An0n and Her Readers

Horror/Suspense Practice

 🔥Yeh. Just, I like to write it, and I like to practice. I have no clue how long this'll be. So. Y'all can add on to it, or make new chapters. 🔥

🔥October Moon 🔥

🔥 By An0n🔥

🔥 Slight gore warning🔥

🔥

Do you know what I like best about the fall?

Probably the leaves.

The satisfactory crunch as you walk through a forest, loud and crisp. They are best experienced on walks where the sun is just beginning to set.

Walks where you can look around, and take a deep breath in of the crisp, cold air as the wind plays with your hair, tangling and tossing it around.

Walks where everywhere you look you see the glorious colors of the dying leaves, whether on trees, or the ground below, having complete their gravity-spurred journey from their branches on which they budded on in the spring, to their final resting place on the multitudes of other leaves. Leaves. Like a blazing crown of fiery glory, bathing the forests in bright colors that not even the spring flowers could rival.

Walks like these, where the dying rays of the setting sun cast a golden shine to the forest, making it seem like some sort of enchanted wonderland.

Walks where the sun slowly sinks behind a sudden cloud, extinguishing its glow, and shrouding the forest in hazy, shadowed light.

Walks where the leaves clatter loudly on the branches, which crack and snap together in the wind.

Walks where the trees groan ominously, the ancient giants moaning and groaning from the pain of having to shift their achy bones to the harsh prods of the wind.

Walks where once the sun has set, the wind no longer is a playful spirit, but instead a taunting one, making you shiver in your boots and huddle closer to your friends.

It was on one of these such walks that I traversed upon now, accompanied of course. No one would dare tread alone in Barrenridge in an October night such as this one, no matter how glorious the autumn colors.

You see, the sleepy little town of Barrenridge had a problem.

The October Killer.

Every October month, on nights where the moon was full and large, a cold-blooded killer would roam the shuttered streets of the town, stalk the abandoned forests nearby, silently test the handles of doors to find an unfortunate soul who had forgotten the dangers of October.

And every morning, when the sheriff of the town finally dared to unshutter his windows, to unlock his door, he would set about the streets grimly, acting as if he had been patrolling vigilantly through the whole terror-filled night.

For if the townspeople ever found out that their own dear sheriff was just as scared as they were, they would run him out on the town, or worse.