The Rustle of Hooves

4am

The hedge walls of the Garden shivered, leaves and petals falling around Chloe as she picked her way along the maze’s twisting path. Sweat pasted the straps of her bikini to her skin. The humid air pressed in from every side—so heavy it tasted sweet and rotting on her tongue. She hugged herself, arms locked tight over her belly. With every step, her pale pink ribbon—secured high on her right arm—caught the stray light and pulsed faintly, like a beacon for anything lurking in the maze’s pockets of shadow.

“Just a game,” she whispered, barely louder than the breath that carried it. “Andy will save us if it gets bad. Just a game…”

The sentence broke, unfinished, as a sharp rustle came from somewhere behind the wall of hedges. Chloe froze. Her hands clamped so hard to her sides her ribs ached. The next moment, it was silent again, save for her own heart, pounding like a fist on a door.

She **** herself to move, one bare foot dragging in front of the other, toes leaving damp smudges on the pale flagstone. The wall to her right was plated in mirrors, held against the hedge by branches and vines. The mirrors reflected her back at impossible angles; they splintered her face, lips tight and white, eyes blown wide with fear. Every time she blinked, she saw something new—sometimes only herself, sometimes a ripple that could have been anyone, or anything, just out of sight.

She chose the tunnel. The air inside was cooler, laced with the scent of crushed leaves and something else—a chemical tang, like a hospital’s waiting room after hours.

Somewhere, close by, something clicked against stone. The rhythm was wrong for footsteps—too regular, too deliberate. Chloe stopped. Every muscle in her legs locked.

The click came again. And again.

She clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling the small, **** sound that tried to escape. Then, as if the maze itself was counting down her courage, the click quickened. Four beats, then a pause. Four, then a pause. Like the world’s slowest metronome.

A memory leapt into Chloe’s mind, unbidden and unhelpful: her first day of student teaching, the principal’s office floor, a janitor with a mop and those heavy, black rubber boots. She’d laughed at the sound then, called it a “march of doom.” It didn’t seem funny now.

She crouched low, fingers digging into the warm dirt beneath a hedge, hoping the green would swallow her whole. She kept her head turned, tracking the clicks as they drew nearer. Then—just as she dared to peek around the branch, to glimpse what monster the maze had set loose—there was a sudden, violent crash as the hedge to her right split open in a shower of tiny glass needles.

Chloe yelped, flinging herself back onto the path, hands stinging where the glass dust caught her. For a second she lay sprawled, blinking, then looked up.

Standing above her—hooves planted square on the flagstone, denim shorts stretched so tight they looked painted on, flannel shirt knotted just below a monstrous cleavage—was Mildred, but unlike any other Mildred she’d seen so far.

Not a minotaur in the classic, beef-on-bones sense. More like a parody you might see at a bachelorette party, if the party was thrown by a secret society of mad seamstresses with a grudge against the livestock industry. She was eight feet tall in her boots, and those boots were cow-patterned, finished with oversized silver bells that jingled whenever she moved. Her skin was perfect, doll-like, almost glossy. She had a thick red wig in pigtailed braids, bows at the ends, and a cheap cowboy hat jammed sideways on her head. She wore a red flannel shirt for a top, sleeves rolled up and the shirt held closed only by a knot beneath her breasts. Denim daisy dukes completed the look. Above the swell of her chest, just above a “Got Milk?” button, a badge glinted in the sunlight:

Moory - Service Minotaur

The worst part—though there were many, Chloe would later realize—was her face. It was Mildred’s face, but also not, like an artist had started with the original and then run wild with it, stretching the mouth until it nearly split the skull. The makeup was perfect, in the way a ventriloquist dummy’s black-and-white facial makeup was perfect: exaggerated, precise, more than a little terrifying and yet somehow oddly arousing. But the smile—oh God, the smile—was so wide it belonged more to a horror movie poster than a person. And the eyes, ringed in matte black and iridescent blue, were enormous and prehistoric, as if the only expression they’d ever known was predation.

She tipped her hat and leaned in, the bells on her boots jingling in time with her words. “Well, howdy, sugar,” she drawled, voice syrup-thick and teasing. “Ain’t you the prettiest little thing in the maze. They don’t make ‘em like you back at the barn.”

Chloe’s entire body jerked as she scrambled to her feet, and only then did she realize her palms and knees were slick with mud and tiny flecks of mirror glass. She pressed herself against the wall, the cold hedge and mirror biting her spine through the bikini’s thin tie. The reflection of Moory—eight feet of smiling, cow-themed terror—marched up and down every mirrored panel, multiplying her presence until Chloe felt beset on all sides.

