Carlton was on his knees, and he walked toward Dave without standing, a clunky, unsteady walk—he looked like he might tip over at any moment. "Wakey, wakey, sleepy head," he whispered.

"We've got this, Carlton, thanks. You just relax." Charlie rolled her eyes toward Jessica, then turned her attention back to Dave, slapping his face lightly, but he remained inert.

"Hey, dirtbag. Wake up." She slapped him again.

"Here, try this." John reappeared with a can of water. "Water fountain," was the only explanation he offered. "The can didn't hold much," he added.

"That's okay," Charlie said. She took it from him and held it over Dave's head, letting the small streams of water dribbling from the holes in the tin fall on his face. She aimed for his mouth, and after a few moments, he spluttered, his eyes opening.

"Oh, good, you're awake," Charlie said, then dumped the rest of the water on his head.

He said nothing, but his eyes remained open in a stiff, unnatural stare.

"So, Dave," she said. "How about you tell us what's going on?"

His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. After a moment he became still again, so still that Charlie reluctantly pressed her fingers to his neck to check for a pulse.

"Is he alive?" John said, creeped out by what seemed to be an on-again off-again animated corpse. He moved closer to the man, kneeling so their eyes were level, and looked at him gravely, searching for something.

"His pulse is normal," Charlie reported. She pulled her hand back, more startled than if he'd been dead.

"Charlie, there's something different about him," John said urgently. He reached out and grasped Dave's chin, turning his head back and forth. Dave did not resist; he just kept staring without expression, as if the world around him were not really there.

"What do you mean?" Charlie said, though she saw it too. It was as if the guard, the man they had met, had been stripped away, and what sat before them was nothing but a blank canvas. John shook his head and released the guard's chin, wiping his hands on his pants. He stood and stepped back, putting a distance between them.

"I don't know," he said. "There's just something different."

"Why don't you tell us about the kids?" Carlton was leaning back against the wall, emboldened but still not completely balanced. "The kids you killed, you stuffed them into those suits out there." Carlton motioned toward the stage outside.

"Carlton, shut up," John said angrily. "Everything you're saying is nonsense."

"No, it's true," Charlie whispered. John gave her a searching look, then turned to the others, who had no more answers than Charlie. He looked back at Dave with an expression of renewed disgust. Seeing John's face, Charlie was suddenly struck with the weight of memory. Michael, who had been a cheerful, careless little boy, Michael who had drawn portraits of them all, passing them around with a solemn pride. Michael who had been killed, whose final moments must have been all pain and terror. Michael, who had been killed by the man before them. She looked to the others, and on each of their faces she saw the same single thought: this was the man who killed Michael.

Without warning, John's arm shot out like lightning and struck Dave across the jaw with a loud crack. Dave slumped back, and John lunged and almost fell from the impact of the strike. John regained his posture and bounced a little on the balls of his feet, alert, waiting for a reaction, or a chance to strike again. Dave's body moved upward, straightening, but the movement was too smooth. He seemed to make no effort, use no muscles, and exert no energy. Slowly, his posture corrected, unfolding to his slumped state, his mouth hanging open.

Carlton stumbled forward. "Take that, jackass." He swung his arm into the air and swayed on his feet. Jessica leapt forward just in time to catch him in her arms.

Dave continued to stare, and it was only after a moment that Charlie considered that he might actually be staring at something. She turned, following his line of sight, then suddenly she recoiled. On the table along the wall sat a rabbit's head.

"That's it? You want that?" Charlie stood and approached the mask. "You need this?" she added in a whisper. She picked it up carefully, the light catching the edges of the spring locks that filled the mascot head. She picked it up and carried it almost ceremoniously to Dave, who tipped his head down in a barely noticeable fashion.

Charlie placed it over his head, not being nearly as cautious as she had been with Carlton. When the mascot head was fully resting on his shoulders, the large face raised itself until it was almost completely upright. Dave’s eyes opened steadily, glassy and without emotion, like the robots on the stage outside. Lines of sweat began to trickle down from under the mask, a stain darkening the collar of his uniform shirt.

"My dad trusted you," Charlie said. She was on her knees now, looking intently at the rabbit's face. "What did you do to him?" Her voice broke.

"I helped him create." The voice came from inside the mask, but it was not Dave's, not the pitiful, sour tone they would have recognized. The voice of the rabbit was smooth and rich, almost musical. It was confident, somehow reassuring—a voice that might convince you of almost anything. Dave cocked his head to the side, and the mask shifted so that only one of his bulbous eyes could peer through the sockets.

"We both wanted to love," he said in those melodious tones. "Your father loved. And now I have loved."

"You killed," Carlton said, then burst out with something that sounded like a laugh. He seemed more lucid now, as if anger was focusing his mind. He shook loose of Jessica's hands on his arms and knelt down on the floor.

"You're a sick bastard," Carlton sputtered. "And you've created monsters. The kids you killed are still here. You've imprisoned them!"

"They are home, with me." Dave's voice was coarse, and the large mascot head slid forward and tilted as he spoke. "Their happiest day."

"How do we get out?" Charlie placed one hand on the mascot head and pushed it back into position on Dave's shoulders. The fur felt wet and sticky, as though the costume itself were sweating.

"There isn't a way out anymore. All that's left is family." His round eye reappeared through one of the sockets, glimmering in the light. He locked eyes with Charlie for a moment, struggling to lean in closer. "Oh," he gasped. "You're something beautiful, aren't you?" Charlie recoiled as if he had touched her. What's that supposed to mean? She took another step back, fighting a surge of revulsion.

"Well, then you're trapped too, and you're not going to be hurting anyone else," John said in response to the veiled threat.

"I don't have to," Dave answered. "When it gets dark, they will awaken; the children's spirits will rise. They will kill you. I'll just walk out in the morning, stepping over your corpses, one by one." He looked at each of them in turn, as if relishing the bloody scene.

"They'll kill you too," Jessica said.

"No, I am quite confident that I will survive."

"Really?" John said suddenly. "I'm pretty sure they're the spirits of the kids you killed," he all but spat. "Why would they hurt us? It's you they're after."

"They don't remember," Dave said. "They've forgotten. The dead do forget. All they know is that you are here, trying to take away their happiest day. You are intruders." He lowered his voice to a hush. "You are grown-ups."

They looked at one another.

"We're not—" Jessica began.

"You’re close enough. Especially to a vengeful, confused, and frightened child. None of you will survive the night."

"And what makes you think they won't kill you?" John said again, and Dave's eyes took on something shining, almost beatific.

"Because I am one of them," he said.