Chapter 6

Chapter

Six

KINGS OF HALLOWEEN

I saw the very face which had visited me in my childhood at night, which remained so fixed in my memory, and on which I had for so many years often ruminated with horror...

J. Sheridan Le Fanu, Carmilla

GHOST FACE

M y overactive imagination had no real source. I didn't watch a lot of television aside from mindless reality shows. Physical books never held my interest for longer than a page or two, that's why I listened to them instead. The only art I took part in was jewelry making and even that I was only mediocre at. Horror wasn't really my thing, though I loved the campy scariness of Halloween.

I loved my Halloween dreams. Except for this one.

Late summer air mixed with children's laughter and eased through the screens of musty windows. The doorbell rang, and several cats meowed, swooshing their soft fur through my legs. This was a house I'd never seen before— bright orange carpet and neon green flower wallpaper.

A white sheet-covered ghost, a pointed hat little witch, and a superhero beamed up at me. "Trick or treat!"

On a table by the door sat a big plastic caldron filled with vintage candies, which I deposited in each pillowcase or pumpkin container. The kids shouted, unwrapping their spoils, and pattered back into the neighborhood night. The crescent moon's light splintered through trees as I stood admiring it for a moment. It was peaceful here, it was Halloween, and there were cats. This wasn't so bad.

And then the phone rang.

A pink rotary phone vibrated with its assault until I answered. "Hello?"

Only static greeted me. The feel of paws on my bare feet made me smile as I hung up and petted the fluffy grey cat. "Do you need some food, buddy?"

The moment I hung up the phone, it rang again. This time when I answered, I could hear heavy breathing on the other side of the line. "Who is this?" I asked into the silence. Even the felines seemed to be listening.

I hung up.

The phone rang again.

"This isn't funny," I greeted. "What, are you some kind of prank caller?"

The heavy breathing continued, until suddenly, a low voice resounded with static in my ear. "Trick or treat?"

My heart jumped into my throat, and my palm went slick against the phone. I picked up the base and walked to the window, peering through the blinds, only seeing a few stray children scampering down the road. "What?—"

The doorbell rang, and the voice repeated slowly. "Trick… or… treat?" Trembling, I paused with my hand on the knob, afraid of who or what might be waiting on the other side. "Open the door, Lucy."

Then true fear gripped me. Mare never called me Lucy. His voice, this voice, was different. And I truly felt afraid now. For the first time in a long time, I actually wished to wake up.

Instead, I opened the door. Only cold air tinged with wood smoke, and wax greeted me. So real, so potent, too tangible to be a nightmare. That's what made my encounters with Mare so intense. And it's what made the in-between time in these worlds without him so… horrifying.

I jumped when the voice echoed in my ear again, I'd forgotten the phone as I clutched it with my shoulder, getting tangled in the spiraled wire. "Wrong door, Lucy."

"I'm scared. Is this Mare? You're scaring me," I admitted, locking the deadbolt, knowing it wouldn't help. A cat purred against my ankle.

"Oh, don't you play this game with Brandon? Or Dr. Truman?" His voice was hateful now as if speaking through gritted teeth. "You talk to them every day. Now it's my turn to have you on the line."

Somewhere, a door in the house shook, and I began to tremble, tears filling my vision. "Stop, please stop this. I only ever wait for you."

The shaking noises in the house stopped, and the heavy breathing on the other end of the phone returned. "Perhaps… if I kill you… you'll stay with me."

My words dried on my tongue.

"Would you like that, Lucy? You're not doing what you're told. I said to open the door."

I had the distinct feeling I was not alone. Even the cats dispersed to hide under the sofa and the black and white television set. "Stop trying to frighten me, Mare. Let's talk."

"OPEN THE DOOR!" he shouted, making me drop the phone and realize something even scarier and more unsettling than him yelling at me. I heard him through the phone… I also heard him in the house.

He was here.

Inside with me.

