Tickled in the Dark

The first thing I noticed about the village was the laughing. Not the good kind. Not the kind that comes from a joke or a memory or too much wine. This was the kind that came from somewhere deep and helpless, the sound of people who had lost the fight against their own bodies and were just along for the ride.

"Mom, I don't like this."

Sally grabbed my arm and squeezed. Her nails dug in, which meant she was scared, which meant she was trying not to show it. My mother never showed fear. She showed cleavage and confidence and a smile that could sell a timeshare to a drowning man, but fear? That stayed behind the curtain.

"It's a Halloween village, Molly. That's the point. Spooky sounds, fog machines, overpriced cider. We'll be fine."

She said it the way she said everything, like the world was a party she'd already RSVP'd to and nothing was going to ruin her outfit. Tonight's outfit was a black wrap dress that hugged every curve she had, which was a lot of curves, and heels that made her five-ten into something closer to six-one. I'd worn jeans and a loose sweater and my favorite sandals, because I hadn't known we were walking into a nightmare.

The fog rolled around our ankles like it had opinions. Real fog, not the machine kind. Cold and wet and smelling faintly of copper.

We'd come because Sally had found a flyer at the coffee shop. Halloween Village, it said. One night only. Immersive experience. She'd waved it at me like a golden ticket, and I'd said yes because saying no to my mother requires a level of energy I don't always have. She's thirty-nine and looks thirty. She's my mother and also the kind of woman who gets carded at bars and loves it. I'm eighteen and look like I'm still figuring out my face.

The village had appeared in the field behind the old mill, the one that had been abandoned since before I was born. No permits, no construction crews, no explanation. Just tents and torches and winding paths through fake cobwebs that felt too sticky to be fake.

A goblin walked past us. Actual goblin. Green skin, pointed ears, teeth like broken glass. He was about four feet tall and carrying a bucket of something that sloshed.

Sally didn't flinch. She smiled at him.

"Evening," she said.

The goblin stopped. Looked up at her. Grinned.

"Pretty lady," he said. His voice was like gravel in a blender. "You'll do nicely."

"Excuse me?"

But he was already walking away, the bucket swinging, the sloshing sound following him into the fog.

I grabbed Sally's wrist. "We need to leave."

"We just got here."

"Mom. That thing looked at you like you were a steak."

She laughed. Actually laughed. "Molly, honey, everything looks at me like I'm a steak. It's called being attractive. You'll understand when you stop hiding in those sweaters."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to drag her back to the car. But the path behind us had closed. Literally. The fog had thickened into something solid, a wall of gray that pushed back when I tried to walk through it.

"Okay," I said. "That's not normal."

Sally finally looked uncertain. Just for a second. Then she straightened her shoulders and adjusted her dress and became Sally Again.

"Fine. We'll find another way out. We're smart women. We can handle a haunted house."

We started walking.

The village unfolded around us like a fever dream. Tents with striped canvas, torches that burned green and purple, cages hanging from poles with things inside that moved. The laughing got louder. Closer. I could hear individual voices now, men and women, some begging, some just making sounds that weren't words anymore.

We passed a platform where a man was tied to a chair. Not fake-tied. Real ropes, real knots, real panic in his eyes. He was maybe forty, soft around the middle, wearing a wedding ring that caught the torchlight.

His wife was on the ground in front of him. She was beautiful in that way that made other women hate her, blonde hair spread out like a halo, a red dress that had been pushed up to her hips. Two ghouls held her arms. A third was working on her feet.

She was barefoot. They'd taken her shoes.

The ghoul had long fingers, gray and spindly, and they were dancing across the soles of her feet. She was laughing. That terrible helpless laugh. Her body jerked and twisted, trying to escape, but there was nowhere to go.

"Please," the husband said. "Please, she can't take anymore."

The ghoul looked up at him. "You can watch. That's your punishment. You get to watch and do nothing."

I grabbed Sally's arm and pulled her away. She came, but she was staring. Her eyes were wide and her lips were parted and I couldn't tell if she was horrified or fascinated.

"We can't help them," I said. "We need to keep moving."

"I know."

"Mom."

"I know, Molly."

We kept walking.

The path twisted through a grove of dead trees. Their branches reached down like fingers. Some of them had things hanging from them. Shoes. Purses. A pair of men's briefs.

"I went to a tickle party once," Sally said.

I stopped walking. "What?"

"When I was twenty-five. Before you were born. A friend of mine was into that scene and she dragged me along."

"Mom, why are you telling me this now?"

She shrugged. Her heels clicked on the packed dirt. "Because I'm trying not to think about that woman's feet. And talking helps."

"That's not talking. That's oversharing."

"You're eighteen. You can handle it."

I couldn't handle it. I couldn't handle any of this. But she was already talking again, her voice low and steady, the voice she used when she was trying to calm me down after a nightmare.

"It was in a basement. Very tasteful, actually. Candles everywhere. Wine. Everyone was dressed up. And there was this man, this gorgeous man, and he asked if he could tie me up."

"And you said yes?"

"I said maybe. Then I said yes. Then I spent two hours laughing so hard I couldn't breathe."

