u/Conscious_Year5651

Streaks of white paneling soar past my vision.

Beep.

“I’m sorry, Mister Torres. We’re doing all we can. He’s just-”

Beep.

“He’s just what? You said he was in good condition this morning! Let me see him!”

Beep.

“I understand your frustration, but…”

Beep.

I fade out again.

An encircling, oppressive black compresses my lungs.

My fingers lock.

The aching ceases in my gnarled and broken legs.

My muscles relax.

I close my eyes.

“Every generation blames the one before.”

A loud shock shakes my body.

I’m on my back on the hardwood floor, warm sunlight bathing me. Thin headphones fall as I sit up.

“Marcus!”

Mom.

I leave my room, find her in the kitchen toiling over a pot of fat. A repulsive odor spills from it.

“Do you have to do that in the house?”

The pot beeps.

“What were you doing? I called you seven times!”

“Nothing important. What do you need?”

“Go downstairs and get me the tote of large jars.”

“Sure.”

I walk through the living room. I lay my hand on the heavy wooden door and twist the knob. It gives with a groan.

The steps creak as I lay my weight upon them. The floor ripples where the stairs touched it. The space is an expansive void, the floor splashing as I step. In the middle, I find the tote atop a lone black marbled column. I raise my foot to step, but the shoe stays. I reach for it.

It’s sinking.

Another step. My other shoe is taken.

Another. My socks tear.

I lay my bare foot on the ground. I try to lift it, pulling until the skin peels, strings, splits.

Another step. Muscles tear.

Step by step, my feet reduce to bone.

I try another, tumbling forward, meeting the cold wet ground with my face. I cast my left eye up. Behind the pillar stands a figure in a blackened robe. The skin peels from my face as I try to see, my eye peeling from the socket. The figure shifts toward me as my strength gives and I lay my head down.

A gnarled, fleshless hand extends from under its robe and lays upon me, warm.

A powerful jolt through my body.

I gasped from the basement floor, the contents of a shelf spilled out.

“Marcus?!”

“Yeah?”

“You okay? Loud noise. I was yelling for you again.”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry.” I huff.

I heave up the tote and carry it upstairs.

“I’m sorry I care and want to make sure you’re okay!”

“It’s… whatever. I’m fine.”

She mutters something I can’t hear.

“Whatever.”

I walk back to my room. A half-full suitcase on my bed. I pull a drawer open.

We sit at the dinner table, plates of unnamed pasta lay waiting.

“Jaimie, could you pass me the pepper?”

“Sure, Mom.”

Dad sits unmoving, fingers laced, eyes fixed on me.

I peer at him behind my fork.

“What’s your problem?”

Mom’s hand stops.

“Excuse me?”

“Why’s he staring at me like that?”

“I own the damn house, I can stare any way I wish.”

“You don’t own me.”

“The hell I don’t.”

“Percy-”

“Martha, this is a long time coming. We’ve been more than good to him, more than patient.”

“I’m my own person, I have been for three years.”

“Yet you act like a child. No job, no school plans, no plans period. The way you're going, your only option's the military.”

“What, like you?”

My chest tightens.

“What was that?”

“I said you want me to join the army like you?”

Behind him, the fleshless hand curls around the banister.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t want to end up like you!”

He stands, pounds the table.

“Like what?!”

The figure stands in the doorway, doesn’t intrude.

“I’m not gonna live like a man who cowers at car horns or butane lighters!”

He casts his gaze downward, pointing to the door.

“Get out.”

“Percy!”

“I said get out!”

“Gladly.”

I walk to my room, retrieve the bags. As I pass the table, I look at my brother, his face buried in his arms.

“Sorry, Jaimie.”

He sobs.

“Where are you gonna go?” Mom pleads, choking between tears.

“Somewhere better.”

I turn from them, face to face with the robed thing. This time it doesn’t touch me, just points to the door.

I brush past it into the street, pulling headphones over my ears.

My heart slows again.

It plays.

“I didn’t get to tell him all the things I had to say.”

Two headlights turn down the street.

“Think I caught his spirit, later that same year.”

I feel the rumbling of the engine beneath my feet.

