeycrisp Hollow’s haunted barn. Inside, however, something far more humiliating than fear is waiting for him

The bells above the shop door chimed behind them.

Cold air met Dan’s face. His new hat held warmth close around his ears, its braided ties brushing either side of his chin whenever he moved. The rust-coloured jacket ended higher than his old coat, leaving the padded seat of his green overalls completely uncovered.

Hannah carried the shopping bag. Sophie had the smaller bag of baby clothes. Nate carried Dan’s old coat, the caramel apples and the clear sack containing everything Dan had worn before the maze.

Dan held only the plush crow.

The afternoon had darkened while they were inside. Orange bulbs glowed along the fences, and strings of lights shone beneath the eaves of the barns. The clouds hung low enough to make the farm seem enclosed beneath them, a little autumn world with no horizon beyond its trees.

A scream rose from the haunted barn.

Nate stopped.

“That’s it.”

Sophie continued walking. “What’s it?”

“I’ve waited patiently.”

“You mentioned it in the car.”

“And then I waited patiently for nearly three hours.”

Another scream came from the barn, followed by the mechanical snarl of a chainsaw.

Nate grinned.

Sophie placed one hand over the shallow curve beneath her coat.

“No.”

“You don’t have to come.”

“I wasn’t asking permission.”

Nate looked at Hannah.

She was already smiling.

“Fuck yes.”

Dan looked between them.

The old irritation surfaced through the fog that had followed him from the maze. It felt clean compared with everything else. Familiar. Almost invigorating.

“I’m coming.”

The others became quiet.

Not dramatically. Nobody exchanged an alarmed glance. Their silence was smaller and more insulting than that—the brief pause of people considering how gently to refuse something unreasonable.

Hannah turned toward him.

“You hate haunted houses.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You left the one at the boardwalk before we got halfway through.”

“That was years ago.”

“It was last summer.”

“The actors were annoying.”

Nate shifted the bags in his hands. “This one sounds pretty intense.”

“So?”

Sophie came closer. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

“I’m not proving anything.”

His thumb touched his lower lip.

Dan caught himself and closed both hands around the plush crow instead. Its corduroy body compressed between his palms.

Hannah glanced toward the haunted barn. A painted sign beside its entrance showed a scarecrow dragging a bulging sack into darkness.

*THE REAPING*

*ENTER IF YOU DARE*

A smaller board warned of darkness, fog, confined spaces, loud noises and live actors.

Hannah turned back to him.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Dan felt the words physically.

She had not said that they should avoid it. She had decided that he should.

“I can go into a haunted house.”

“I know you can.”

“Then why are you talking like that?”

“Like what?”

He could not define it without acknowledging everything that had happened since the maze.

Like she was responsible for him.

Like his wanting something had become merely one consideration among several.

Like the final choice belonged to her.

Nate looked toward the queue.

“We’ll be twenty minutes.”

Sophie touched Hannah’s shopping bag. “I’ll stay with him.”

Dan stared at her.

“With me?”

“We can find somewhere warm. I still want another hot chocolate.”

“I don’t need you to stay with me.”

“I’m not staying with you. I’m not going into that thing.”

The distinction felt artificial. Sophie was pregnant, yet nobody had questioned whether she could be trusted alone. Dan was apparently the one who required company.

Hannah took the plush crow from his clenched hands and tucked it securely beneath his arm.

“You two can hold the apples.”

“I’m coming with you.”

She straightened his hat, pulling one earflap lower. The wool ties dragged beneath his chin.

“No.”

The word was gentle.

It was still no.

Dan looked at Nate, expecting support from his oldest friend.

Nate avoided his eyes.

“Probably better this way.”

Something hot and furious rose behind Dan’s ribs.

“Better for who?”

Nobody answered directly.

Hannah touched his cheek.

“We won’t be long.”

Dan jerked away.

Her hand remained suspended for a moment before lowering.

Nate started toward the haunted barn. Hannah followed, carrying the shopping bag. After a few steps, she looked back.

“Stay with Sophie.”

Dan opened his mouth.

Hannah had already turned away.

Sophie took his hand.

The contact was so unexpected that he allowed it. By the time he understood what she had done, Hannah and Nate were joining the queue.

“Come on,” Sophie said. “There’s seating by the playground.”

Dan watched Hannah disappear behind a group of teenagers.

Sophie began leading him in the opposite direction.

She carried the caramel apples and her shopping bag in one hand. Her other remained wrapped around Dan’s fingers. The black crow was compressed between his elbow and ribs.

The arrangement was absurd.

“You can let go.”

“The ground’s uneven.”

“I can walk.”

“I know.”

She did not release him.

