Outside My Window

It was a bright, sunny day when he arrived in town. None of us believed anything bad could come of a new arrival. Our town was a small town with few visitors, so we should have wondered why there was suddenly someone who wanted to live in this town in the middle of nowhere. But it was a bright and sunny day, so only joy filled us residents when we learned of our new neighbor. He had blond hair, blue eyes, and a fit body. My sister could not keep her eyes off of him.

One day, as I was walking out of school, I saw him. In our town, we are quite neighborly and all get along. Everyone knew everyone, but no one seemed to know this man, so I decided to be the first. I walked up to him and introduced myself. “Hello,” I said, “I noticed you’re new here, so I thought I’d introduce myself. I’m Tony West.” I held out my hand. 

He took my hand and said, “Wilson Smith.” His voice was not so deep as I had expected it to be. I later learned that he had only recently graduated, while I was still in my last year of high school. Because there was not much of an age gap between us, we became good friends. Soon, he was known and loved by the whole town as if he had been living there his entire life. He attended church on Sundays, worked eight hours a day, and went to every barbecue and social event he was invited to. 

It was a dark, cloudy day when we all attended the funeral service for the Mallards. The five of them living in our town had all died when their house burned down while they were inside. The only remains that were found were ashes and the twisted metal frames of Grandpa Mallard’s glasses. No one knew what had caused the fire, but we did indeed speculate. The most common theory was that a cigarette had been left unattended, but, to our knowledge, none of the Mallards had ever smoked. James Mallard, who lived somewhere in New York, had come down for the funeral. He was the younger brother to Bill Mallard, who was twenty-nine years old, married to Maria Mallard, and the father of the two little Mallard boys. Everyone knew the Mallards, and it was a sad day to see James allow tears to come from his eyes at the funeral of the rest of his family.

It wasn’t even a month later when another house burned down, killing everyone inside. We all attended yet another funeral. The same two things happened another month later. People died in a fire and we all attended the funeral. The same two events occurred the next month and the month after that. After two more funerals, there was not another fire in that town. We all thought that the winter months would prevent more deaths. 

It was a cold, dry Sunday morning when the bodies of the mayor, his wife, and his only daughter were found on the three crosses outside of the church. That was the one day that no one attended church. At first glance, you could not tell how the three people had died, for their bodies had so many cuts and slashes on them. 

Later that night, the sheriff told all the townspeople to remain indoors and not to leave the house alone. He did this over the radio channel that he shared with mayor. “We have every reason to believe that this is murder,” I had heard him say over the radio. “We just want everyone to know that we are doing our best to stop-”

He was cut short as we all heard someone run into the room and yell, “There’s been another murder, sir!’’

“Damn it! Hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since the last three!” the sheriff yelled back as the other officer ran out of the room. We heard the sheriff get up to leave, but he seemed to remember he was broadcasting and said, “Uh... I gotta go folks! Something’s been called to my attention. Have a good night and pray to God for safety before you go to bed!” He stopped broadcasting, and everyone in my household was quiet as we all said a silent prayer for our friends and family members. 

Nothing was the same in our little town from that point on. At least two people died per week, but the killer could not be found. Everyone was included in the killings; there were no exceptions. Men, women, and children alike were killed. Sometimes a house pet was even killed along with its owners. The killer seemed to want no witnesses whatsoever. 

But one night, the killer made a mistake. After all the children were asleep, the sheriff told everyone to turn on their television, for footage of the killer had been recovered from a security camera. That night, the adults, and children who snuck out of their beds, saw the killer. Every inch of his skin was covered. He was obviously fit, as we could easily tell from how he murdered his victim. What was most disturbing was the mask he wore. His mask was made entirely of silver duct tape, which was stained with blood. At one point, he turned his head towards the camera. I gasped, for in the holes where his eyes were, Grandpa Mallard’s lenses were placed. This was how we all discovered that the fires were no accidents. 

In the next two weeks, there were no murders, but we were not naive enough to believe that the killer had finally stopped. In fact, this short period of no murders increased our fears. And then came the nursery rhyme. The children came up with it, and it fed our fear even more. We all heard the children sing it before they fell asleep: 

I must be in bed before nine.

I do not get up after bedtime.

Until morning I stay asleep.

