3. The BOOGEYMAN

Chapter 3

The BOOGEYMAN

" F ucking hell, if you don't stop that, I'm going to reach inside your mouth, rip out your tongue, and force you to choke on it."

With a frustrated grunt, I grab a nearby rock and hurl it in Havoc's direction, effectively silencing her incessant kissing noises. It seems like every waking moment the past few days has been spent with her making these obnoxious sounds, and I'm beyond fed up with it. The disrespect these assholes show me on a regular basis is enough to make me want to commit murder, but ever since meeting that new doll, they've become unbearable, especially Havoc. I can't blame her, though; I'm not the same either. I am a man consumed, possessed. I can't think, can't focus—nothing.

Damn this creation . It's not easy to throw me off balance, or at least, I've never been thrown off like this before. But when I touched her cheek, the flush that crept up my neck to my face was undeniable. I have never been so thankful to have my burlap mask concealing it or the thick, itchy attire to keep myself hidden beneath. The doll is extraordinary and surprisingly pleasing to look at, her blue and yellow colored hair perfectly split and glowing in the blacklight of the moon. She's not the first doll I've felt an attraction to, but this is different, an all-consuming need to have eyes on her. Why? I don't know. She's not entertaining, and she hums... a lot. I don't like it. What does she have to be humming about?

She's an odd creation, unlike any I've encountered before. Something about her draws me in, but at the same time, I have to fight back and resist whatever strange sexual pull she has on me. While dolls can and are created here in Nightmare, her button eyes are the signature of a Dreadmoor doll, reminding me of who and what she is, but most importantly, who she serves. One of the Spinster's retched creations. That fact alone should've been enough reason to hunt her down and end her, but for some fucking reason, my feet stay firmly planted as I continue to stare.

The sheer fact that I'm unable to perform the task I've been performing for centuries over a breathy voice and mismatched eyes is making me question myself. I should've killed her the moment I saw her in the woods. Now, I'm fucked, and instead of trying to win the Spinster's game and escape, I'm fucking following this doll. Stalking her. Obsessed with the gnawing need of knowing more.

I followed her home that night I saved her and discovered she's holing up in the old taxidermy building that's been abandoned for as long as I can remember. It's an interesting choice, to say the least, an old Victorian mansion field with dead things stuffed and sewn together. She must've felt at home there amongst the other critter creations.

That very same night, I climbed the trees outside the home, searching every glass paned window until I eventually found her. I could barely make out her form through the glass, but her gray-blue skin seemed to almost glow in the bright looming moonlight that peeked through the thick glass and highlighted her form. That should not be something I find smile-worthy, yet as I stared through her window, my cheeks became sore. It's fucking pathetic. Maybe I do deserve the shit I'm getting from Havoc.

I shouldn't be watching or stalking her like this. I shouldn't be this interested in this damn doll, but I am... and I have been since Havoc started rambling on and on about finding a Dolly with skin the color of her name with hair as yellow as ripe bananas mixed with plump, juicy blueberries. At first, I assumed it was just utter nonsense, as per usual, but after that night, I realized there was more to her words.

Often, I attribute Havoc's usual and nonsensical chatter to the button eye she sewed into her socket some years ago. It's the only plausible theory I've come up with that explains the odd workings of her psychotic brain. But that day, in between her whines and moans, she mentioned something that caught my attention: Stingy Jack. The name lingered in the air, causing my blood to turn hot and my heart rate to spike.

Stingy Jack is the embodiment of Nightmare, a merciless, self-made ruler who wields his power like a god, crushing anyone who dares to defy him. I've learned this the hard way, having been banished to the desolate outskirts deep within the haunted woods for refusing to bow down to him at the threat of being hunted and returned to the Spinster herself. Fucking prick.

In my earlier days here, I tried to stay on his good side, use his influence to outsmart that old Spinster, but apparently, being a man with many interests—including a certain red-haired doll—I had found myself on his bad side, having slept with the wrong woman. I only found out she was his after the fact. We were caught, my head buried between her legs as she cried out for me, coming all over my face as Stingy Jack watched, sickened by the sight. Who was I to know the pieced together woman was his? She never mentioned him, and I'm not known for my lengthy conversations.