The padding had cooled almost completely. It drooped between Dan’s thighs, each step producing a dense, clammy shift beneath the green cotton. The sodden centre dragged close to his body while the heavier rear moved a fraction behind him. His shortened jacket exposed the shape of it. He could feel the overalls tighten across the swollen seat whenever he lengthened his stride.

He tried pulling his hand free.

Sophie tightened her grip reflexively.

“Careful.”

“I said let go.”

Sophie stopped.

They stood beside a white fence separating the lane from a small playground. Children climbed over wooden tractors and rolled plastic pumpkins through orange tunnels. Parents occupied benches beneath strings of lights, paper cups held between gloved hands.

Sophie studied him.

“All right.”

She released him.

Dan’s hand felt abruptly empty.

“Thank you.”

“Let’s sit over there.”

“I don’t want to sit.”

“Then we can stand.”

“I don’t want to stand here either.”

Sophie sighed.

Not angrily. Wearily.

“Dan, they’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

He looked over his shoulder.

The haunted-house queue had advanced. Hannah’s mustard scarf remained visible near the entrance. Nate stood behind her.

Dan could catch them before they went inside.

He shoved the crow into Sophie’s arms.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Dan.”

He was already moving.

The thick padding limited his stride, but anger carried him faster than comfort allowed. His run became an awkward, urgent shuffle. The padded centre rubbed heavily between his thighs. The braided ties of his hat struck his chin, and the short jacket rode higher with every step, exposing more of the rounded green seat behind him.

Sophie called his name.

Dan did not stop.

He crossed the lane between two families and reached the queue just as Hannah and Nate passed beneath the entrance sign.

“Hannah!”

The door closed behind them.

A farm employee stood beside the rope barrier.

“One admission?” she asked.

Dan looked back.

Sophie was approaching as quickly as her condition and the bags allowed.

“Yes.”

The employee indicated the payment terminal.

Dan reached toward his jacket pocket.

His wallet was not there.

He checked the other pocket. Then the bib pocket of the overalls. His fingers searched it twice, as though the wallet might appear if he performed the movement correctly.

Nothing.

He remembered Hannah taking his wallet and phone. In the bathroom, perhaps. Or at the shop counter. The moment would not settle into a single memory.

Behind him, Sophie called again.

Dan looked at the closed door.

“They already paid for me.”

The employee glanced at the doorway.

“They did?”

“My girlfriend just went in.”

A scream sounded inside.

The employee looked toward Sophie, who was still several yards away.

Then she lifted the rope.

“All right. Catch up to your group.”

Dan slipped through.

The door closed.

Darkness swallowed the farm.

For several seconds, he could see nothing.

Recorded wind moaned through hidden speakers. The floor beneath him creaked. Somewhere ahead, a chain dragged slowly across wood.

“Hannah?”

No answer.

Dan extended one hand and found a rough wall. His other arm tightened around empty space before he remembered giving the crow to Sophie.

A dim red light flickered ahead.

He followed it.

The first room resembled a farmhouse kitchen left to rot. Cupboards hung open. Blackened pots swung from hooks. A figure sat motionless at the table beneath a burlap sack.

Dan knew it was an actor.

He crossed the room quickly.

The figure’s head snapped toward him.

Dan flinched so hard that his shoulder struck the wall.

Laughter erupted from a group somewhere ahead.

The actor remained seated.

Dan hurried past.

The next corridor narrowed between walls of hanging corn. Dry leaves brushed his face and caught against the pompom of his hat. He raised both arms, trying to protect himself without touching anything.

His thumb found his mouth.

Warm pressure closed around it. The hard beat of his pulse softened almost immediately.

He turned a corner.

A scarecrow dropped from the ceiling.

Dan cried out around his thumb and stumbled backward.

The concealed garment swung heavily between his legs. His foot caught against something, sending a sharp tug through his ankle.

His lace.

It had come undone again.

Of course it had.

“Hannah?”

Her name came out thick around his thumb.

He pulled it free.

“Hannah!”

A green light began pulsing farther ahead.

Dan followed it into a fake cornfield where actors moved between the stalks. Some lunged toward him. Others remained perfectly still until he had almost passed.

Each time, his hand returned to his mouth.

After the third, he stopped noticing.

His cheeks worked rhythmically around his thumb as he moved. The wet seal muted his breathing. It gave him one small, repetitive thing his body still knew how to do.

A low pain tightened through his stomach.

Dan pressed his free hand against the bib of his overalls.

The pain passed before he could locate it.

Fear, he decided.

A door slammed behind him.

Dan ran.