The carpet snagged between my toes, and the floorboard creaked as I made my way down the hall to the bedroom. Too vivid, too real, I hated how real this all was. My always bare feet, as if he were taunting me as if to rub it in my face how tactile everything was in my dreams. Nothing was a foggy mass of nonsense anymore when I went to sleep. Peace never found me, no blissful escape into darkness and rest, no, it was only him on the other side now.

And tonight, he was angry with me.

My room was just like my real-life room. Just my queen-sized bed, messy lavender sheets. Right across from my bed, my closet door was ajar.

Open the door, he'd said.

Not the front door.

This was the door.

The monster in my closet.

The call coming from inside the house.

I had the feeling I couldn't run away. Like I was a lamb to slaughter, and my butcher was toying with me.

Counting down from three in my head, I held my breath and pulled the knob.

He stood before me, tall, broad, draped in black, and wearing a ghost face mask. Holding a long knife, he tilted his white, long-masked face, and I screamed, stumbling backward and falling onto the bed.

"Say I'm not real again, Lilac," he growled, still angling the knife as he took a heavy step forward. "Would you like to see if my knife feels real? Shall we play a little game and see if gutting you like a baby deer makes you stay with me?" He leaned over me and pressed the knife into the side of my neck.

The cold metal and those murderous threats should have scared me senseless… so why did I feel a rush of heat flood my core?

"What do you want me to do?" I gasped out, desperate to make him happy, to ease his anger. "I'll do anything. Do you think I want to wake up? I don't. I want you and only you."

Mare hummed in his throat, and I wished I could see past the long white and black mask. "I'll tell you once my dick is inside you and my blade is under your skin. Take off your pants and spread your legs for me."

Tilting his head in that unnerving way he towered over me and watched as I obeyed his command. I was naked from the waist down when I laid back on the bed, perching a heel on the two bottom corners of the bed. Exposed, bare, feeling the Halloween night air cool against my wet center. For the first time, I wondered… what if this is real?

It was impossible… right?

"Can you take off the mask?" I asked, breathless, as he loomed like a demon at the foot of my bed. "I want to see you."

"You don't get to make demands. Not after all you continue to put me through." His tone was harsh, and he was still so angry.

"Why are you mad at me?" My knees trembled, and I gasped as he trailed a lazy finger down my wet slit.

Reaching under his black robe he pulled out his cock and stroked himself, positioning right over my naked core. "Touch yourself," he demanded. "Right now."

I did as I was told, slipping my fingers over my erect clit and rubbing as I watched him. He pumped his cock harder and faster, breathing heavily until suddenly, he yanked my hand out of the way. "What are you?—"

My question died in my throat, and I could only watch as he came atop my pussy. Ribbons of cum soaked me, sliding down my center warm and erotic. I moaned as he then positioned himself on top of me, pressing his still hard cock against the sticky liquid of our combined pleasure.

"You know what's going to happen, Lilac?" Mare rubbed the flat side of the knife against my cheek before slowly pulling it down my neck and over my breasts. "I'm going to fuck you so hard that you don't question if I'm real or not. When you wake up in the morning, you'll know from how sore you feel."

"Yes," I panted, the sensation of the knife trailing down my stomach and stopping at the apex of my thighs. His hard and rounded tip nudged at my opening, and I sucked in a breath feeling him push inside. "God," I moaned. "You feel so?—"

"Stop saying I'm not real," he growled roughly in my ear. "Fucking stop it. That's your problem. You're too in your head about this." He fucked me harder then, so hard my head hit against my headboard. I could feel him with each slam against my cervix, so deep, so real.

"Okay," I agreed, feeling tears of sorrow and ecstasy creeping from the corner of my eyes. And then the knife. The dull corner of the blade rubbed against my clit, and with each slam inside me wetness pooled over my lower stomach. I looked down in horror to see him thrusting, each movement of his hips driving his pelvis into the sharp side of the blade. "You're hurting yourself," I cried, feeling my release build and build.

"No," he said through gritted teeth. "You're hurting me. You're hurting me, you're fucking killing me, Lilac. Lucy . Why are you acting this way? Don't you see how worried we all are about you?"