After nearly escaping my death, I've remained clear of Stingy Jack and all dwellings within his little town, including that red-haired doll. I might be stronger than him, but he has a number of followers, each instructed to kill on site if I'm spotted. It's a never-ending threat, one I don't want to face. Yes, even I, the elusive Boogeyman and a ruthless monster from Dreadmoor, am scared of losing to Stingy Jack.

"Life would be infinitely better with more blood orgies," Havoc states with such a level of seriousness, it's startling. I glance back at her in shock as she runs a small blade across her open palm and watches her own blood drip onto the ground.

"Why are you even here, Havoc?" I recoil under my mask as the woman stares blankly at me, her gaze piercing through the fabric as she licks the fresh droplets from her hand.

She tilts her head, as if listening to someone talk. No one is there, but it doesn't stop her from having a two-way conversation.

"Havoc doesn't think it's the time," she huffs, a hint of madness creeping into her voice. "The moon simply won't allow it!" My jaw tightens in irritation as she yells, causing me to grab her roughly and shove her out of the tree line into the open night. The last thing I need is for this psycho to give away my hiding spot with her deranged outbursts. As she stands and stumbles away, muttering to herself about something random, I turn my attention back to the doll sitting across the way out in the open. She sits in the dirt, small and delicate, hunching over an old, leather-bound book with impressively intense focus. Her fingers move deftly across the pages as she writes, unaware of my presence within the tree line. I can't help but wonder what she could be writing down in the small book. Could she possibly be another one of the Spinster's spies, gathering information about me for our game? It would make sense; she's a doll. At least... I think she is. She's unlike anything I've seen the Spinster send to Nightmare before. Her button eyes should be a set of traditional black, yet one is blue. Even her skin is different. Typically, the skin of creations in Dreadmoor is a dull, ashen color, yet hers, again, is a shade of blue, as if a hint of life has been breathed within it. Her split hair is the color of... I stop, sighing at the words as they register in my mind: fucking blueberries and bananas.

Fucking Havoc. Rolling my eyes, I watch as Havoc suddenly appears not too far from the doll. She saunters over to the occupied creation and sits down, completely casual. What the fuck is she doing? Does this doll know her? I remain frozen, listening, connecting the dots. Yes, Havoc mentioned her "Dolly" the other day, but I was under the impression that since Havoc hadn't brought her to the tree house to... play with... that she must've only seen her from a distance.

Havoc plucks the book right out of the girl's hand and peers at it, causing the doll's blue face to go a crimson color as she reaches for her stolen journal. Fearless—or absolutely stupid—the girl tries to climb over Havoc, who simply pushes her back with one hand, cackling as she reads aloud. Interesting, considering Havoc doesn't like to be touched. I've watched her on several occasions go darker than I ever thought possible for someone like her. Grabbing or touching Havoc was a mistake both Charisma and Sullen had to learn the hard way, though it was a bit amusing for me to watch. Yet, she allows this girl to do so freely. My curiosity peaks as I observe the interaction between Havoc and the doll. She addresses her as Blue, a seemingly unoriginal name, but considering the Spinster did not even offer me a name, it's not surprising that she would give her a generic one.

Blue stands, her captivating face twisting in a mixture of frustration and confusion as Havoc sits and continues to cackle her unnatural laughter. She's engrossed in the book, her excitement echoing through the air as she reads the scribbles out loud. What she's reading doesn't sound like the notes of someone spying for the Spinster. My brows furrow as I listen and think over the spoken words. No, it isn't notes. It sounds more like... poetry?

"Boss man!" Havoc's loud, shrieking voice ripples through the trees, making my blood run cold with a mix of fear and anticipation as she shouts to the trees in my direction. "The colors mix to make you! Come and see!" Blue's face snaps towards the tree line, her button gaze searching for anyone. It's futile, though, she can't see me hidden in the dense foliage. Feeling unusually exposed and vulnerable, I take a silent step back, then another, until I can feel myself fully drenched in the shadows of the forest. I rip my mask from my face as cool air brushes against my skin while I continue to push deeper into the woods, leaving Havoc with the girl who is certainly grabbing my attention. My mind races with thoughts and fears, wondering what will happen if and when she and I actually have a real meeting.