“I’m sure I heard his echo in my baby’s newborn tears.”

The car swerves as I turn toward it. I raise my hand.

“I just wish that I could have told him in the living years.”

As I lay broken in the road, the hooded figure looks upon me. From under its hood, a single ashy tear falls, hits the voided water ground, ripples around me. Though bearing no face, there’s sadness in its gaze.

The plastic sheets crinkle as I face it.

“I won’t get to see them again, will I?”

Beep.

“No.” A wispy rasp echoes from it.

“And I won’t get to take back those things?”

Beep.

“No.”

“Will they ever forgive me?”

Beep.

“Yes, though they’ll never forget.”

I smile, a tear streaking.

“Even after all I’ve done?”

Beep.

“Yes.”

My fingers lock.

“Why would they?”

Beep.

“Because they love you.”

The aching ceases in my gnarled and broken legs.

“Even Dad?” I weep.

“Yes”

Beep.

“That’s good. Better than I deserve.” I choke.

“Words are a currency that can never be refunded, only forgiven.”

My muscles relax.

The streams from my eyes dampen the bib chained around my neck.

“Thank you.”

Beep.

It lays its warming hand upon my shoulder as the windows of my soul are shuttered for one, final time.

“Good afternoon everyone, I’m Laura Faden with the Faden Report. We return with horrifying news in Hamtramck tonight, as yet another in a long line of home invasions has taken place, this time at the residence of the Wiśniewski family. This marks the fourth missing child in Wayne county, accompanied by eight others in the Monroe, Washtenaw, Oakland, and Macomb counties. We have reporter Rob Townlee on the scene tonight with more details. Rob?”

“Thank you, Laura. A really disturbing scene tonight where parents Harold and Madison Wiśniewski were found dead at the ages of thirty seven and thirty five, with their ten year old son, Adam, missing. We heard earlier from police chief Matthew Krzeminski that at roughly eight forty-five tonight, an unknown assailant made their way into the Wiśniewski residence with the assumed purpose of abducting young Adam. Seemingly, the parents got in the way of the attacker and were murdered by brutal and improvisational means. Madison was found pinned to the kitchen cupboard through her collarbone with a butcher's knife, with something like twenty eight stab wounds in her abdomen. Harold was found bludgeoned and strangled to death with a shower curtain wire in the hallway leading to young Adam's bedroom. There are currently no signs as to the whereabouts of Adam, nor how the attacker even entered the home, as all of the doors and windows were locked when police arrived on the scene. This is just under twenty hours after the abduction of twelve year old Hailey Wells, who was taken from her home in Warren with similar circumstances, leading officers to believe that these cases may be connected. We currently await more details, and are actively accepting any information on the whereabouts of Adam, Hailey, or any of the other twelve missing children. Laura?”

The TV cuts back to the visibly shaken blonde haired reporter, who clears her throat before I change the channel.

“Another one?” A sigh trailing my lamentation as I subconsciously rub the charm bracelet on my wrist.

“What is it, Marce?” Sarah’s voice projects from the speaker of the landline as I read her name on the bracelet. I switch the channel to the VCR.

“The news, another kid disappeared. This time in Hamtramck.” I reply as I push a tape in.

“Aww, another one? And so close to you—” The line crackles and hums with the sound of static. The microwave beeps in the kitchen.

“Sarah? Sarah, you there?” I walk to the kitchen.

Her voice returns.

“Yeah, sorry. It’s been storming over here for the past few days, so the power’s been a bit weak.” I pull the hot bag out of the microwave.

“It’s ok. Things have been tense around here. I think I've seen, like, four different cop cars in the last week.”

“Well, are you doing anything that’s less of a bummer? It’s kinda sad to end your birthday with such a downer.”

“Yeah. My parents are asleep now, so I’m finishing the day with a horror movie.” I grab the popcorn bag and peel it open.

“Really? What movie?”

“Halloween. I’m sixteen now, so I think I can handle it. Plus, I really want to see the new one when it comes out.” I reply, grabbing the remote.

“Oh, good one. I watched the first one with my older brother in the theater. We should totally go see—” The line cuts again.

“Sarah?”

