Prologue

BOOGEYMAN

S hall we play a game?

It feels as though an eternity has passed, and still, I can feel the pull of her sick, seductive question, taunting me with its allure. The need to be free mixes with my morbid curiosity and the desire to play, all fighting a war with my better judgment. I should've said no. I should've killed her then or died trying. I should've found a different way out. But then again, how could I resist? The thrill and risk of a game is like a drug, addicting, promising the possibility of winning the ultimate prize. Yet still, deep down, I know, there would only be one outcome for this game. The winner has already been chosen, my fate forever sealed.

I'm man enough to accept the rush of excitement I felt coursing through me as the Spinster made her proposition, despite knowing in my gut the price that comes with playing her games. My chest clenched as I rolled my dice, and with bated breath, I watched as my red cubes tumbled across the ground, revealing snake eyes—my worst nightmare. I should've known better than to tempt fate, to tempt her, but it was too late to turn back. And so, the twisted dance between the Spinster and myself began.

The rules are simple enough: survive this nightmarish purgatory she crafted and find my way back to Dreadmoor, where I can then be free to unravel her web and take over as leader. Or, in my case, destroy it and piss on the remnants. The time has come to dethrone that bitch of a tyrant who ruled her world like a god, creating and weaving endless evil, leaving nothing but suffering in her wake. I won't go there to take it over; no, I will erase Dreadmoor from existence, ensuring her reign of terror could never be awakened again.

I mean, how hard could overthrowing a god and destroying a universe be?

Little did I know, this new game would prove to be the biggest challenge of my life. Every step forward feels like I'm wading through mud, challenged by her morbid creations, her killer Nightmares, her secret spies. Each new obstacle is a seemingly insurmountable mountain. But still, I stay headstrong, determined to succeed, to win her game, to claim what is rightfully mine.

"I don't understand why you always take the eyes," The words spill from Charisma's lips with a grimace, their skeletal paint shifting on their face as they scrunch their sharp, angular features in disgust. They tower over the dead body, their eyes fixed on the empty sockets with a mix of revulsion and morbid fascination. The lilac glow of their irises seem to intensify in the darkness as they contemplate the scene before them.

Havoc stands at their side, her fluorescent green hair held high in two buns, matching braids framing her eerily painted face. She tucks a braid behind her delicate ear while humming to herself. Despite the grotesque sight, she radiates joy and peace. Which makes sense, because Havoc, like her name might suggest, is a fucking psychopath.

"Havoc thinks it's poetic," she hums softly, her voice reminding me of an eerie child—higher pitched but soft, with an eerie, whimsical tone. It's fucking creepy, especially at times like this, where she's smiling at the dead body with a look that carries a hint of admiration for the work I've done. "He's making a statement. Take the window and close the door." Havoc's haunting, chittering giggle fills the midnight air alongside her nonsense. Like I said, psychopath.

Sullen snorts loudly from where he leans his slim frame against the old wagon, arms crossed over his chest as his devil-like tail flicks in irritation. "More like a cry for attention," he mocks, earning an eye roll from me beneath my mask. "Mommy didn't love me, so I must pluck out the eyes of all her creations who dare cross me." As Sullen continues his inane mocking, I push off the tree and stride toward them, drawing my blade as I move.

"Keep talking little man," I grumble, pointing the blade threateningly toward him, my body towering over his thin frame. "And your skinny ass is next." My gaze falls on the dead body lying at our feet as Havoc drags her long, stained tongue up the dead man's face in a grotesque display. She smacks her lips together, the noise shooting a wave of irritation through me. Blood trails from the corners of her painted face before she shudders in pleasure, causing even me to grimace in disgust.

"Definitely a tainted soul, tainted and toxic, trapped in fear. Poor lost souls; they don't know any better."

"Don't know any better?" I hiss, pulling up the bottom of my faded, burlap mask and taking a brief reprieve from the suffocating heat. The cool night air dances across my sweat-drenched face before I quickly cover up again, ensuring I'm not spotted by unwanted eyes. "She's sending them to kill me—her little creations, pawns in her never-ending game. They know exactly what they're doing."

Charisma arches a brow before clicking their tongue in annoyance and shaking their head, the iridescent glitter across their cheeks sparkling in the moonlight. "They aren't like you boss. They weren't given free will. My question is, why would she keep sending them when she knows you're losing her game?" My sneer is hidden behind my mask as I rotate my knife and hurl it at them. It narrowly misses their eye, embedding itself in a nearby tree trunk.

"I am not losing her game," I growl, marching over to retrieve the knife from the bark with a huff. "I'm just biding my time until I can find the fucking key to get out of here and strike back." Even as the words leave my mouth, I know they're hollow and meaningless. The three psychotic fuckers around me break into a laughing fit at my pathetic excuse. These brats are the only ones in this forsaken nightmare for a world who haven't cowered in fear of me, who haven't turned away in disgust or betrayed me. Instead, they embrace my flaws, worship me as though I'm their god... sort of. They follow me around like lost souls. They seem to slither around this nightmare, entertaining themselves with our game. And yet, I despise them more than anything; I wish they would find someone else to bother. I have no use for this makeshift band of misfits they call companions. My sole objective is to escape from this hellish world and return to Dreadmoor, where I will make the bitch pay for all her sins. I'll tear her down from her throne of souls and web of lies and watch as she chokes on her own eyes, which I will rip from their sockets and force down her throat.