"This is stupid," Sullen mutters, his frustration evident as he sits in the treehouse with Charisma and Havoc.

"It amazes me that you think I care about your opinions," I snap while running my hand through my dark hair as I ready myself to head out for the night, staring at my dull burlap mask. One day, one fucking day, I'll never be forced to wear this fucking mask and outfit again. I'll never have to conceal myself for fear of being seen and ambushed by her fucking creations. But that day isn't today, and the last thing I need is that girl, or the Spinster's other creations, finding me while I'm out tonight. Or worse: Stingy Jack. The man must be furious over what I did to his ghostly pet, and if he didn't already want me dead, he certainly does now. I have to be careful, as I have a target on my back.

"Havoc finds it concerning," Havoc mutters while balancing a bone precariously on her nose. Where the hell did she even find that? "The stingy old Jack will want payback."

"I'll keep it in mind," I reply dryly. "And whose finger did you have to snap off for that new toy?" I ask, causing her wicked grin to spread, her sharpened teeth fully exposed.

"Don't put fingers in holes without paying tolls," she sings while Charisma takes a seat next to her.

"Boss," they begin, their sharp eyes meeting mine. "I have to agree with this colorful nutcase. Are you sure you've thought this through completely?" Charisma, while just as much of an unpredictable character as the other two, tends to be more thought out and willing to weigh pros versus cons... usually. If they weren't so consumed with the amount of glitter coating their hair or the perfection of the fluorescent paint on their face, then they might have more time to be logical like Sullen, the hot-headed realist of the trio.

"Thought what through?" I chuckle bitterly while throwing my itchy suit over my shoulders. "It's simple: she's clearly a spy for that cunt. She's connected to Dreadmoor and she's here. I'd be a fool not to get close and observe her." Sure, that's what I'm doing. ‘Observing'. Right.

"Havoc senses love coming into the air." She motions her hands above her head as she warns sweetly while taking a deep breath through her nose. "Inhale, boss man, and no more tries." I huff, tired of her nonsense for the moment.

"Good thing I have a mask, then, isn't it? Now, all of you, get my place cleaned up. I let you live here; the least you could do is not treat it like a dump." I point to the dead creature, skinned and gutted on the floor. Even if it is one. Charisma makes a face, dragging their steep, knee-high boots from the ground as they stand. Their skeleton painted face and skin suit stretches as they wrap their ridiculous feather boa over their shoulders, delicately walking past Havoc, who remains grinning, as if frozen in place.

"Havoc should be cleaning this crime scene, considering it's her mess," Charisma snaps while flicking their wrist at the girl. Dangerous move, considering she apparently snapped a finger off someone recently.

"Charisma doesn't complain when Havoc steals them those pretty little feathers around their neck!" She waves her fingers in the air towards Charisma's new feathered boa. "Pluck, pluck, pluck, and yet Havoc's naughty!"

"Just clean it up," I snap, leaving the two behind to figure their shit out. I place my mask over my head before fully stepping out of the tree house and into the night.

Sitting on the thick branch, I stare lazily at the blue and yellow blur through the window. This ridiculous routine of mine has become customary. Apparently, when I said I wanted to learn who this doll is, and what she's doing in Nightmare, what I really meant is I want to sit outside her window like a god-damn owl and stare at her like a fucking freak. I'm the fucking Boogeyman! I have a god-damn terrifying reputation, and yet I am hiding from this girl.

Hiding. That's all I ever fucking do is hide. I hide my body. I hide my face. I hide from the townspeople and Stingy Jack. I hide from the Spinster, and now, I hide from her . A doll. Call it a lack of common sense or a wave of adrenaline or even a moment of insanity, but I'm deciding right here and now to change this fact.