“P-please,” she said, but her voice barely made it into the sticky air.

Moory advanced at a lazy stroll, stopping a foot away. She rested one hand on her hip and popped a knee, cowgirl pin-up style. The other hand—so large and perfectly manicured Chloe could see the brushstrokes in the white nail polish, each topped with a black splotch—swayed at her side, ready to snatch. “Now, darlin’,” said Moory, “you don’t need to shake like that. I don’t bite.” She giggled, then bared all her teeth in a way that said she absolutely did.

She bent low, folding at the waist as if boneless, until her face was nearly level with Chloe’s. She inhaled deeply, her nostrils flaring, and made a show of savoring the scent. When she spoke again, her words tickled the top of Chloe’s head, warm and intimate:

“I only snip.”

Chloe whimpered and tried to sidestep, but her foot skidded on the glass powder and she went down, landing on one knee. Moory moved in a single, unhurried motion—graceful, almost balletic—hooked her under the arms and lifted her as if Chloe weighed nothing. It was so gentle, so casual, that for a split second Chloe thought maybe this was part of the game, some weird twist where Moory helped you up before she killed you.

Then she felt the squeeze. Moory’s grip, though outwardly affectionate, was iron. It compressed Chloe’s ribs until she couldn’t breathe. She gasped, but the only air that made it in was tainted by Moory’s perfume: a blend of hay, vanilla, and something chemical underneath.

“Shhh,” Moory murmured. “Let’s make it nice and easy.” Her unnaturally smooth hand caressed Chloe’s cheek, thumb smearing a streak of dirt across her skin. “You’ve got such a pretty ribbon. Don’t you wanna show it to me?”

Chloe shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. She remembered, all at once, the sound of the glass breaking, the laughter of girls down a hallway, the way her mother used to peel off bandaids: quick, brutal, over before you could process the pain. She tried to pull away, but Moory’s fingers—so soft, so careful—simply traced up her arm and settled over the bicep, where the ribbon was tied.

“Hold still, sweetness,” said Moory. “Wouldn’t want me to slip.”

There was a tiny screech as Moory’s thumbnail sliced through the knot, then a sudden, blooming cold on Chloe’s upper arm, like a nerve had been snipped. Moory drew the ribbon up and examined it, stretching it between her hands. The pink silk glistened. Moory brought it to her nose and snuffled like a truffle pig, eyes rolled back in ecstasy. Her tongue flicked out, and she licked the length of the ribbon, rolling the taste across her palate. “Mm. Sweet as candyfloss,” she purred. “I do so love when they’re fresh.” She twirled the ribbon in her fingers.

Chloe screamed. The sound started deep, somewhere in her gut, and exploded out her mouth in a wild, uncontrolled shriek that echoed up and down the maze. Her whole body seized, then went limp—she collapsed in Moory’s arms, head dangling, vision pulsing with static.

Moory held her upright for a second, as if weighing whether to console her or finish the job. She settled for patting Chloe’s hair, then tucking the ribbon into the pocket of her flannel shirt, where it wriggled and disappeared.

“Good girl,” Moory whispered. “Easy as pie.”

She let go, and Chloe crumpled to the path, body folding in on itself. Her hands shook so bad she couldn’t even touch the place where the ribbon had been. Her skin crawled and tingled, as if the air knew she’d been marked.

Moory licked her finger, then ran it down Chloe’s cheek to wipe away a tear. “You did so good, honey,” she cooed. She took a step back, boots clanking, and regarded her handiwork with a critical eye. “Sometimes, they scream and run. You just stood there. Brave.”

Chloe wanted to tell her to go away, to never come back, but all she could do was shiver and try to breathe.

Moory knelt, lowering her giant face until it filled Chloe’s entire field of vision. The red wig, the badge, the shark grin. She leaned in, so close the tip of her nose brushed Chloe’s forehead.

For a moment, she dropped the cowgirl act. The voice that came out was colder, more familiar: “You get to walk out of here. Arabella said so. But next time, try a little harder. I love a challenge.”

She straightened, flicked an invisible speck from her shirt, and strutted off, boots ringing out in perfect time. As she rounded the next corner, she tossed back, “Moo~!” like the punchline to a private joke.

Chloe remained kneeling on the path, head bowed, palms pressed to the aching spot on her arm. The world around her spun, refracted by tears she hadn’t noticed until now. She heard the sound of Moory’s bells fading away, and in their absence the silence returned, thicker and more absolute than before.