The swollen padding hindered every step. Its cooling weight pulled downward while the overalls held it close. His shoes struck the floor in short, frantic impacts. The hat ties slapped against his chin. The material between his legs grew hotter from friction without becoming any lighter.

He entered a room filled with fog.

A strobe light flashed.

For each pulse, the room appeared in disconnected images.

A wooden fence.

A rusted wheelbarrow.

A figure in a pig mask.

Closer.

Closer.

Gone.

Dan turned.

The pig stood directly behind him.

He screamed.

His body folded around a second cramp.

The protective bulk beneath his overalls suddenly felt constrictive. The waistband pressed into his stomach. The damp centre crowded his groin. At the back, soft padding lay close against muscles that had clenched without his permission.

The pig actor stepped away.

Dan ran blindly into the fog.

His right foot snagged.

He fell onto his hands and knees.

The impact jarred up both arms and drove the heavy padding firmly against him. Its swollen front compressed. At the back, something shifted with a thick, internal softness that made his stomach turn.

Dan gasped.

The strobe continued flashing.

His hands were filthy. Artificial soil clung to his palms and worked beneath his nails. His hat had twisted sideways, covering one ear while the other remained exposed to every shriek and mechanical groan.

He tried to stand.

The pain returned, deeper this time.

Dan remained on all fours.

A sound escaped him—not quite a cry, not quite a grunt.

Pressure moved downward inside him.

It did not arrive as a need. There was no familiar warning he could name, nothing that allowed time for a decision. His stomach tightened; his lower body answered. By the time he understood that the strain belonged to him, his muscles were already bearing down.

He tried pushing himself upright, but his arms trembled.

Tears filled his eyes, distorting the strobe into white smears.

“Hannah!”

His voice broke.

The pig actor had stopped performing.

“Hey,” a normal voice said behind the mask. “You okay?”

Dan shook his head.

His thumb returned to his mouth.

The pressure increased.

His whole body tightened around it. His shoulders hunched. His back rounded. The movement happened with slow, helpless inevitability, as if his body had found a task and no longer required his participation.

Something warm pressed outward behind him.

The rear padding received it without allowing it to fall away.

Dan felt the garment thicken against him.

For one dislocated moment, the sensation had no meaning. It was only pressure becoming softness, softness becoming weight. The seat of the overalls tightened across a shape that had not been there seconds before.

He began sobbing.

The actor crouched several feet away.

“I’m going to get someone.”

Dan tried to say no.

Only a wet, broken sound emerged around his thumb.

Another cramp moved through him.

His body answered it with a second helpless push.

The padding spread the added bulk close against him, warm at first and then insistently present. It filled the hollow beneath his lowered body. When his knees shifted on the floor, the mass shifted too, rubbing where nothing should have been touching him.

The smell arrived before comprehension.

Dan froze.

No.

He could not think beyond the word.

No.

The actor spoke into a radio.

“I’ve got a separated guest in the west passage.”

Static answered.

“Adult male, brown hair. Green overalls, orange jacket, yellow hat.”

Dan heard every detail.

Adult male.

The words should have restored something.

Instead, paired with the rest of the description, they made the image unbearable: a grown man on his hands and knees in apple overalls and an earflap hat, thumb in his mouth, crying into the fog while the back of his clothes sagged visibly beneath him.

“He’s upset,” the actor continued. “Can someone check the last group through?”

Footsteps approached.

Another staff member appeared wearing a black Honeycrisp Hollow sweatshirt. She dimmed the strobe. The room settled into a low red glow.

“Hi there,” she said.

Dan stared at the floor.

“What’s your name?”

He removed his thumb.

“Dan.”

The word emerged wetly. Saliva stretched between his lips and hand before breaking against his chin.

“All right, Dan. We’re going to get you somewhere quiet.”

“I tripped.”

“I know.”

“My lace.”

“That’s okay.”

“It came undone.”

The staff member looked down at his shoes.

Dan followed her gaze, but fog lay thick across his feet.

She did not correct him.

The cramping eased, leaving behind a terrible fullness. The padded seat sagged against the backs of his thighs. When Dan shifted one knee, what it held moved with him, spreading beneath the pressure of his own body.

He stopped immediately.

Tears slid from his face and struck the floor.

“Can you stand?” the woman asked.

Dan tried.

His arms failed to straighten.

The two employees exchanged a glance.

Then the first took him beneath one arm and the second took the other. Together, they lifted him onto his feet.

The changed garment settled under its own weight.

Its contents pressed upward and inward when he straightened, sealing warm softness close against him. The overalls strained around the new bulk at the rear while the already wet front hung heavily between his legs.

Dan made a small, involuntary sound.

The smell strengthened.

Both employees knew.

