Everyone loves the victim. From books to movies, we are conditioned to pick sides immediately. We know who is the hero and we know who is the villain and we don’t need to be told whose side to take. The villain doesn’t have a say. The villain doesn’t have a chance to defend himself. Whatever the reason, whatever made him that way, doesn’t change the fact that he’s a villain and will be treated as such.
I sighed, exasperated as I donned my mask and all that “scary stuff” for this night’s prowl. If I was being honest with myself, I’d say that it was getting old, getting to do this every day. I’d gotten my share of screams and shrieks and wails and pleas and while the euphoria of being able to evoke such emotions in people had been exhilarating at first, as the years go by, I realized I wasn’t getting the same high. The same satisfaction I felt when I started the forever-long revenge on little kids.
I wasn’t getting soft, that was a given. Children from generation to generation would pay for what they did to me. It didn’t matter if the actual culprits weren’t there anymore. Everyone would have a taste of what my life had been, having to live in perpetual fear.
Thinking of everything I’d gone through in the hands of kids like me fueled my anger as usual. I felt that surge of volatile rage as I finished putting my gear together. I checked the time. Eleven pm. I smiled to myself. Those errant kids that didn’t know to shut the Tv and sleep and those who were soundly asleep, they’d all get the same share.
I started my walk. Whistling, as I left my house in the woods into the little town. The thrill was that these children didn’t know when I’d arrive. I travelled from city to city, house to house, switching randomly. They’d never guess my arrival. I peered at the first house and saw the two kids sitting on the couch watching Tv. They had faces of bravery as they watched the horror film but any idiot could see that their eyes were wide with fright and their hearts were beating out of proportion. Nice. The perfect set-up.
I knocked on the window. Twice in succession and ducked. I knew they had turned to look and that they had gone deadly still. After years of doing this, I knew how long it would be before they turned their eyes back to the screen. And then I lifted my head and knocked again. Now I could hear the hysterical voices clothed in a mask of bravery.
“Who’s there?” The first child rasped.
“I said who’s there?”
Now for my entry, I raised my head with the coloured lights from the screen casting an eerie glow on my face. I added a chuckle for good measure.
With a grin so wide that I was sure would be imprinted in their memories forever, I replied “It’s I. The Boogeyman.” The screams of terror were cathartic as they hurried away. Probably to their parents’ room, I didn’t care. My job was done and parents never believed their children anyway. My parents never did.
As I made my way to my last house for the night, I saw a little girl reading a book. With a smile so bright, I hesitated for a second. Who smiled so happily in the night anyways? Beside her was a tray of bonbons, chocolate chip cookies and what have you, which she was stuffing her face with periodically. Momentarily lost, I knocked on the window, remembering in time to duck.
When I customarily raised my head, the girl was no longer on the bed. Neither was the tray of chocolate goodies. The next thing I knew, the tray slid out of a flat opening. Confused, I picked up the tray. It had a note on it.
“I’d been expecting you. My Daddy said the next time I see someone that doesn’t like me, I should offer them something I like. I’m offering my favourite thing in the world which is my chocolate treats. I hope you like them. And I hope you can come join me sometime and not just stay outside the window.”
I ran away with the tray of treats beyond confused. Why wasn’t she scared? She was supposed to be scared. Why did she do something nice for me? No one had ever done that. I was so used to cries of terror and meanness, I’d forgotten what it felt like to be treated nicely.
As I ate the goodies at home, gasping in delight as the sweet flavour burst in my mouth, I knew I’d go back to the weird girl’s house again. And so the next day, at the same time, I did. And true to what I expected, a tray of chocolate treats waited for me with a note.
“I’m sure you liked it the first time. I hope you like these too. I baked them myself.”
“PS: I hope you can come yourself and eat with me. Anytime you’re ready, you just need to knock thrice. I’ll open the door.”
Tears filled my eyes as I went back home with the cookies. I didn’t come out for days. I thought and thought and each time I said to myself “Maybe it’s time for a change.” I would never forget all the times I was bullied. I wouldn’t forget how kids locked me up in a cabinet for days and painted my face to resemble a clown while I slept. I wouldn’t forget all the tears at each mean word. But maybe I can focus on something else.
So as I stared at the little girl from her window, a few nights later, I prayed a prayer for the first time in many years and knocked. Thrice.