Blood is soaking through the couch cushions, tainting the leather which will surely rot from the crimson liquid in a few years time. Yet, there's a sense of security, sitting on the couch alive— as a survivor. She killed the Boogeyman, they'll say, but they're wrong. You can't kill the Boogeyman.

Immortality is the fine difference between slashers and real life murderers. It's where most nonfiction killers get confused. They get high on the power, watching the life drain out of people. They like to pretend they're God, picking and choosing who lives and who dies. In the midst of their spree, they forget that they too are human, that they too will return to dust, as it was before, and feed worms like the rest of us.

But Michael Myers won't because Michael Myers isn't real, and neither is the Boogeyman.

Barely, hidden underneath the screams of Jamie Lee Curtis, you can hear your front door ricochet. In an instant, a quick zap of blueish-green appears on the screen of your box shaped TV, slowly fading to black. The Halloween soundtrack tremors its last dying buzz before your room is consumed in pure uninterrupted silence.

Downstairs, a floorboard creaks.

Scurrying out from under your blankets as quick as you possibly could, you're fortunate that you don't trip when your foot gets caught on a loose sheet. It frees itself with a tug, and, not a second later, you're panting at the top of your staircase, chest rising and falling as you stare down at the man at the bottom of the stairs, one question falling from your lips.

"What happened?"

Maybe it should've been something along the lines of how are you? or are you okay? Something pertaining to him, but it was late and you were brash. A smidge of guilt sinks under your skin.

Your dad looks tired. The bags under his eyes are deeper, darker than they were hours before when you sat across from him at the dinner table. His uniform is half undone, as if he tried to take off his police vest in the car but was too overwhelmed by the urge to get inside to fully take it off. He wasn't even meant to go in, he's usually home by 5:15. The perfect nine to five so he makes home on time to see his flawless wife and daughter. Something bad must have happened. They only call when it's something bad— like last year.

He's still in his shoes, you realize, his boots pounding up the wooden steps. The sound echoes against the walls, like you can almost see the vibrations bouncing off the walls to reach your eardrums. "It's a school night. Aren't you supposed to be asleep?"

"I heard your work phone ring and the door slam," you admitted, honestly. You shrugged, the thick strap of your nightgown falling from your shoulder. "You never get called to work late. Sleeping didn't feel much like a priority."

"Look, kiddo." He's only a step or two below you, but he feels much farther away. Your father always was distant— an emotionally unavailable workaholic. It was hard to blame him, everyday having to go to work to either deal with petty crimes like vandalism and attempted robberies, or vicious homicides that were somehow becoming common in your small town. You supposed your hobbies gave him a sick feeling in the stomach, picturing the daughter he so lovingly raised dealing with what he dreaded with a twisted kind of joy. Just because he was distant didn't mean he didn't try.

A hand comes up to massage his temples, the other holding onto the oak staircase railing, his knuckles growing paler with each second he talked. "I don't know how else to put it since it's gonna be all over the news tomorrow and you'll hear about it from all those damn kids at school, but somebody was murdered, okay?"

"Okay," you nodded, taking in the information. Your dad looks relieved at your reaction, a weight visibly lifting from his shoulders. Was he expecting you to cry? Weep? He had to know you better than that. "Who?"

He clenched his jaw, feet clacking against the floorboards heavier as he continues up the stairs, unwilling to go through this with you. Not again. "Go to bed."

It's not like you'd be able to now. Your mind is absolutely swarmed with endless questions, playing on countless scenarios. When was this? One hour ago? Two? How long until the police arrived? Do they know how long they were dead for? Where did this happen? In a parking lot? A basement? Were they stabbed? Shot? Tortured? Ripped apart from the inside out? Who even does that— rips people apart? Did they even catch the killer?

"Do you know who did it?"

"Go to bed." It's a warning and you know it, but you can't help yourself, not when he had given you nothing to hypothesize with. Murder was too vague. Words spill from your lips, practically dripping as your dad saunters to his bedroom, shoulders drawn and tense, blocking you out like always. It's invasive, but you're curious. "How did they do it?"

"Y/N," he grumbled angrily, a hand clasped on his bedroom door. Over the shoulder pad of his navy blue uniform, his hard eyes meet yours, filled with exhaustion and frustration, and you know you pushed too far. "Go. To. Bed."