"I'm going back," I snarl, my voice dripping with menace as I turn to leave. "Dispose of him when you're done. Havoc, no dead body orgies with this one! Dispose of him and get back to the tree house," I warn, my eyes flashing dangerously as I ignore her groans of displeasure and nonsensical mumblings.

In the woods, I take a moment to lift my mask again and breathe, trying to rid myself of the ever-present stench of death and decay. I don't lift it high, but it's enough that I can see the bottom of the mask starting to glow green—another one of the Spinster's sick games. Covered in permanent glowing ink, the never-ending designs inked into my flesh, purposefully making my skin ignite beneath the moon-light. I'm a beacon for her twisted creations to find me in the eternal darkness. The fluorescent hues of yellow, blue, pink, and green scream louder than I ever could, making it impossible for me to hunt in the nearly endless night of this world. That is, until I don my disguise, transforming me into him. The Boogeyman , feared by children and adults alike for his insatiable hunger for little ones who stray too far from safety.

The spooky stories are fucking bullshit. I despise kids.

I stop walking as an uncomfortable heaviness slowly creeps into me. Shaking my head, as though the simple motion is all it takes to rid me of centuries old memories, I start up my pace again. I don't like kids. Actually, scratch that – I despise everyone and everything. And while I'll kill anything or anyone that crosses my path if that's what fate's roll lands on, I have no interest in seeking out victims on my own - especially not screaming, snotting, useless children. The three grown brats that won't leave me alone are childish enough for me to deal with, the last thing I need is to deal with more.

As I step over the threshold into my decrepit, rotting tree house, I immediately rid myself of the heavy, tan burlap mask concealing my identity. With a careless toss, it lands on the floor in a crumpled heap. I follow with the matching bodysuit, shedding it like a second skin as the scratchy, faded material glides down my body and joins its counterpart in the corner of the room. My feet navigate through the darkness with practiced ease, not needing any light to guide me through the maze-like layout of my main floor. It took me weeks to memorize every twist and turn in the shadows, but it's necessary for my safety. The last thing I want is for one of Spinster's little creations or nightmares to catch sight of my glowing skin and lead them straight to my home.

"Ow! Fucking damnit!" I spit out as my foot collides with something hard—something that shouldn't be there. I don't know what it is, but I do know Charisma and Sullen are entirely to blame and will be on the receiving end of my punishment tomorrow.

I descend to the lower level, and a sense of calm washes over me as a rainbow of glowing color fades to life and I'm immersed in my bioluminescent sanctuary. A small smirk tugs at my lips as I watch a glowing dragonfly land delicately on my brightly lit skin, matching the ink, before fluttering away. This is my haven, my personal refuge within the confines of my home. Here, I can let down my guard and be myself, in my own skin, and forget both the worlds outside my door.

The glowing creatures scurry around me, their soft light casting a mesmerizing glow on the walls. It pulls at the corners of my typically downturned lips, a rare occurrence for someone who hates almost everyone—though hate might be too strong of a word. There's a clear distinction between indifference and hatred, and while I may not care for most people, there are only a select few whom I truly despise. Like the Spinster. Hatred requires emotion, energy, obsession—much like how I'd imagine love to feel. Not that I'd know; love has never been a desire or want for me. Perhaps that's something I should be grateful for. Love appears to be nothing but chaos and destruction. In all my years here and in Dreadmoor, I have witnessed it happen time and time again, each instance ending with one person left broken beyond repair. Not even the Spinster with her needle and thread could mend those shattered hearts. So yes, I understand the science behind "love", but I don't feel it, and I have no desire to even attempt to try to do so.

A small smile spreads across my face as a glowing yellow caterpillar scurries across my blue and green inked arm toward my fingers. I pull the fluorescent critter closer to my face, letting out a quiet chuckle as it wiggles in my palm, changing from yellow to blue and then back. "You're running late on your cocooning stage, little guy," I say softly before setting it gently on a nearby leaf. "No need to try so hard to talk to me just yet. We'll have our chats soon." Much like the Spinster has her spies, I have mine. Unfortunately, my reach doesn't go beyond this world, not like hers, but my bugs help to keep me aware of trouble—like the creation from tonight.

Reaching my hand into my pants pocket, I pull out the bloodied pair of black button eyes I ripped from the creation's eye sockets. I smirk, grabbing a jar off my shelf of collections—Most are full of button eyes, and I drop the pair into an open one.

"Welcome home." I chuckle while fighting the stiffness I feel growing in my pants. It's nothing for me to come down here and pleasure myself to my trophies. It's like an extra ‘fuck you' to the Spinster. But tonight, I have a heaviness weighing on me. Something is changing in the air, I don't know what it is, but it's stealing my focus.

Making my way through my room, I stuff my hand back into my pocket, gripping a pair of dice. They aren't my dice. No, I lost those in my last round with Spinster. But what is a gambler without his dice? So, I found this pair of glowing green ones. I'm not a fan, but they'll do until I have my set back in my grasp. With a flick of my wrist, the green cubes roll and bounce across the table. My scowl deepens as they land on a one and a three. Apparently, I won't be delivering an ass-beating to the shit stains once they return.