The late October chill in the air blew straight through her as the evening gave way to night. There she stood on a wrap around porch beckoning with her hand for someone to approach her. She wore a long white dress with blood staining the front surrounded by cobwebs and bats and such and only a jack-o-lantern lighting the porch. A little boy, barely five, comes into view and he is wearing a cowboy costume as blood stains the front of his costume as well, the boy looks up at his mother with hopeful eyes, and speaks, “I hope we get trick-or-treaters this year.”

His mother kisses his head and smiles wistfully without a word spoken. Just then two middle school-aged girls walk by with one making her way toward the little boy and his mother’s home. Abruptly, one of the girls grabs the other by her princess dress holding the pink tule in place, the girl along with it. “Don’t go up there”, the girl continues, “that pumpkin is not a welcoming for trick-or-treaters it’s a tradition.  Twenty four years ago on Halloween a mother who went crazy murdered her son and then turned the gun on herself. Someone always leaves a pumpkin there on Halloween. They say the kid had his costume on, it was his favorite time of year.”

If silence had a smell It would smell like the dying embers of a fire A mix of smoke and rotting wood It burns the nostrils and chokes you Wordlessly you suffer The permeation of the charred dirt It sinks its aromatic claws inside your brain There it dwells and takes over Silence is a kindle of wood That just can’t stay lit

Chapter One

         Fear is a fickle bitch and right now I am at her mercy.  

         Silently, I struggle to remain still.  A hard task to achieve when I am quite literally vibrating internally from the sheer terror that has crept within my skin and blanketed my bones. As I lay within the confines of the makeshift hatch beneath the floorboards I hear footsteps approaching. As the steps close upon me I can her the wooden slabs creak and crack in a symphony of terror. The tune begins to slow in a matter of ritardando until the footsteps have ceased just above my head. I  hear the resonance of paced guttural breath and in that moment I can feel my panic peak and I want nothing more than to burst out of my skin and float away. I close my eyes and soundlessly exhale the remaining breath I have trapped inside my lungs. I hold myself in that manner, breathless, in an attempt to make myself somehow smaller. 

	The screetch of an alarm snaps my eyes wide open and abruptly closed again. I jolt in a fashion that somehow remains noiseless. I hear a voice so raspy and dull it likens itself to ashes and gasoline, “Good girl,” the voice says and I can hear the smile in his words, “ you may just win this yet.”  The voice’s footsteps retreat and I remain still.  “Four down, three to go”, the voice trails on and I hear the front door open in a long drawn out spectacle. “This game with you is my favorite so far.” The door slams shut and I immediately take in a breath, albeit shaky,  and breathe out bringing with it the pent up hysteria I have suppressed. I wait in a lobby of trepidation before finally hoisting my elbows from my sides and begin to push above me repeatedly in an effort to knock the loose board out of place. This climactic era of this fucked up game I was currently siting in was my fault alone.  Had I known now what I knew those many months ago I would have never stepped foot inside of Mulligans Manor. The Manor in which I came face to face with the Bogeyman.    

(After a bit of feedback of whether the opening is complete trash or not, I will continue on.)