2025

Hail taps the windows, and the roof creaks from the weight of heavy snow. The contestants are trapped by the storm’s bitter cold. Frozen in shut.

The auditorium is a murmur of voices overlapping and dresses rustling, of chairs shifting and mothers shouting for their daughters. The generator hums, and the speaker plays a steady, frantic drumroll. Down a hallway, the sound fades, the world narrows, lit only by the glow of the exit sign. And at the end, there is a door.

Within the room, a standing mirror reflects the wall of glittering gowns, each rhinestone and crystal appliqué catching the light in sharp, splintered glints, like the watchful eyes of creatures lurking in shadow. Under a single dim bulb, sequins and stones pulse, glimmering alive.

A multifeathered headpiece, once pristine white, is splattered with red ribbons of blood. Cans of hair spray and jars of body shimmer are misted in crimson. A large clump of brain matter, still warm, clings to the tulle layers of an emerald-colored gown.

It is still, but for the overhead fixture swaying, its light twinkling off the beading on dresses and the sparkles on high heels. Still, but for the blood trails snaking slowly down the mirror, pooling on the vanity around tubes of lipstick and pots of blush.

From beyond the door come the sounds of screaming young girls. One’s high-pitched shriek of terror cuts sharper than the rest, pierces through the echoes of pounding feet across the hollow stage floor. A killer is among them, and panic spreads, stretches its fingers like the fractal shards of ice chilling their bones.

The storm persists, battering the walls as wind continues to howl and scrape and claw.

But the night is far from over.