No response, just the monotonous beeping melody of a dead line. I push down the hook, sliding my finger into the holes on the rotary dial and redialing Sarah's number.

It beeps again.

“Man.” I hang the phone back up.

Hopefully she calls back. I jump over the arm of the couch as the thunderous shaking of the stormclouds rattles the house.

“Looks like the storm’s here. Bummer.”

I rest my thumb on the remote and press play.

A man in a tan trenchcoat bends over to grab a pack of cigarettes labeled “The Rabbit in Red Lounge – Entertainment Nightly”.

He turns and quickly runs back into his car, where he peels out of the parking lot and speeds away from the gas station.

I shovel a fistful of popcorn into my mouth, thin, filmy butter dripping from the peaks of my lips.

The scene changes, cutting to a playground full of children, some in halloween costumes or carrying pumpkins or jack-o-lanterns.

The phone rings as a kid walks out of the school with a large pumpkin, being harassed by three other boys. Pausing the movie and setting the remote on the arm of the couch, I get up and walk over to it, pulling it from the hook.

“Hello?”

Dead air with the faint hiss of normal background static.

“Sarah? Is that you?”

“Leave me alone!” A boy screams through the phone.

Probably Sarah’s idiot brother.

“Derek? Where’s Sarah at?”

“He’s gonna get you!” Another boy yells.

“Who is—What’s going on here?”

“He’s gonna get you! He’s gonna get you!” Multiple young boys start chanting repeatedly, their voices gradually pitching downward and distorting with a strange, high pitched digital whining.

“Who are you?! What did you do to Sarah?”

“Look at the TV. You’re going to miss the set-up.” The buzzing of a man’s voice whispers.

I turn, finding it frozen on a still of the boys.

A line begins burning around the middle boy while the image begins layering and distorting. It curls into a near circle, the tail flicking around like a lizard’s tongue as I walk over to the remote. I navigate to the picture settings and press the degauss option to fix it, but it doesn't do anything. I try again, to the same result.

Looking down at the remote, I lay my finger on the play button and give it a push.

One of the boys shouts:

“The Boogeyman is coming!”

The screech returns on full volume through the TV speakers as digitized sparks fly from the screen where the ring is circling. The lights dim and flicker all around the living room, a leather-gloved hand slowly breaching the screen and wrapping around the left bezel.

The boys begin chanting in unison:

“The Boogeyman!”

“Dad?!” I shout, another hand materializes and grabs the other side of the TV’s frame.

“The Boogeyman!” They cheer again.

“Mom?!” I yell, jumping to the other side of the couch. A head with glowing eyes pushes through the screen, fitted with a black leather mask with large, round goggles radiating a bright blue light from the lenses. The lights go out completely, leaving only the glow of the TV to bathe the room.

“The Boogeyman!” They shout again, and again.

A slender figure emerges from behind the mask as the masked man peels himself from the screen, landing on his hands and knees. He's covered head to toe in black; black pants tucked into tall black boots, a dark gray turtle neck sweater caged beneath a black leather trench coat, and that mask with a now visible talk box where the mouth should be. I drop behind the couch.

He pulls himself to his feet, clears his throat, and looks in my direction.

“You know, I could see you through the TV, Marceline.” The flickering buzz of his voice freezes me down to my core.

My name! He knows my name! I pull my hand over my mouth and stifle a breath, listening as his footsteps tap against the hardwood floor on their path toward me.

“Maaaarrcie…”

I begin crawling around the other side of the couch, trying for the stairs up to the bedrooms.

“Now where do you think you're going?!” He shouts as he kicks the couch into the wall, cracking our family portraits.

I scream in return, clambering to my feet and bolting for the stairs.

“Dad!” I scream again, racing up the stairs.

His hand wraps around my ankle, forcing my forehead to meet one of the steps. I press a finger to my forehead, a small bead of red returning with it. I lift my other foot and force it into his leg, though it doesn’t seem to faze him.

“Grah! You are so annoying!”

I scream once more as he starts dragging me back toward the living room.

“Get your hands off my daughter!” My Dad yells from the stairwell, a shotgun in his hand.