I wanted to respond, to ask more questions, but all I could focus on was the feel of his movements, the blood that poured over me with each of his gashes, the feel of the solid metal against my clit. Holding tight to the back of his mask.

He groaned through his release, and I came undone. My orgasm vibrating through my core as I tugged at the mask. Surprisingly, he let me pull it off, and look into the violet eyes I so desperately craved.

"Mare," I whispered. But I could feel it then. The realization worse than the nightmare, worse than the terror or the bite of a knife. I was waking up.

I grabbed his wrist and pulled the bloody knife to my neck. "Do it," I begged through sobs. "Keep me here with you."

Blue and red flashed through my windows and sirens blared before someone in the house shouted. "This is the police! Everyone come out with your hands up!"

"No," I sobbed. "Why does this always happen? Make it stop," I begged like a pathetic child, feeling Mare slip out of me. He stood, straightening his robe and reapplying his mask.

"Fall asleep and wait for me," he said in the tender voice I'd come to love. "You have a choice, Lilac. You always have the choice; you just have to choose between life and death." And then the door to my bedroom was kicked open, ghost face lunged with his knife, and a gunshot rang out?—

I fell belly-first onto a wobbly bed.

JASON

Not just any bed, a bunk bed. The air was thick with humidity, crickets chirped outside the window screens. Twilight filtered across the splintered wood floors as I took in a room with four other unoccupied bunkbeds. Sitting up, I noticed a white shirt with the words Sapphire Lake Camp printed in blue on the front, I was wearing blue striped shorts, and no shoes, of course, always barefoot.

Nothing else was consistent aside from my bare feet.

And him.

Always him.

A buzzy intercom dinged before a low voice sounded. "Good evening, Camp Sapphire Lake campers. Due to recent events, a sundown curfew will be taking effect immediately. Please calmly return to your cabins and lock your windows and doors. Do not, we repeat, do not open your door for anyone once you and your fellow campers are inside. Good night, campers. Us camp counselors truly hope each of you make it until the morning."

Oh, hell. That was enough to make fear spread through my body like a forest fire. My arms prickled with goosebumps as a chilly breeze wafted into the muggy room. No campers came, though I heard a few running outside. I should have gotten up to close the windows like the camp counselors advised, but I knew it wouldn't matter, I was stuck in another one of his scenes. Another nightmare.

It was going to be a multi showing horror kind of night, wasn't it?

I kind of wanted to wake up.

I kind of wanted to never wake up.

What would happen if he killed me in my dream? Would I stay with him, or would I truly die? Did it matter, even?

Darkness settled from violet to blues, the shades of nightmare and fear that reminded me of him. Why did he always want to scare me? It worked because I grew more frightened by the moment as I considered my options. I could venture outside and explore the camp, or I could wait for him to find me in whatever horrific way he deemed fit. Rocking back and forth, rattling the top bunk, I was afraid, but I was also thankful to not be awake. My slumberous slayings were far more interesting than my mundane awake nothingness.

Radio interference screeched across the camp and made me jump out of my skin as a deep, familiar voice crooned through the summer air. "Campers, oh, campers of Sapphire Lake."

My mouth dried, and my inner thighs warmed. It was him. My nightmare man.

"All I sense here is sex, and fornication, and disgusting desires. Especially from one of you…"

My knees pressed together involuntarily.

"Don't fret, I will rid the world of you and your disease."

The intercom screeched, and various campers screamed in the distance. They didn't need to worry though— I did. But I made no move to escape. He would find me, and he would?—

There was a heavy pounding on my door, making the whole cabin shake. The knob rattled— locked. That would make him mad. My breath froze in my throat. He wouldn't truly harm me… would he? Honestly, I didn't know the answer to that.