And that's final.

Despite your mother being asleep inside the room, cuddled up in their shared bed, he slams the door in your face. Painted white oak meets your eye-line. Your toe to toe with the bottom of your parent's bedroom door. The most annoying part of you feels like knocking, but you bury the feeling, using all of your will power to drag yourself away, back to your bedroom, and throw yourself under your covers and onto the plush of your mattress.

Thinking rationally, you know sleep will not find you tonight, it rarely did. Being an insomniac was one of the few things you shared with your father. Flashes of the gore-y films you've watched, nasty descriptions from horror and psychological novels, and — the worst of them — horror files from your dad's office find you whenever you have the guts to shut your eyes, even if it's just for a prolonged blink. Most days, you can brush it off, sneak into your parents room and rummage through the drawers for your dad's sleeping pills, but tonight, you'll have to tough it out and force yourself not to dwell.

You lay on your back, hands clasped together on your abdomen over your thick duvet cover. The popcorn on your ceiling provides little distractions aside from the few faces you can make out in the speckles, mind overtaking with a wild imagination. Suddenly, through the sheer fabric of your floral curtain, light shines through, illuminating into your room. Your neighbor's awake.

Practically throwing yourself out of bed, you yelp, palms braced against the hardwood floor. Eagerly, you stand, yanking your curtain to the side, letting his light provide one for your own room. Sliding open your window, you watch as he paces his room. The walls are a dark and covered with posters; horror movies, bands, you name it. You can see the mess of his desk, filled to the brim with papers and notebooks in organized chaos. You can see the outline of his bed, how it sinks under his weight as he sits on it, forcing a hand through his ragged hair.

"Billy," you whisper-shouted, hoping somehow he will hear you. "Billy!"

Nothing. Not even so much of a glance. Impatiently, your hand rasps against the window frame. Desperate for ideas, you descend back into your room, looking for anything that can help you get his attention.

Mrs. Lamb is the biggest stuffed animal you own. She adorns a cute pink flannel dress and white headband, and, well, she's not the easiest to throw, but she gets the job done. You'll get her tomorrow before you leave for school, you tell yourself. You can't see his reaction when the sheep toy hits his window, but you can hear bang of her button eye against the glass. Wincing at the sound, your eyes are fully closed when you hear the slide of Billy's window opening.

Peaking one eye open, Billy's arms are crossed as he leans out his windows, eyes squinted with accusation. A breeze passes, the collar of his baby blue shirt flutters, showing his white tee-shirt underneath, neck  tinged with pink from a bad laundry day. Your neighbor's voice is gruff when he speaks, harboring a small rasp, but he's too loud. "It's past midnight. The hell do you want?"

"Shush!" Pressing a finger to your lips with wide eyes, you stick your head out the window, looking both ways. An orange hue glows from his porch, but yours is pitch black. Your lips part with exhilaration even though Billy hardly looks amused. "I have something to tell you."

"And you can't call me? Dammit," he cursed, his hands kneading into the flesh of his forearms for warmth, "it's freezing." Although he complains, he leans further out the window.

"Someone at school was just murdered."

Billy blinked. You witnessed as the shock transgressed his face. His parted lips. Furrowed brows. Then, he tilts his head at you, shaking it in disbelief. A strand of hair falls into his eyes. "What?"

"My dad won't tell me the details but I'm sure we'll know by tomorrow. He said it's gonna be all over the news."

"Do you know what happened?"

"I wish." It's disgusting and sadistic but true.

Billy's not fazed by your confession, the insensitivity to the gruesome subject engendered from years of horror movie marathons.

He snorts at your response. Instead of continuing on the subject, his eyes wander, lighting up the bare skin he can see with goosebumps as his eyes rake your form. "Cute PJ's."

Without another word, you close your window, tugging the curtains shut. His laughter rumbles through the glass.

💌

a/n: 1.7k words. i was picturing bella swans dad. ifykyk.anyway i hope anyone who sees this liked this because ive been meaning to write a scream fic for a while (and the one i started like a year ago was dog shit and needed to be burned with fire). got some good plans and i've been fantasizing the agggtm trope for awhile. had to claim my spot as an og fan before the TV show in july because my username wasn't enough haha.<agirlsguidetolove3