J. Rusolo Ward

“America is the land of the free, the home of the brave.”

“You’ve misinterpreted the rhetoric, just a bit.  It doesn’t apply to breaking into my home.”  I managed to sound calm, despite my racing heart.  The last thing I’d expected upon returning home from a long day at the newspaper was to find a machete wielding masked man in my kitchen.  “Who are you?”

He waved a finger at me.  “Come on, Mags, I expect better.  You named me, after all.”

Something traitorous and primal in me wanted to scream in terror, but maintaining my wits would be crucial for survival.  “You’re the Boogeyman.”

He smiled and bowed.  “The one and only.”

I felt goosebumps.  “The police are looking for you.”

“They won’t get me.  I’m not a man, I’m a demon.  The Boogeyman.”

“Why’re you here?”  The monster standing before me had terrorized the city since January, sneaking into the homes of young couples and hacking them to death with a machete.

“To tell you my story.  I’ve killed nine couples.  I will claim others.  I’m invincible against human laws and can’t be stopped.  I’ll continue to take victims as the mood strikes me.  I’m offering you an exclusive.”

“You want me to write and publish your story?”

He nodded enthusiastically.

I could tell he expected me to thank him.  Everyone likes to be appreciated, and I didn’t want to end up dead.  “Why me?”

“I read what you wrote.  You saw my genius, and named me.”

“Right.”

“The police constructed a false theory about me.  I’m not a madman.”

Great.  A serial killer viewed me as his soulmate.  I sighed, wondering why I always attracted the crazies.  Still, I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Do you mind if I record the interview?”