I jumped as something beat against the door, splintering the wood. It wretched out and slammed back in. Leaning over the side of the top bunk, I witnessed the red heel of the axe shred through the flimsy door. In seconds, the door was a pile of broken wood, and the man kicked it in, stepping inside. Only his purple gaze and perfectly swept back hair isn't what I beheld, no, his face was covered by a vintage, off-white hockey mask. He walked slowly to the center of the room, assessing the bunks, as I pulled the covers up and tried to sneak back into a dark corner of my bed.

Don't notice me, please, don't notice me.

That tall, broad, strong frame wore flannel and clutched the axe, looking impossibly menacing. Tonight he wasn't a rogue prince, but a slasher from a terrible summer horror film. One I'd close my eyes when my dad bribed me with snacks to watch with him. I could almost taste the strawberry licorice as the axe slammed against the bottom post of the bed.

I could almost hear my dad's soulful belly laugh while the bunk broke. A scream tore through my throat as I tumbled onto the floor, landing in front of the axe man's two muddy boots. The mud from his ridged soles pressed roughly to my forehead as he angled my head to look up at him. Tears clouded my vision, I didn't want to think about my dad, didn't want the taste of red candy in my mouth. God, I missed my dad.

"If you're going to kill me— do it," I said up to the vintage hockey mask.

He angled his head like the predator he was, letting the axe swing over my nose like a pendulum. The blunt edge of the pendulum axe counted down my time like my murderer was the grandfather clock and I was the mouse beneath the boot of time and invisible space.

"You want to die?" he asked roughly, pressing his weight onto my forehead until it hurt, reminding me of his power, reminding me he could inflict very real pain, somehow, in this place.

I gritted my teeth together.

"Answer me," he growled, resting the axe head on my neck, pushing out the air from my throat until I coughed.

I opened my eyes, wondering why I hadn't woken up yet. Despite the pain and fear, I was pleasantly surprised to still be locked into this slasher-boy nightmare. "No," I rasped. "I'm not answering that."

A brusque chuckle pushed from behind the holes of the hockey mask. "Then I know what I need to do."

"What—"

A scream tore from my throat as he reached down and grabbed my hair, pulling me across the floor and out over the remnants of the splintered door. Agony wailed through me, feeling the spikes of wood tore over my back as I held onto his wrist, fighting to get free. My pleas were ignored. As he pulled me down the stairs, my calves, my lower back, and my shoulders were all being beaten with each ungentle tug.

Digging my nails into his forearm, I fought to draw blood as he yanked me through the rocks and dirt until I heard the opposing gentle lap of waves. My battered body went from twisting and screaming over shards to sliding through mud. I craned my neck, my head and body on fire from pain. A lake, I realized only a moment before he violently threw me into it by my head. I sat up, coughing, and the axe went down next to me, making a splash in the shallow, murky water.

"I'll ask you again." He angrily grabbed my throat, pulling me to sit in the lake's tide. "Do you want to die?"

My back burned, my head ached, my hair was matted around me, I was sure there was blood from my body marring the clear liquid around me brown. Behind the holes in his hockey mask, I caught a glimpse of his violet eyes. There he was. Always him. My nightmare.

He knelt into the water, pressing his masked forehead to my face, so close I could smell his earthy breath. "Answer me, Lilac."

"I don't want to die… but I don't want to exist anymore. I don't want to exist in a world without—without…" I braced for a slap, or to be plunged into the water, or worse— to wake up.

But he only stood, unzipping his pants, and pulling out his length. "Put this in your mouth and tell me you want to die."

My mouth opened in a gasp as he yanked my hair again, pushing me deeper into the tide, forcing my chin up in a painful and desperate plea to keep from swallowing water. But as I fought for air, he shoved his cock down my throat in one harsh motion. With his other hand, he held the axe, the edge crooked under the back of my neck, pinning me between blood and him, between drowning on lake water and dick, within a nightmare that I loved for some sick, sick reason.

His length pulled sloppy gags from my mouth, with murky water and spit pouring from the sides of my lips. "Look at me," he demanded, and I met his violet eyes. "Want to die on my cock, Lilac? Want to drown in a lake of my cum? Will that get the taste of licorice out of your mouth?"

