Page 77 of Your Masked Haunting

I’m pretty sure I might have manifested myself into a scary movie from all the times I’ve thought of it. That’s the only explanation for the real horror coursing through me, wrapping around my throat.

I didn’t know a human body could feel such dread, like some sixth sense in the back of your mind that knows something’s wrong before you do. Is that why I woke up, on edge and terrified? Like somehow, deep down, my subconscious knew this was coming?

My mouth is still, and I’m completely frozen regardless of how hard I will my questions to come out. Who are you? What are you doing here? What do you want?

But there’s another question, one that raises every hair on the back of my neck. Will any of his answers matter in the end?

He takes a step forward, and my legs and spine straighten until I’m standing to my full height, my hand fisting my phone for dear life. This has to be a prank or a joke. He’s a hired actor who was sent here to scare me.

“Y-you,” he stutters, his hand lifting between us and pointing straight at me.

I can’t tell from the shadowy lighting, but he’s definitely an older man. It’s clear in his voice, the raspiness and depth that only comes with age.

My bones tremble, legs quivering as I struggle to grasp that this is really happening, that it isn’t a hallucination or a nightmare that I’m still trapped in. “I’m-I’m sorry. I think you have me confused with someone else.”

Another step forward, and anger contorts his face, the light bouncing off his brow bones and snarled lips. “You must leave my house.” His words trail away in an inaudible ramble.

He takes two more steps, and my body tightens, ready to race over the mound of pumpkins and away from him.

“S-sir”—my voice is shaky and thick with emotion—“I really think you’re looking for someone else. This place isn’t a real home. It’s a haunted house attraction.”

He scoffs, throwing his hands up and striding forward again, this time not stopping until the distance between us shrinks to maybe fifteen feet. “I expel you from the property, demon. You are not welcome here.” He pauses, gasping with an inhale. “This is my house. This is my family.”

What the hell is happening right now?

Finally, I can see him a bit clearer. His eyes are all over the place, bouncing left and right, his body rigid and tense, his fists clenched at his sides.

“I’m not a demon.” I try to back up a step as he strides forward, but I have nowhere to go.

My hands lift, palms facing him, as I hope my surrender somehow shows I’m no threat, that I’ll comply … until I have my chance to run.

“My name is Mona. You’re confused, and I-I can help you, give you whatever you want. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.” Disgust clings to my palms at how easily the words flow from my lips.

“You lie. Demons lie. You’re trying to trick me, and—and I won’t have it!” he shouts, and the world shifts into slow motion as he takes off, running straight at me. “You’ve come before! They always overstay their welcome … but not for long. Harvey will take care of you! Harvey always takes care of me. Harvey!” He screams the name with bloody murder, the roar almost hurting my ears. “Harvey!”

My body reacts first. A scream I don’t recognize tears through my lungs. At first, I’m not sure why I’m wailing. Then my legs snap into action, knees bent, ready to run as reality dawns on me in the form of a six-foot elderly man running straight at me.

No, no, no, this isn’t real.

But as much as I wish that delusion were true, it’s not going to help me survive. The only way out of this is either through him or over the pumpkins, some of which could do some damage if I used them as a projectile.

Reaching up, I yank one from the stack, lifting it over my head and chucking it at him as hard as I can. Another and another. As they fly toward him, I jump up on top of the massive mini-fridge size pumpkins at the base, scurrying over the pile of various sizes as quickly as I can.

The backyard is enclosed with eight-foot-tall stone walls that I’m not hurdling over. I’ll need to go through the gate on the opposite side of the deck, back through the house, or find a place to hide until help arrives.

My feet kick off the squash, an avalanche of pumpkins falling beneath me. But I can’t look back. I need to keep moving forward, not stopping until I’m safe and sound and this is all over.

He shouts something at me again, and I scream back, “Stop! Please! I’m not a demon!”

I rack my mind, trying to make sense of how in the hell I ended up here, being chased by a man who has to be having some sort of mental break, or maybe he's possessed, announcing the demon that lives inside of him rather than placing blame on me.

I’m no psychiatrist or mental health expert, but he has to be experiencing some kind of crisis. From the amount of true crime I consume, listening to breakdowns by professionals, and taking into account his paranoid nature, rooted in demonic or religious fear, I’m assuming that he might be having a schizophrenic episode. Or maybe Alzheimer’s. Or a combination of the sorts.

The hard part is, I don’t know if challenging him or leaning into his delusion is better. Should I cater to his hallucination, admit that I’m a demon or spirit and that I'm leaving? Or do I keep denying it?

Going through a crisis or not, he’s smart and using it to his advantage. I need to do the same. I’ve spent plenty of time in my youth running from the police after snatching a sandwich or candy bar from the gas station. Even though half the time, I think they let me get away.

I learned how to evade, hopefully well enough to escape this man or hold him off until Casper arrives. It’s inevitable that he’ll burst onto the lawn, rushing to my rescue. Hopefully, it’ll be before my life becomes inspiration for a horror movie or a docuseries story on fucking Netflix.