Chloe stared at it, breathless, until the color faded.

Then she got to her feet, and walked on.

The scream hit them like an electrical jolt. Marissa’s spine straightened; Erin’s fist went up, ready to fight a thing she couldn’t even see. Sam stopped mid-step. They looked at each other, all three waiting for someone else to say what they were all thinking.

It was Sam who broke first. “Chloe,” she breathed. Her lips were blue in the filtered light, and the freckles across her cheeks stood out like constellations. She blinked rapidly, as if she could clear the sound from her ears by **** of will alone.

“Keep moving,” Marissa said, the words sharper than she intended. She touched Sam’s shoulder, squeezed it hard enough to ground her, and then turned to Erin. “No point in getting ourselves lost for nothing.”

Erin nodded. Her jaw was set. “We’re not splitting up,” she said. “That’s the first rule in every horror movie, and I don’t intend to be the cautionary tale.”

Sam shuddered, but the familiar snark made her smile, just a little. She dropped back into step, sandwiching herself between Erin and Marissa. They hurried down the corridor, their shadows stretching ahead like black arrows on the glass.

The maze was different from before. Now, each twist in the path seemed to double back on itself, so that the walls—sometimes solid, sometimes sheer—always offered a glimpse of something moving just out of sync with the real world. Sometimes it was themselves, reflected at a weird angle; sometimes it was a shape that belonged to no one, pacing them at a silent distance. More than once, Sam caught sight of the Service Minotaur’s pigtails flicker in a mirror panel, then vanish.

“What the fuck is that!?” She pointed at the mirror. “Did you see the pigtails? I hate this,” Sam said under her breath. “I hate every single second.”

“You can’t hate it,” Erin said, not looking back. “You’re a masochist.”

“Not when it’s—” Sam started, but then a new scream tore through the maze. This time it was even closer.

They all ducked, hearts in their throats.

“Go,” Marissa hissed. She took the lead, stride lengthening, and the others followed without argument. Erin closed the gap fast, one hand on Marissa’s elbow, the other balled at her side.

It was then that Sam stumbled. Not a full-on faceplant, but enough of a jolt that she staggered, yelped, and nearly knocked Marissa off balance.

“What the—” Marissa turned, but stopped when she saw what Sam had stepped on.

It was a mushroom, pale blue and bulbous, about the size of a golf ball. When Sam’s sneaker squished it, a cloud of glowing spores shot up, surrounding her legs in a twinkling haze. The effect was beautiful, even mesmerizing—at least until Sam inhaled and immediately doubled over, clutching her thighs.

“Oh, shit,” she gasped. “Oh, that’s—uh, that’s a feeling.”

Marissa recognized the effect instantly, having seen it play out on Liesa during the first night in the HH. She grabbed Sam’s wrist, steady and unyielding, and pulled her upright. “Focus, Sam. Stay with us.”

But the spores weren’t subtle. Heat radiated up Sam’s legs, rolling through her core and flooding her head with a dizzy, melting rush. Her face went beet red. She looked from Marissa to Erin, then back down at herself, mortified. “It’s—um—really strong,” she said, her knees knocking together.

Erin snorted. “You look like you just ran ten miles.”

Sam made a strangled noise. “Can we—uh—keep going, please?”

Marissa kept her grip tight on Sam’s wrist, using her own calm as a counterweight. “Deep breaths. Walk it off.” She glanced at Erin, who nodded, then took point, scanning the maze with a cold, predatory focus.

Sam stumbled forward, eyes squeezed shut, relying on Marissa’s hand to guide her. “Everything tingles,” she muttered. “I don’t want to know what that means.”

Marissa kept her tone brisk, businesslike. “Means you’ll be fine if you don’t lose your head.”

Sam tried to laugh, but it came out a whimper. “Oh God. Do not tell anyone about this, okay? Especially not Andy. He’ll never let me live it down.”

Erin’s voice drifted back, dry as salt. “You know he watches the challenge, right?”

Sam looked like she might actually die on the spot, but the forward motion—and the constant squeeze of Marissa’s fingers—did what it needed to. In less than a minute, her breathing slowed, the color faded from her cheeks, and her walk went back to normal. She was still shaky, but she was herself again.

“Better?” Marissa asked.

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

They moved as a unit now, no one lagging, every step cautious and in sync. The maze seemed to grow narrower, the sky above reduced to a pale strip. Once, a bell rang in the distance—a single, mocking chime that made Marissa grit her teeth and press harder.