“Uh oh, Daddy’s up.” The intruder chuckles.

He drops my leg and begins walking toward him.

Dad pulls the trigger, blowing a massive hole in the body of the attacker and sending small, glowing, fragmentary shapes flying around the narrow hallway. He peels the gun from Dad’s hands and slams it against the side of his head, forcing him to the floor. The intruder begins laughing as he winds back, barrel in both hands, and lays blow after blow upon Dad’s head.

“Marcie! Run baby!” He gurgles between strikes

I push by them and run up the stairs. As I lose sight of them, a loud, staticy shriek echoes from downstairs.

“Mom! Mom help! Dad’s hurt!”

A wet crunch punctuated with a gasp emanates from the upstairs hallway. I slow as I reach the top.

“Come here, Baby. We’re upstairs!” She calls back, a low buzz in her voice.

We? I look back down, my foot upon the final step.

Dad is laying at the bottom of the stairs. Alone.

A hand wraps around my throat as I turn to face down the hallway.

“Yeah, Marcie. Come join Mommy and I.” The attacker giggles.

“How did you—”

I look past him to my parents' open bedroom door.

Mom. Her face is caved in to an unrecognisable degree, looking like a drooping pile of her assorted features. Her long, brown hair draped across her back, her eyes like two small sapphire beads amongst a twisted grin of broken and missing teeth. Through her midsection protrudes a corner bedpost, pinning her through her back in a backward arching position to the floor.

“Mom!” my hand lurches toward her body.

He looks at my wrist, analyzing the bracelet.

“How cute, does she have one that matches?”

A familiar ringing chirps from the yellow landline sitting halfway up the hall. The intruder turns to it.

“Now who could that be at this hour?”

He rests a finger on it.

“Oh! It’s our best friend.”

He walks toward the phone while I claw at his grasp.

He hooks his fingers around it and pulls it from the bracket.

“Hello, Sarah.”

“Who are you? You don’t sound like Mister Brakes.” Her muffled panic barely cresting my ears

“I’m sorry, Mister Brakes can’t come to the phone right now, I had to arrange a permanent meeting between his eyes and the back of his eyelids.”

“Sarah!” I scream, causing him to tighten his grasp

“Marcie? What’s going on there?!”

“Sorry,” He says, tightening all the more: “Marcie’s a little choked up.”

There’s a shuffling from the stairs.

“Don’t worry, Sarah. I’ll visit you soon.“

“Drop her, you bastard!” Dad shouts. His face is bubbled over, blood leaking from his matted, blonde hair. His emerald eyes were completely consumed by bruises, his left barely visible.

The intruder turns toward him.

“Gah, how could you-”

Another loud blast ricochets down the hall, removing the intruder’s upper half mid sentence. I drop to the floor, his right hand still firmly wrapped around my neck. I pry the fingers off one by one, a gasp of breath filling me as I drop the hand, followed by a cough.

“Marcie!” Dad wheezes. “Mrs. Johnson’s house! Quickly darling!”

“But, Mom’s—”

“Go!”

The stranger grabs me with his already regenerated arm and throws me into one of the other doors in the hallway. The shapes shoot glowing tendrils that attach to him, finding their places and reforging his visage.

“Impressive. I thought you were dead.” He backhands Dad into one of the other rooms and grabs the shotgun from the floor. I shut and lock the door as I hear it go off for a third and final time, followed by a loud, wet thud.

I press my back to the door and slide down to a sitting position, wiping the tears from my face.

He clicks his teeth three times.

“What’s wrong, Marcie? I already told you I’m here to save you.”

“Why? Why us? What did we do?”

“Oh, you didn’t do anything. You were just home.”

I hear him slowly, calmly meander toward the door. I watch his shadow sink low toward the side of the door I’m on.

“You want to hear something funny, Marcie?” He whispers.

I sniffle.

“I can see the TV in there.”

I glance at the small tube in the corner.

He stands and walks in the direction of my parents room, followed by another shriek.

The TV screen ignites, followed by his head ejecting from it. I unlatch the door and run as he pulls himself out from the screen, cackling.