"Fuck this," I mutter as I carefully crawl across the long branch and move toward the windowsill, something I've done numerous times now, as stalking this damn doll has become a part of my existence, but this time is different. This time, instead of staring through the window as my breath fogs the glass, I decide to push against it as a small portion of the window swings opens, allowing me enough access to creep into her room. I weasel through the window, careful not to snag my mask as I slither through. Once inside, I look around the simple room, the shadows of the small fire burning in the simple fireplace next to her bed dancing along the walls as it pops with little life. It smells... musty and old and dated, as one would expect from a place filled with dead things. My eyes trail over the walls, noticing carcasses of bugs nestled neatly in their glass-framed tombs. Interesting .

Quietly, I approach her bed, my eyes gazing over her body tucked beneath a layer of miscellaneous dark furs. I feel a deep pull, and it's as if, even if I want to turn away, some invisible force won't allow it. I am a moth, and she is my flame. Being drawn to her is dangerous, and every fight or flight instinct is screaming within me to stop, to run, to kill. Yet here I am, allowing her to burn my wings as I fly closer.

My eyes trail from the foot of her bed to her head, taking in every characteristic and detail, as if I'm trying to imprint her on my fucking soul. Ha, a soul—as if I was given one of those. Something catches my attention, and I frown as I see a nasty rat curled up beside her, sleeping. She'll probably freak out if that's there in the morning. I don't know why, but something compels me to be nice. I grab the tail, expecting the creature to wriggle and squeak, but it doesn't. That's odd . I lift the little critter and bring it closer to my face as I peer closer.

"Oh my God!" I whisper loudly, dropping the very dead and very poorly stuffed rodent to the ground with a floppy thud as a full body shiver takes over me. What the fuck? It's dead . I groan lightly in disgust. The rat is dead and stuffed, sort of, and she's sleeping with it? My head whips back to the increasingly weirder girl.

Fuck the moth to the flame. I refuse to be drawn in by this level of weird. I'm about to just say fuck this shit, kill her, and deal with Havoc's undoubtable sobbing and lashing out in retaliation for me destroying her play-thing. There is no redeeming quality to her; she's cuddling a dead rat! I place my hands on my hips, sighing at the ridiculousness of it all.

The noise of movement across fabric grabs my attention, and I glance back and watch as the doll moves, rotating around the bed when one of the furs slips to the floor. Okay... Well, maybe she has one redeeming quality. I click my tongue, suddenly very interested in what I'm looking at. The doll—well, woman by the looks of it—is sleeping peacefully in the nude under all those heavy furs. Between the blue tone of her stitched skin and the sweat from sleeping beneath so many pelts, her bare chest glistens and glows in the moonlight.

Fuck, her breasts are stunning. I swallow thickly, a hunger suddenly burning inside me. I can't help but stare at her full figure. Her breasts are large, full and vivacious, with dark, round nipples, both tight and perky. I can't help but lick my dry lips as I step closer, painfully aware of how hard my cock is becoming. She looks so innocent and alluring, as if she's just peacefully laying there, waiting for someone to come and worship her. Doll or not, everything about her physical appearance is literal perfection. Fuck, I'm not a man to bow but for this body, I may just drop to my knees. And just like that, she has once again drawn me in.

I slowly reach out to touch her smooth-looking skin, only to stop, realizing that my hands are covered in the itchy burlap gloves. The ugly, rough texture will clash against her perfection, the uncomfortable touch surely waking her. Before I can blink or ponder about what I'm even doing, I remove a glove, my ink-covered hand glowing every color in the moonlight. I hold my breath as I reach out again, a soft gasp escaping my mouth as it makes contact with her. I freeze, my heart racing as I delicately run my fingers along the soft skin between her breasts, a bold and risky move. Oh fuck, she's so warm and inviting. The backs of my fingers run over the mound of her right breast, causing her to release the tiniest of moans from her plump lips that hits me right in the cock. I struggle, knowing my own limits and what I'm doing isn't exactly right, but I don't care. I just want to feel her. Fuck it. I rip my other glove off. I won't touch her much, just enough to have a little taste. Like a man possessed, I unfasten my suit, reaching in, grabbing my throbbing cock. I stare at her body, consumed by her beauty as it flexes in my hand. I begin stroking myself while my fingers run over her pebbled nipple, flicking it ever so lightly, pretending my hand is hers, her dainty stitched fingers running along my shaft.