“You think Chloe’s okay?” Sam whispered, barely audible.

Erin’s answer was immediate: “It’s a game. But the question is, was she eliminated?”

Marissa exhaled, long and slow. They pressed on, the sound of their footsteps swallowed by the grass and the hush of the mirrored world.

When they reached the next junction, Erin stopped, scanning the crossroads. She pointed to the left. “There. That’s where the sound came from.”

Marissa took the turn, Sam still clinging to her hand. The new corridor was lined with glass panels—some intact, some shattered, all reflecting the three women in endless variations. For a moment, they caught sight of themselves: Erin in front; Marissa next, composed and focused; and Sam, last but never least, still a little red but walking with her head up, determination in every step.

Claire moved like a shadow—soundless, calculating, each step plotted a heartbeat before she took it. The maze liked to throw noise at its victims, but Claire was a ghost. If she was afraid, it never made it past her skin.

Emi followed in her wake. The six-armed girl, so often lost in reverie, was all nerves now, every sense turned up to eleven. Her footsteps were feather-light, but her breath rasped in her throat, quick and birdlike. She kept her gaze on Claire’s tail, which flicked from side to side in steady, deliberate beats—a cat’s metronome, keeping time in a world gone arrhythmic.

The corridors here were even stranger than before. Mirrors gave way to panes that were almost windows: some showed other parts of the maze, others warped the world so that Claire and Emi’s faces twisted into impossible angles. Once, Emi caught her own eyes staring back at her from three panels at once, every version more anxious than the last. She blinked, and they all blinked in unison.

Claire paused at the next junction. She flattened herself against the glass, peering around the edge with the focus of a sniper. Emi stopped too, hands hovering close to her body in a defensive halo.

Ahead, a patch of grass broke the hard geometry of the path—at first glance just a puddle of green in the corridor’s heart. But as Claire watched, the grass shivered. Then, without warning, the center bulged and writhed.

Vines. Not the delicate, lacy kind, but the hungry sort, thick and blue-green, covered in bristles that quivered at the slightest vibration.

Claire signaled to Emi, two fingers pointed, then a palm pressed low: danger, but stay close. Emi nodded, swallowing her panic, and crept forward, eyes locked on the vines.

They tried to skirt the edge, but the grass was clever. The moment Emi’s fourth step touched down, the vines whipped up, caught her ankles, and yanked her off balance. She screamed, instinctive and sharp, as the vines curled around her legs, then shot for her wrists.

Emi fought like a trapped animal—two arms batting at the vines, two more reaching for Claire, the last pair trying to keep herself upright. But the vines were everywhere, lashing her calves, her waist, her biceps, pinning her in place.

Claire didn’t hesitate. She was on her knees beside Emi before the first vine could tighten. She grabbed a fistful, yanked—ripping the vine from Emi’s wrist—and tossed it aside. It tore with a sound like celery snapped in half, and the severed end retracted into the grass, dripping clear, sticky sap.

The next vine tried for Emi’s throat. Claire caught it mid-lunge, twisted, and broke it with both hands. Her movements were mechanical, practiced: no wasted effort, no mercy for the trap. She worked her way down Emi’s body, severing each vine in turn, until all that remained were a few limp cords hanging from Emi’s shins.

As soon as she was free, Emi collapsed, panting. For a moment, she just hugged her knees, shaking, four arms wrapped around her legs, the other two splayed flat on the glass to keep from floating away. She looked up at Claire, eyes enormous, lips trembling.

Claire didn’t offer comfort. She didn’t have to. Instead, she extended a hand—her own small, pale hand, warm and unshaken.

Emi took it, and Claire pulled her up, steady and sure.

The catgirl gestured ahead, two fingers raised: we keep moving. Then a flat palm: together.

Emi nodded, trusting. “Thank you,” she whispered. They pressed on, side by side, Emi’s six hands in perpetual motion—some reaching for balance, some balling into fists, one or two occasionally fluttering up to check the ribbon still knotted tight to her bicep.

The echo of Chloe’s earlier scream lingered in the air, woven into the hush like a thread of color in a tapestry. Every so often, Emi looked back, as if expecting something to barrel down the corridor after them. But the only sound was the whisper of Claire’s feet, and the thump of Emi’s heart.

They moved deeper into the maze, the glass closing in tighter, the light dimming with every turn.

Behind them, the patch of vines had already regrown, waiting for its next meal.