I run down to the kitchen and grab a knife from a drawer before making my way to the front door. The TV flashes with a loud shriek. I run down the entryway as the path behind me is filled with the frantic thudding of approaching footsteps. As I reach for the knob, I am thrown into the wall, crashing against a picture of my smiling family. My breath is taken from me as a knee meets my gut. I drop to the ground, choking and gasping. I lie over the knife as he drags me to the illuminated living room TV.

“When are you going to learn? Honestly, for sixteen I expected far better. Smarter, at least.”

I struggle to grasp the carpet as he begins entering the screen.

His legs disappear.

I flip to my back and catch sight of the TV cord.

His torso vanishes.

I reach out to grab it.

His left arm.

I manage to hook it with the edge of the knife

“Welcome home, Marceline.”

His head.

I sever the cord.

The screen snaps to black from the corners, the stranger’s right hand is sliced off. Not with pixels, but with a gory mess of meat and bone. I squeal and recoil as it slowly begins staining the carpet with a puddle of maroon.

Sirens echo up the street outside and end with the screeching of car tires.

“Wayne county Sheriff's department, open the door!”

I stumble over to the door and wrap my hand around the cold, brass knob, and push it open.

“Help me, please.”

“Good lord, someone get a medic! Are you okay, sweetheart?”

“A little, but my parents are hurt upstairs!”

“Okay, we’ll go help your parents. Is there anybody else in the house?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay.” He looks over to two other officers and points to me. “Get her over to the squad vehicle and get her something to warm her up.”

“Yes, sir!” They shout in unison

“The rest of you, come with me.” He leads the others inside.

“It’s okay, we’ll get you taken care of.”

One of them carries me over to an ambulance and sets me on the back of it, handing me a blanket to shield myself from the chill of the downpour.

“How did you guys know?” I squeaked.

“Your neighbor called, said it sounded like you guys were in trouble.” One of the officers replied.

I looked past her and toward the little red house bordering mine where I watch a curtain shift.

Thank you Mrs. Johnson.

“Oh, Mrs.?”

“Deputy Rosie, sweets.”

“Deputy Rosie, could you send someone to my friend Sarah Banahan’s house? She lives in Monroe, I think the man that attacked me is going to get her.”

“Of course.” She turns and walks to another squad car.

“Thank you.”

“Now, I need you to scoot in so I can close the door. We’re gonna take you somewhere to keep you safe.” The other officer chimed.

“Okay.” I shuffled over in the seat. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, girlie. We’ll take care of you.”

She pushes the door shut, then entering the passenger side. I look down and twirl the charm bracelet on my wrist.

I hope Sarah's okay.

After a short while, Deputy Rosie enters the driver's seat and turns the key. The engine roars to life, the sirens soon following as we peel down the boulevard.

“Chief Bradford? This is Deputy Rosie Williams. We’ve got one of the victims and are currently en route to Highland Park PD. What is the situation?”

A suffocating static returns her inquiry.

“Chief Bradford?”

“Blood every—two dead—severed hand—carto—television.”

“Chief Bradford? We’re not quite getting you! What is the situation?”

The line clicks, followed by a strange metallic groaning before finally falling silent.

“Chief?”

A soft clicking emanates from the speaker.

“There-There-There’s nothing to be sc-sc-sc-scared of.” A female voice skips like a dirty tape. It sounds like Laurie Strode from the movie. My muscles tense.

“What is—” The passenger whispers.

“Who is this? How are you on this channel?” Rosie shouts.

“Are you sure?” The voice of one of the boys on the phone.

“Rose, what’s goin’ on?!” The other officer shouts.

“Yes.” Laurie tells him.

“I don’t know, Jackie.” The deputy reaches over and messes with the dials on the console.

“How?” The boy asks.

“Turn it off Rose!” Jackie screams, her focus on Rosie. We begin to drift off the road.

“I can’t!”  The car turns to face a tree.

“I kill-kill-kill-kill-killed him…” Laurie reassures him.

“Rose!”

“I’ve got it!” Rosie snaps.

“But,” The boy starts.

“No Rose, the tree!”

A familiar buzzing voice takes the speakers. I brace against the seat in front of me.

“You can’t kill the Boogeyman.”