I do not get up to take a peek at the TV.

If I am curious I stay in bed,

Or outside my window will be the Tape-Faced Boogeyman.

The nursery rhyme almost seemed to be a prayer for protection. I talked about it with Wilson when we had lunch together the Friday of the second week. “It’s like this town is placed under some sort of curse,” I had said.

“I’m sure the sheriff and his men will catch up to him soon,” Wilson said as he ate his burger. Though it was a small town, we were fortunate enough to have a diner. “It’s a small town, and it’s getting smaller. The killer has to live here, so all you have to do is find someone who would be a reasonable suspect.”

Yeah, like someone who hasn’t lived in the town as long as everybody else. I knew these thoughts were wrong, but it made sense in my mind. Wilson was newer to the town, even though he been living in it for quite awhile at that time. “I guess you’re right,” I responded.

“Of course I am,” he said casually as he continued eating.

I bought my first gun after the next murder. I was not going to allow myself to be killed by a man who caused so much fear. I carried my revolver with me whenever I was outside. If I saw that tape mask anywhere near me, I was going to blow the wearer’s brains to kingdom come. There was a part of me that wanted to find the killer just so I could be the one to end it all. I wanted to be the town hero.

A month passed, and I had not gotten my chance to kill the killer yet. People were still dying. Our town had been reduced to only eight households. We wanted to leave, but we were afraid that the killer would follow us and then start killing everyone in the place that we would have moved to. As time went on, I started carrying a flashlight with me, for a fear of the dark had grown inside me.

One Sunday night, my mother invited Wilson over for dinner. It had been a couple of days since we had talked, for the fact that he was still alive had made me suspect him even more. A sort of bitter distrust for him had grown inside me. This is why I had both my flashlight and my revolver strapped to my belt. 

As we ate, my parents asked Wilson questions about how he was doing and my sister, Julia, kept flirting with him. I remained silent for the most part. As we were eating dessert, Wilson excused himself to the bathroom. A few minutes later, all the lights in the house had turned off. I struggled to get my flashlight off of my belt. I turned it on to a terrible sight. The man in the duct tape mask was standing behind my sister with a large knife to her throat. My parent’s throats were already slit, and there was blood all around them. Something near the bathroom caught my eye. I gasped in horror as I saw the door open with Wilson’s body lying halfway through the door, but where was his head?

My eyes were back on the killer when I saw what was in the hand not holding the knife at my sister’s throat. He held Wilson’s severed head, which had a look of pure terror on it. A wave of guilt crashed over me as I realized that I had assumed the worst in my friend. Wilson had died without my trust.

Tears were streaming down Julia’s eyes. I removed my gun from my holster, aimed at the man’s head cocked it. “L-let h-her g-g-go!” I yelled shakily. “I w-will sh-shoot!”

The killer slowly slit my sisters throat as I screamed at him to stop. My flashlight went dark and I knew the meaning of fear. There was movement. Bang! I fired my first shot. “I must be in bed before nine,” I whispered shakily to myself as i back my way towards the door. 

Movement. Bang! I whispered the second verse of the nursery rhyme, “I do not get up after bedtime.”

Something else moved. Before I knew it, another shot had been fired and I accidentally killed the cat. “Until morning I stay asleep.” The third verse escaped through my dry lips. 

I bumped into the wall. Bang! Tears were coming from my eyes as I said the next verse, “I do not get up to take a peek at the TV.”

My back found the door. I saw more movement. Bang! I heard a strained, pitiful whining. Dammit! I shot the dog! I thought as I whispered the next verse, “If I am curious I stay in bed.”

I was outside! I stepped on the street and looked around me. The killer was nowhere to be seen. I saw my bedroom window as I kept walking backwards. “Or outside my window...” Before I could finish the sixth and last verse, I bumped into someone. I turned around and, seeing the killer, ripped off the mask. Instinctively, i backed up slightly and put the revolver to his head, but I did not fire. I just stood there in shock, for where a face should been, there was nothing. I was too terrified to do anything as I looked into that black void. As my throat was slit, I heard the thing that would cause my death finish the last verse of that terrible nursery rhyme in a soft, but scratchy voice, “... will be the Tape-Faced Boogeyman.” Then, on the night of a blood moon, I breathed my final breath outside my window.