Zombie Nights, Dog Days

The zombie costume smelled like every horror movie convention ever — a mixture of spray paint, fake blood, and the collective sweat of seven different actors who'd worn it before me. I groaned, adjusting the decaying flesh prosthetic on my cheek. Another Friday night working at Terror Town instead of hanging with my squad. Again.

'You're on in five, Marcus,' Sheila called from the break room. She was drinking a Monster Zero and scrolling TikTok like she hadn't just spent three hours applying scar wax to a 16-year-old's face.

'I know, I know,' I muttered, checking my phone. No new messages from Jenna. She'd probably ghosted me after that awkward moment at lunch when I tried to sit at her table and almost knocked over her tray. Classic Marcus energy.

The first group burst through the haunted house entrance — a birthday party of loud middle schoolers who were definitely too cool to be scared. I lumbered out from behind the fake cemetery wall, groaning and dragging my left leg like a pro. They screamed anyway. Easy money.

But then this kid in the back — maybe 13 or 14, wearing a band shirt that was definitely too old for him — just stared at me. Not scared, not impressed, just... looking.

'Nice act,' he said, deadpan. 'You look like a zombie who's given up on life. It's actually kind of deep.'

I stopped mid-groan. 'What?'

'My dad says that's what depression feels like. Like being a zombie but worse because you can still feel everything.' He adjusted his glasses. 'Sorry, that got dark. I read a lot of psychology books.'

Something about this kid hit different. Maybe it was how he didn't flinch when I did my signature jump scare. Maybe it was how he saw through the whole performance.

'Yeah, well,' I said, dropping the zombie voice, 'sometimes the scariest monsters are the ones that look like regular people, right?'

He nodded slowly. 'Exactly.' Then he pulled out a bag of dog treats from his pocket. 'My dog Buster helped me through some stuff last year. Sometimes animals are better at being there than people.'

I laughed — actually laughed, fake blood crinkling around my mouth. 'You carry dog treats everywhere?'

'Never know when you'll meet a good boy.' He tossed me one. 'For being a zombie with heart.'

The rest of the group had moved ahead, but this kid stayed. We talked for five minutes about philosophy, scary movies, and his golden retriever's anxiety issues until Sheila chased me back to my station.

Clocking out at midnight, my phone buzzed. A text from Jenna: 'hey sorry about lunch, wanna hang tomorrow?' And another notification: an Instagram follow from that kid — username @deep_thoughts_and_dogs.

Walking home in my zombie makeup, Arthur my neighbor's bulldog came barreling down the driveway, tail-wagging like he'd been waiting all night. I knelt down and let him slobber all over my fake blood-stained hands.

'You're a good boy, Arthur,' I whispered. 'Way better than zombies and scared middle schoolers.'

Sometimes the weirdest nights end up being the ones that change everything. And sometimes, it takes a random kid with dog treats to make you realize you're not the only one faking it through the horror show of being a teenager.