Chapter 1

October 30th, 2008

Nothing screams Halloween quite like a knife wielding, masked killer on the loose. One who chases after their unlucky victims with the kind of deranged precision that makes surviving their madness impossible. Even thinking about that kind of primal evil makes my heart race. I swear, I'd do anything to experience that sort of sadistic rush at least once in my life, even if it has the very real potential to cost me my own life, it'd be worth it just to feel like a true final girl.

A disappointed sigh falls from my lips as I stare back at the TV. Sadly, the closest I've ever come to experiencing the sort of evil that I crave first-hand is with my ass planted on a couch watching horror movies.

Tonight, it was either John Carpenter's Halloween or Wes Craven's Scream, both of which I've seen so many times I practically have every line memorized, but there's something about Michael Myers that gets me every time. The fact that he works alone and is so confident in his ability to kill that he never needs to run after his victims always elevates him to daddy status in my mind.

I remember the first time I witnessed his stoic saunter glide across the screen with his fist clenched around his knife, I didn"t feel fear in the way that most experience it. Even with the slaughter and bloodshed before my eyes I felt excited…alive. With each slash of his knife and every screech from his countless victims, the fear it dredged up inside of me, awakened something that made me feel seen.

I knew at that very moment fear would be my drug of choice. I justnever realized how impossible maintaining that high would be. It doesn't seem to matter how much I immerse myself in things others find terrifying, nothing seems to fill the void.

Fixing my eyeson the TV, I talk along with Dr. Samuel Loomis.

"You haven't anything to worry about, he hasn't spoken a word in fifteen years..."

Ha, fifteen years is a long time, especially for someone like Michael, to not act on his deadly urges. That's the thing with time though, the longer it passes, it creates an inevitable crossroad. It can either heal wounds or it can set the stage for well thought out revenge, and revenge is that much sweeter when it has time to age like a fine wine.

I sink deeper into the worn leather sofa, continuing to lip sync the dialogue that feels as comforting to me as a security blanket, when the sweet smell of cookies suddenly invades my nostrils. My attention shifts from the plasma screen in the living room to the kitchen behind me. There on the center island, beside a freshly lit Autumn Lodge Yankee Candle, sits a fresh plate of my favorite Pillsbury Halloween cookies beckoning me.

Well, if I can't be ravished by a masked madman this Halloween, I guess the next best thing is to gorge myself on sweets.

I leave the movie running as I make my way into the kitchen. The synthesizer that accompanies the classic theme song begins to play, followed by a mix of other shrill sound effects that I hum along to as I approach the granite countertop of the island.

Hovering my hand just above the cookie platter, I move my palm back and forth, debating if I should reach for a ghost or pumpkin cookie. Gliding my hand over the plate once more, I finally decide on one of each because why not? I barely lower my ready fingers an inch when a subtle breeze filters its way in front of me. Angling my head upward, my gaze is met with a harsh scowl smeared on my mom's brow as she proceeds to swat the dish towel in her clenched palm towards my hand. With her smooth jet-black hair, bangs, and dark brown eyes, we look like we can be sisters, twenty years apart. Though, our physical features and feisty attitudes are where our similarities begin and end.

"Don't even think about it," she reprimands, grabbing hold of the cookies and bringing them out of my reach.

"So, Blair, to what do I owe the pleasure of your presence? I thought you were working at the diner tonight." I can't help but notice the not so subtle disappointment that lingers in her voice. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it's almost like she was counting on me not being home. Which is odd because she should know that I'm a homebody.

"I never work on Halloween Eve or Halloween," I remind her, moving the stool out from under the counter so I can sit.

A screech sounds from the TV, filtering its way into the kitchen replacing the awkward silence between my mom and me.

She turns her head, disgust on her face. "This movie again?" she asks, shaking her head. "I don't know why you choose to fill your head with such violence. It's going to make you–" she pauses, as if she is trying to choose her words carefully.

"Yes?" I ask, motioning my hand for her to finish her sentence.

"Nothing, it's just a slippery slope is all." I can tell by the way her brow furrows at her own words that she is as confused with her response as I am. Before I can ask her to elaborate on what exactly she means by that, she has the plate of cookies secured in her hands and is already halfway to the other side of the kitchen.

Taking that as my cue to head back into the living room, I'm about to get up from the stool I'm sitting on when a clattering noise steals my attention. Adjusting my posture, I lean my elbows forward onto the island so I can get a better look at where my mom's manicured hands are now shaking against the plate.

"Everything good?" I ask, meaning to sound more caring but the sarcasm that my tone usually defaults to is ripe.

Her spine straightens and the sound of ceramic bumping against granite ceases as she presses a firm, steady grip on either side of the platter. Back still turned to me, I notice her stiffen as she responds. "Yep, just perfect," she bites. Her response is wildly unconvincing which only piques my curiosity more, forcing me to initiate one of my least favorite things ever…small talk…with my mother…fuck.

"So…" my voice drags, trying to think of something to get this conversation moving so I can figure out why she"s acting so strange. Since my gaze falls back on the cookies that I am still pissed that I don't have, I decide to go with that.