Neither said anything.

Their professional silence was worse than disgust. It made the incident recognizable. Manageable. Something for which there were procedures.

They guided him through a plain service door into a narrow corridor lit by fluorescent strips.

Without the darkness, Dan could see himself properly.

Dirt streaked his palms and knees. His mustard hat sat crooked. The short rust jacket had ridden above his waist. Beneath it, the green overalls bulged heavily at the seat. The smiling apple distorted across the rounded fabric, its printed face stretched broad by what hung beneath it.

Dan reached behind himself.

The employee caught his dirty hands before he could touch anything.

“Let’s keep those up here.”

She held them gently in front of his chest.

His thumb moved toward his mouth.

She redirected it.

“Not until we clean your hands.”

The instruction entered him without resistance.

He stood waiting between them, hands suspended uselessly before him, while the fluorescent light exposed every stain and swollen contour the haunted darkness had concealed.

A door opened farther down the corridor.

Hannah appeared first.

Her face changed when she saw him.

“Dan.”

Nate came behind her.

Dan had imagined this moment while running through the dark. Hannah would be angry. He would explain that everybody had overreacted and that he had nearly caught up with them before his lace came undone.

Instead, the sight of her undid what remained of his control.

His mouth opened.

A sob came out.

Hannah crossed the corridor and pulled him against her.

Dan buried his face in her coat.

“I couldn’t find you.”

“I know.”

“You left me.”

“I’m here.”

“I fell.”

Her hand moved over the back of his jacket. It descended automatically toward the seat of his overalls.

Nate caught her wrist before she reached it.

Their eyes met.

Nate had smelled it.

Hannah closed her eyes briefly.

Not in disgust.

In weary understanding.

The staff member beside them spoke quietly.

“He became separated from his group. He had a fall, but I don’t think he’s injured.”

Hannah nodded.

“Thank you.”

“We have a first-aid room near the exit.”

Nate looked toward Dan’s lower half.

“Is there somewhere we can get him cleaned up?”

The employee pointed along the corridor.

“Family rest area in the next barn. It has changing spaces.”

Dan heard the words individually.

Family.

Rest.

Changing.

They did not form a complete meaning.

Hannah tried to move him away from her coat.

Dan clung tighter.

“Come on,” she whispered. “We need to go.”

“No.”

“We’re leaving the haunted house.”

“No. Home.”

The word dissolved into another sob.

Nate moved close.

“I’ve got him.”

Dan lifted his face.

Nate placed one arm behind his back and the other beneath his knees.

There was a brief, impossible shift in gravity.

Then the floor fell away.

Dan cried out and grabbed Nate’s coat. His body folded instinctively against his friend’s chest. The thick, changed padding was trapped between them, its heavy rear compressed by Nate’s supporting arm.

The pressure caused its contents to spread.

Dan went rigid.

Nate adjusted his hold, settling Dan more securely against him.

“Easy.”

“I can walk.”

“Not through the attraction.”

“I can.”

But Dan’s head had already fallen against Nate’s shoulder.

Hannah wiped his face. She straightened his hat, pulled one earflap into place and retied the cords beneath his chin.

“There.”

Dan’s thumb entered his mouth.

Nobody removed it.

Nate carried him through the service corridor. Each step rocked Dan gently. Each downward movement shifted the heavy padding against Nate’s arm and then pressed it back against Dan. He tried holding his body away from the contact, but Nate’s grip allowed no space for it.

Hannah walked beside them, one hand resting against Dan’s back.

The staff member opened the final door.

Cold air rushed in.

They emerged behind the haunted barn, away from the public entrance. Sophie waited near the fence with the bags and plush crow clutched against her chest.

Relief crossed her face.

Then she saw Nate carrying Dan.

She saw his tear-streaked cheeks and his thumb working slowly between his lips.

Finally, she noticed the smell.

“Oh,” she said softly.

Dan closed his eyes.

Nate continued toward the neighbouring barn.

A wooden sign beside its open door read:

FAMILY REST & FEEDING AREA

PRIVATE CHANGING SPACES INSIDE

Dan opened his eyes as they passed beneath it.

The words blurred above him.

Inside, warm golden light fell across rocking chairs, curtained alcoves and low hay bales covered with clean waterproof pads.

Women sat nursing infants beneath blankets. A father fastened a coat around a small child. Somewhere behind a curtain, adhesive tabs tore open with two sharp, familiar sounds.

Dan’s mouth stopped moving around his thumb.

Nate carried him toward an empty hay bale.

A folded white garment waited at one end of the changing pad beside a packet of wipes and a tub of cream.

All of it was ready.

As though someone had known they were coming.