It was ridding my tastebuds of the flavor of waxy candy. "How did you know that?" I swallowed his salty precum, letting my tongue roam the taut skin of his dick while the axe pushed my head closer and closer.

"How do I know?" he repeated, edged with the first hint of softness I'd received that night. "Suck harder," he growled, and I obeyed. His head tilted back, displaying his Adam's apple. I watched it bob as he groaned, and his thick release shot against the back of my throat. The waves lapped around my nose, and I coughed.

Just then tires screeched.

Someone screamed.

"Fuck." He tightened his grip on a fistful of my hair as bright lights lit up the lake.

"Not again," I cried, holding his fist on my hair. "Make them stop this time."

"Only you can do that, Lilac." People shouted, running into the water after us as alarms rang out across the camp. With one final violet glance— he shoved me into the cold expanse of the lake.

And I let it swallow me whole.

FREDDY

The lake bottom wasn't soft and squishy— it was cold and hard. I sat up with a gasp, finding myself on a dimly lit street. Cold fall air twisted around me and my wing fluttered in the cold. Wait— my wing? Standing, my knees wobbly and my feet bare against the cold, wet pavement, I reached over to touch a long, paper-like wing growing from my shoulder-blade. But my other shoulder bore a ripped, half version of the other majestic wing. A moth wing, I realized. I had moth wings.

And like a moth, I followed the light, crunching leaves as I walked toward the streetlamp. The name of the road was etched on a green sign with dull white lettering.

ELM STREET.

Oh, no. No, no, no ? —

"Oh, your sadness is tattered on the street." A low voice said behind me. When I turned, I saw him standing there. His face grotesque, wearing a striped red sweater, and with sharp knives protruding from his fingers.

"My sadness?" I said with a dry croak.

The horrifying man with glowing purple eyes knelt and picked up my broken moth wing. "What if I cut your sadness with scissors? Would that help?"

"I don't know," I replied, stepping forward. "Try it."

He tipped his hat and used his scissor fingers to cut my wing. When he did, my heart pricked, and tears began to fall. The worst sorrow I'd ever felt flooded through me as the pieces of my broken wing fell to the dirty pavement.

The horror of a man glanced up at me. "Seems that made it worse. Shall I burn it?"

I nodded. "Anything to take this feeling away."

He reached in his pocked and pulled out a match. Striking it, he let it fall to my tattered pieces of moth wing. The lit match fell ablaze and furled my wing like black pieces of paper. I dropped to my knees and sobbed. Feeling the burning in my chest, the tightening of my throat, the aching devastation of death and loss. As the flames licked around me, I choked on sobs until I felt a scissored edge tilt my head up to meet his purple eyes.

He reached out his other hand and stroked my wing. "Nothing will take this pain away, you broken Death's Head Moth. Like the moth, some beautiful creatures are cursed to carry death and make it look beautiful. To make death and sorrow fly toward the moon."

My tears wouldn't stop as I looked up at him. He gestured toward a long mirror that suddenly appeared in the middle of Elm Street. "See for yourself."

I shakily made my way to the mirror and gasped at my reflection. My body was the same, weak, and barefoot. My face, however, had been replaced by a Death's Head Moth. A moth etched with a skull. An omen, a darkness, a sign of sorrow.

That was me.

This was a dream but it was the truest version of myself I'd ever seen. My sorrow personified. My tears were a monsoon of rain upon my cheeks and that storm had sprouted wings.

"I can't make death beautiful," I said to my reflection. And Mare appeared behind me, putting a scissored hand on my shoulder. "Death isn't beautiful." The wings of my moth-face fluttered at his touch. Could we stay there, on Elm Street, and be monsters forever?

"You will always find the moon," my nightmare whispered. "I love you. I believe in you. Do not leave your sadness in piles on the street. Pick them up, Lucy. String them together, create something haunting. You can do this, I know you can."

"Mare," I cried as my wings fluttered and the wind began to howl.

But it was too late.

I woke up.