She releases a soft whimper in her sleep while I continue rapidly stroking. I'm not sure if it's the idea of her sleeping, unaware of what I'm doing, or the sounds she's making, but I'm suddenly very aware of how fucking turned on I am. I lightly pull the furs down further, exposing her midriff as I stare with a new, crazed hunger, my movements beneath the suit increasing in both speed and pressure.

"Fuck," I whimper under my breath, stroking my cock. I bite my lip to the point a coppery taste hits my tongue—my blood. I grip her breast a little rougher, and she whines needily as her hips arch ever so slightly, her body quietly begging to be touched. My jaw tightens in response to the simple, yet way too erotic display. God, I want more . I need more. I've already gone this far; what's the harm? Giving into my urges, I make the erratic decision to travel further south, taking my time gliding my fingers over her flat stomach and stopping on her mound. I feel the heat rolling off her, lulling me to continue. I freeze, the veins in my hand bulging with anticipation, weary of crossing this dangerous line. I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't be here. I feel myself nearing the edge as I continue to stroke my cock. Oh, but I have to know. I need one touch, just one touch, and I'll be done. I promise.

I hesitate before sliding my finger sweetly between her lips, instantly shivering in pleasure. She's not just excited; she's dripping .

"Fuck," I hiss as I lose all control and come hard into my fist, soaking the front of my pants in cum. My mask thankfully muffles my moans as my body jerks and flexes while lightly hunching forward. I continue to slide my finger up and down her wet slit a couple more times while rubbing out the last drops of my ejaculation, imagining our wetness mixing together. "Oh God," I whimper as my fingers hit her clit. It's swollen and peeking out between her lips, begging to be touched. Fuck it. I begin to trace her clit, moving my finger further south as I stroke her wet opening. She moans softly against her pillow as my cock aches in my hand, overwhelmed and exhausted. I collect her arousal and bring my fingers to my mask, slipping it up. I stare at her wetness glistening in the moonlight, rubbing the tips of my fingers together, admiring how it glows a faint blue.

Mine .

I immediately open my mouth, sucking my fingers clean, my eyes rolling in satisfaction. Fuck . She tastes so good—too fucking good. She's something I can become very addicted to very easily.

As my excitement calms, my senses return, and I have to force myself to back away from her body. It takes all my strength to slide the furs back up around her naked self, my muscles flexing as I fight my own strength, refusing to climb on top and bury my dick in her right here and now. I need to get away from here, away from her.

I fix my sack, returning the thick, burlap mask to my face as I begin to step toward the window when she stirs. The immediate fear of being seen rushes me as I panic and run out the bedroom door instead of the window. I quickly rush down the steps and silently make my escape without getting seen... this time. My racing heart slowly steadies as I exhale, ducking into the shadows and begin to walk toward the forest. The image of her naked body remains burned into my mind, the feel of her wetness still lingering on my lips. She's consuming my entire being, but why?

Fuck. Reality begins to brutally settle into my thoughts. I've not just seen and stalked her; I've felt and tasted her. How am I supposed to just go back to casually existing, playing the game and sitting outside her window, watching her? Part of me begins to wonder what it would be like to be with her… Fuck, no. I snap at myself. She's not the type I can fuck—she's a doll. I need to keep my distance. Even as I think this, parts of my consciousness scramble to figure out how it would feel if I was to slither inside her tight body. Fuck, get your shit together! I snap at myself, wandering back in the direction of the haunted woods.

She's a creation, a fucking doll. You can't do this. You need to control yourself. You're not Stingy Jack; you can't just go fucking people without their knowledge. I run my tongue along my lips, the taste of her lingering as I savor the reminiscing moment. "Fuck," I groan out. Having morals, even just a measly few, sucks ass sometimes. "Okay, I'll go back one more night. That's it. Then, I'll stop. I'll leave her alone, no more stalking, no more hyper fixation, just focus on the game." That little bargain sounds easier in my head versus speaking it out loud. Right, I can do this, one last time and it's over.

Just one more night.