I stared at her. "You're serious."

"I'm always serious about orgasms, honey. And that was one of the best ones I ever had."

"Jesus, Mom."

She laughed. Real laugh this time, not the helpless kind. "What? You think I became a mother and stopped being a person? I was young. I was curious. I had needs."

We walked past a cage where a man was curled into a ball. He was naked except for socks. Just socks. Someone had written "TICKLE ME" on his back in marker.

"I've never done anything like that," I said.

"I know."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're my daughter. You've been stubborn since you were born. You don't let anyone touch you unless you've decided they're safe first."

That was true. I hated that it was true.

We turned a corner and found a clearing. In the center was a cauldron, actual cauldron, bubbling with something purple. Around it stood three witches. Real witches. Pointed hats, warty noses, cackling.

And in front of them, on a wooden platform, a man and his mother were tied to chairs.

The man was young. Maybe twenty-five. Handsome in a boring way, the kind of face you forget while you're looking at it. His mother was older, maybe sixty, gray hair in a bun, sensible shoes. They'd taken her shoes too. Her feet were bare and pale and trembling.

The witch in the middle was holding a feather. Long and black and shimmering.

"Which one first?" she asked.

"Please," the man said. "She has a heart condition."

"She has beautiful feet," the witch said. "Look at those arches. Look at those toes. She's taken care of them her whole life and now they're going to betray her."

The mother started crying. Not loud. Just tears running down her face.

I felt something hot and angry rise in my chest. "We have to do something."

Sally grabbed my arm. "We can't."

"We can't just watch."

"We don't have a choice. Look around."

I looked. The fog had closed in again. The path behind us was gone. The path ahead was gone. We were in a clearing with three witches and two victims and no way out.

"Then we wait," I said. "We wait for an opening."

"Now you're thinking like a survivor."

The witch lowered the feather. Touched it to the mother's arch. The woman screamed, then laughed, then screamed again. Her whole body convulsed. Her son was yelling, pulling at his ropes, but he couldn't reach her.

"That's it," the witch said. "Let it out. Let all of it out."

I turned away. I couldn't watch. But I could hear. The laughter, the begging, the sound of a feather moving across skin.

"I was tickled by a boyfriend once," I said. "Not like this. But he held me down and went for my feet and I couldn't stop him."

Sally looked at me. "You never told me that."

"It wasn't exactly dinner conversation."

"What happened?"

"I kicked him in the face. Broke his nose."

She laughed. "That's my girl."

"He deserved it. I told him to stop and he didn't stop."

"Men don't stop, honey. That's the problem. They think no means try harder."

The mother was sobbing now. The son was silent. I didn't want to know why.

"We should move," I said. "While they're distracted."

"Where? The fog is everywhere."

"Then we go through it."

I grabbed her hand and pulled. She came, stumbling in her heels, and we ran into the gray.

It was cold. So cold it burned. And thick. Like running through wet cotton. I couldn't see anything, couldn't hear anything except my own breathing and Sally's footsteps behind me.

Then the fog opened and we were somewhere else.

A new part of the village. Quieter. The laughing was distant here, muffled, like it was happening behind glass. Lanterns hung from trees, casting soft yellow light. There was a bench. Actual bench. Wooden and splintered but real.

Sally sat down. Rubbed her ankles. "These shoes are killing me."

"Take them off."

"And walk barefoot through a village full of foot-obsessed monsters? I don't think so."

I sat next to her. The bench creaked. Somewhere in the distance, someone was screaming. Then laughing. Then both at once.

"Why did you bring me here?" I asked.

She was quiet for a moment. "Because I wanted to spend time with you. You've been distant lately."

"I've been busy."

"You've been avoiding me."

I didn't answer. She wasn't wrong.

"I know I'm not the easiest mother," she said. "I know I'm loud and I'm flirty and I embarrass you. But you're my daughter. My only daughter. And I'm not going to be around forever."

"You're thirty-nine."

"And you're eighteen. Time moves faster than you think."

A goblin walked past. He was carrying a feather duster. He looked at us, grinned, and kept walking.

"We need to find a way out," I said.

"I know."

"Before they find us."

"I know."

"Stop saying that."

She looked at me. Her eyes were green and sharp and tired. "What do you want me to say, Molly? That I'm scared? That I made a mistake? That I'm sorry?"

"Yes. Any of those."

"I'm sorry."

The words hung in the air. My mother, apologizing. That never happened. She apologized to waiters and strangers and people she'd accidentally bumped into, but never to me. Never for anything that mattered.

"I'm sorry I brought you here," she said. "I thought it would be fun. I thought we could laugh about it later. I didn't know it would be real."

"How could you not know? Look at this place."

"I thought it was theater. I thought the laughing was actors. I thought the goblins were costumes."

"They're not."

"I know that now."

I leaned back against the bench. The wood was rough against my shoulders. My sandals were still on, which felt like a small victory. My feet were soft and well-cared for, the one part of my body I actually liked, and I wasn't about to let some ghoul ruin them.

