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 As the first blog entry got exhausted. My second book |
| Evolution of Love Part 2 |
| *Devilish* Day 7: “You can’t kill the Boogeyman!” — Laurie Strode, Halloween The wind howled across the empty highway as Emily drove towards Hollow Creek, the small town that had never quite recovered from its Halloween murders thirty years ago. Her headlights cut through sheets of rain, bouncing off the faded Welcome to Hollow Creek sign—its paint chipped, as if time itself had tried to erase the place. She was only supposed to be there a week. Her aunt’s estate needed final signatures before it went to auction. But as she pulled into the gravel driveway of the old farmhouse, her headlights caught something in the rain—a figure standing by the oak tree. It looked like a man, tall and motionless, his head slightly tilted as though watching her. By the time she stepped out of the car, he was gone. Inside, the house smelled of damp wood and dust. Cobwebs stretched across the picture frames lining the hallway. Her aunt’s old records lay scattered on the floor. Emily found an old journal tucked between a stack of boxes in the study. The last entry was dated October 31st, 1995. You can’t kill the Boogeyman, it read in rough, uneven handwriting. At first, she dismissed it as some local superstition. But later that night, the wind rattled the window latches, and she swore she heard slow, deliberate footsteps circling the house. When she checked, all she found were muddy bootprints—too large to be hers. The power went out just after midnight. The silence that followed was too complete. No crickets, no rustling trees—only the drip of rain from the roof. She lit a candle and moved toward the hallway. “Is someone there?” she whispered. The candle flickered violently. A shadow slid across the far wall. She ran to the front door, but the latch wouldn’t budge—it was nailed shut from the outside. That was when she saw it again through the sidelights: a pale mask, faintly lit by the moon, staring straight at her. She sprinted upstairs and barricaded the bedroom door. The candle had nearly burned out. The air trembled with each heavy footstep on the stairs. Then she heard a whisper—her aunt’s voice, or maybe her own memory of it—echoing from somewhere deep inside the house. “You can’t kill the Boogeyman.” The door splintered with a single blow. Splinters rained across the floor as the shape stepped through—faceless, silent, inevitable. Emily grabbed the candleholder, ready to swing—then stopped. Through the eyeholes of the mask, she saw her own reflection in a broken mirror behind him. And she understood. The Boogeyman wasn’t coming for her. He had always been there, waiting for her to remember what she had done that night thirty years ago in Hollow Creek. The candle went out. The scream that followed was swallowed by the storm. |
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