"Fresh baked cookies for your favorite holiday," I tease, because any time we've had pumpkin or ghost cookies in the house it's because me or my dad has made them, not her because she hates Halloween. "What's the occasion?"

Her shoulders rise and fall before she pivots her stance back towards the island I am still sitting at. "Your father and I have plans," she deadpans.

"Oh, fun. Something Halloween themed, I assume?" I ask, inching my neck forward in the direction of the damn platter she seems to be holding onto for dear life.

She doesn't reply. Fuck, this is painful. I'm used to most of our interactions being strained, but this is about as pleasant as a root canal without Novocaine.

"No," she quips, swallowing so hard it's audible even with the movie still playing in the background. "We are going to Ms. Glinda's."

Ah, Ms. Glinda Campbell, the rumored black widow of Sleepy Hollow. It's impressive how this woman, despite her perpetual RBF and sour personality, seems to bag husband after rich husband and somehow, they all end up dead, and she ends up richer than before.

"It's a difficult day for her, if you remember," my mom continues, sounding defensive.

I bet.

"For her or dead husband number five? Or is it dead husband number six? I mean, who can keep track at this point." I grin, though my mom's stoic and pissed off expression shows no sign of beingamused by my sarcastic jab. I've never understood their friendship; my mother prides herself on how others perceive her to a fault, and Glinda Campbell is about as socially messy as wearing an upside down crucifix at a baptism would be.

"Blair, stop being so–" she stops herself. "So, so…" she begins again, becoming increasingly flustered.

"So what?" I press.

"So typical of you," she finally responds, jaw tense and eyes protruding with visible anger.

Good one, mom.

"Anyway," she begins, trying to collect herself and return to hertypical poised bullshit demeanor. "I saw her at church this past Sunday and she invited your father and I over for dinner at her place. We will be back late, no need to wait up."

Skepticism washes over me as I watch my mom approach the threshold of the kitchen. I believe it was just yesterday that I overheard her going on about how she needs to start going back to church since it's been years, yet "church" is where she recently ran into Glinda. Right.

I try to dissect my mom's strange behavior in my head when my dad"s tall silhouette emerges from the unlit entryway she's now standing in, pulling me from the internal jigsaw puzzle I'm trying to solve.

"Hey Blair Bear," my dad greets, waving in my direction.

Returning my dad's hello with a quick grin, I'm about to part my lips to tell them to have fun tonight when my mom abruptly begins clearing her throat.

"Yes?" I ask.

"Blair," she begins with a stern voice that contradicts the noticeable apprehension on her face. "For once in your life, I want you to listen to me. Stay home tonight, please." She shoots a quick glance at my father before turning her attention back to me. "And lock the doors."

Conjuring up my best forced grin, I walk towards my mom, slipping my hand under the thin layer of plastic wrap that separates me from those damn cookies I have been smelling for the last ten minutes. "Yes, ma'am" I respond, saluting her with a cookie before bringing the sugary gold to my lips.

"I mean it," my mom begins to scold, causing a boisterous laugh to erupt from my dad.

"Oh, come on, Lorraine. You need to lighten up. Blair is a good girl. We'll only be gone a couple hours, what could possibly go wrong?"

She ignores my dad, not looking convinced.

"Lorraine," his voice drags, "we need to get going or we'll be late."

Still my mom stands there, unresponsive, unmoving.

"Lorraine," my father repeats, this time sounding uncharacteristically irritated. He usually has the patience of a saint, but the tone in his voice, coupled with the sudden agitation on his face,is something I'm not used to.

"I'll be fine," I say, trying to reassure her. Though she, unlike my father, looks utterly unconvinced.

"Please, Blair, just stay home. It's not safe out there with–" she begins to warn but her words are cut off by my dad abruptly trying to maneuver her out the door.

With both his palms planted on her stiff shoulders, standing behind her, my dad turns to me, his thick salt and pepper brows raised. "You'll be good right, kiddo?"

"Yep," I smile a forced, toothy grin which is all the reassurance my dad needs to take my word for it and head out the door.

"That's my girl," he mumbles, already halfway out the door, still guiding my mom along.

I stand in the open doorway watching as they approach my dad's silver SUV. Dad walks around the back to get in the driver's side while mom transfers the platter of cookies to one hand, reaching for the door handle with the other. Carefully she opens the car door just wide enough for her to slip into the passenger seat.

With the front doorknob secured in one palm, I raise my free hand up, waving to my mom with the same forced smile I gave my dad. Except she doesn't buy it. hence the reprimanding scowl she is currently giving me in return even as the car begins to drive away.

There is validity behind my mom's warning plea to stay home. Ironically, here, in Sleepy Hollow, New York, home of the infamous Headless Horseman legend, there has been a string of unsolved murders disrupting our usually quiet town. It's been all over the news and all anyone has been talking about the past few months since multiple decapitated corpses have been surfacing with no killer apprehended.

Meaning the killer could be lurking anywhere, which is why the moment my parent's license plate diminishes from my view, I make sure my favorite knife is tucked in the inner pocket of my jacket that I'm slipping on, just in case trouble finds me and, with a real-life killer on the loose, who knows…tonight just might be my lucky night.