"I've never been tickled like that," I said. "Not the way they're doing it. Not until someone breaks."

"Neither have I."

"But you said you went to a party."

"A party where I was in control. Where I could say stop and they would stop. This is different."

"How?"

She thought about it. "Because at the party, I was choosing to be helpless. Here, we don't have a choice."

A scream echoed through the trees. Closer this time. Then another. Then a chorus of them, men and women, all laughing and crying and begging at once.

"We need to move," I said.

"Where?"

"Anywhere but here."

We stood up. Sally winced as she put her heels back on. I offered her my arm and she took it, leaning against me, and we walked deeper into the village.

The path led to a tent. Big tent, red and black stripes, with a sign that said "TICKLE TORTURE CHAMBER." Subtle.

"We're not going in there," I said.

"We might have to. Look."

She pointed. The fog had closed behind us again. The only way forward was through.

"I hate this place," I said.

"I know."

"If we get out of this, I'm never letting you plan another outing."

"Fair."

We pushed through the tent flap.

Inside was worse than outside. Much worse. Rows of tables, each one holding a person, each person being worked over by a creature. Goblins, ghouls, things that looked like humans but weren't. Feathers, brushes, fingers. The sounds were overwhelming. Laughter and screaming and crying and begging, all mixed together into something that wasn't any of them.

A goblin looked up from his work. He was tickling the feet of a woman who was tied to the table, her body arching and twisting, tears streaming down her face.

"New arrivals," he said. "Wonderful."

"Run," I said.

But Sally wasn't running. She was staring at the woman on the table. At her feet. At the way the goblin's fingers moved.

"Mom."

"She has my shoes," Sally said.

I looked. The woman was wearing Sally's heels. The black ones. The ones she'd bought last month.

"How did she get your shoes?"

"I don't know. But I want them back."

"Mom, we need to go."

"I'm not leaving without my shoes."

The goblin laughed. "You want them? Come and get them."

Sally took a step forward. I grabbed her arm.

"This is a trap. You know it's a trap."

"Everything here is a trap. At least this one has my shoes."

She pulled free and walked toward the table. The goblin watched her, grinning, his fingers still moving across the woman's feet. The woman was laughing so hard she couldn't breathe. Her face was red and wet and desperate.

Sally reached the table. Reached for her shoes.

The goblin grabbed her wrist.

"Pretty lady," he said. "You'll do nicely."

And then everything happened at once.

Two more goblins appeared from nowhere. They grabbed Sally's arms and pulled her onto the table next to the woman. She kicked and screamed, but they were strong, stronger than they looked, and within seconds she was tied down, her wrists and ankles secured, her body stretched out like the others.

"Mom!"

"Run, Molly! Get out!"

But I couldn't run. I couldn't move. I was frozen, watching as a goblin climbed onto the table and started unlacing Sally's heels.

"These are nice," he said. "Very nice. I think I'll keep them."

"Don't you touch her."

The words came out of my mouth before I could stop them. The goblin looked at me. So did the others. So did Sally, her eyes wide and scared and proud.

"Brave little girl," the goblin said. "You want to take her place?"

"No. I want you to let her go."

"That's not how this works."

"Then tell me how it works."

He tilted his head. Considered me. I could see something behind his eyes, something that wasn't just cruelty. Curiosity, maybe. Interest.

"You want to save your mother?"

"Yes."

"Then you have to give us something in return."

"What?"

He smiled. His teeth were yellow and sharp and numerous.

"Your feet."

I looked down at my sandals. At my soft, well-cared-for feet. The one part of my body I actually liked.

"No," Sally said. "Molly, no. Don't you dare."

"It's just tickling," I said. "Right? That's all it is."

"That's all it is," the goblin agreed. "Just tickling. Until you can't take it anymore. Until you break."

"And then?"

"And then we let you go."

I looked at Sally. She was shaking her head, tears in her eyes. My mother, who never cried, who never showed fear, who always had a smile and a joke and a way out.

"Don't," she said. "Please."

But I was already unstrapping my sandals.

The goblin watched. They all watched. The laughing around us continued, but it felt distant now, like it was happening in another world.

"One hour," I said. "One hour and you let us both go."

"Two hours."

"Ninety minutes."

"Done."

I stepped out of my sandals. The floor was cold and rough under my bare feet. The goblin gestured to an empty table. I walked toward it. My legs were shaking. My heart was pounding.

"Molly," Sally said. "Molly, don't."

"It's okay, Mom."

"It's not okay. It's not."

I lay down on the table. The wood was hard and splintery. The goblin tied my wrists, then my ankles. The ropes were tight. Too tight. I couldn't move.

"Comfortable?" he asked.

"No."

"Good."

He picked up a feather. Long and black and shimmering, just like the witch's. He held it up so I could see it.

"Last chance to change your mind."

I looked at Sally. She was crying. Actually crying. I'd never seen her cry before. Not when her father died, not when she lost her job, not when she broke her ankle skiing. She was always too strong for tears.

But she was crying now.

"Just get it over with," I said.

The goblin smiled. Lowered the feather.

Touched it to my arch.

And I laughed.