Yet Another Original Pre-Halloween Tale: "Imposter Syndrome"

 

Imposter Syndrome

©2024 by Brian James Lane 

    The rain poured down in sheets. It was relentless and cold, a fitting backdrop for the night's macabre promise. Nestled deep within the woods, the small town of Willow Creek was his hunting ground. It was the sort of place where nothing much ever happened—until tonight. The blissfully ignorant townsfolk were tucked away in their homes, the assumed. He would change all that, he knew. 

    He stood at the edge of the woods just beyond the reach of porchlight. He stood visible, nonetheless. Though he was a dark figure, he was cloaked in a bright yellow raincoat that sheened with nearly a light of its own. It wasn’t his first choice, of course. No, he had always imagined himself wearing something more ominous—perhaps a mask like the one that Michael Myers wore, or a hockey one like Jason’s. But the raincoat had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, plucked from the remnants of a forgotten attic after his escape from the asylum for the criminally insane. It was his signature, his identifying trademark, and he hated it. He had to commit now, though, as he was already in the papers as having escaped wearing yellow abomination. "The Raincoat Maniac" they had called it. Even the name was lame.

    The killer had been stalking the town for weeks. He watched from the shadows, studying potential victims. He waited for the right moment to strike. Perhaps an identifying holiday like a Friday the 13th or Halloween. But as each day passed, he couldn’t shake the nagging doubt that gnawed at his mind. He was no Michael Myers. He was no Jason Voorhees. He was just… him. He decided just to go with the autumnal season by pure default.

    In the time planning his homicidal attack, he had started to notice the little things. The details set the real legends apart. Myers had that slow, methodical walk. He put out an air of indifference like a force of nature. Jason had the unstoppable, inhuman strength, the sheer force that made you believe he could never be killed. But what did he have? A raincoat and a sense of inadequacy.

    He had tried to model himself after them, mimicking their movements, their eerie silence, their unrelenting pursuit. It never felt right, though. He felt clumsy, unsure. Every time he caught a glimpse of himself in a puddle or a broken mirror, all he could see was a sad imitation—a man playing dress-up in a world where the real monsters were legends. A sad imitation, just like that pathetic Scream killer. How incredibly stupid was that?

    Tonight was supposed to be different. He had planned it all out, meticulously. There was a group of teenagers, perfect fodder for a killer like him. They had snuck out to the old abandoned house on the outskirts of town. It was the kind of place where horrors were supposed to happen. He had followed them, careful to stay out of sight, and waited for the right moment. But as he approached the house, his nerves got the better of him.

    What if they didn’t take him seriously? What if they laughed at him, at his ridiculous yellow raincoat? The thought was almost too much to bear. He could feel the familiar panic rising in his chest, that crushing sense of inadequacy that had plagued him his whole life, even before he became… this. The Raincoat Maniac. At least the name was better than "Ghostface". A little, anyway.

    He stood outside the house. His breath came in short, panicked gasps. Inside, he could hear the teens laughing. They were oblivious to the danger that lurked just outside their door. He should have felt powerful, in control. Instead, all he could feel was doubt. He wasn’t like Myers or Voorhees. He wasn’t a force of nature, an unstoppable killing machine. He was just a man—a man with a raincoat and a hunting knife. Nothing more.

    But he had come this far. He couldn’t back out now. With a shaky hand, he reached for the door. The cold metal of the knob sent a chill through his system. He turned it slowly, the creak of the door echoing through the empty hallways of the house. The laughter inside faltered. The unknown had replaced the levity with a tense silence. They knew something was wrong. They could feel it, that primal instinct that told them they were no longer alone.

    He stepped inside, his rain-soaked boots leaving muddy prints on the worn floorboards. The house was dark, save for the flickering light of a single candle. It cast long, sinister shadows across the walls. He could hear their whispers, their frantic breaths. They were scared. That was good. That was how it was supposed to be.

    Unbeknownst to the killer, a voyeur was watching the group from the opposite side of the cabin, his nose fogging the glass from the outside as he stood in the crumpled azaleas. A potential witness to the horror that The Raincoat Maniac would unleash.

    The killer moved through the house, the knife clutched tightly in his hand. He found them in the living room, huddled together. Upon seeing him, they didn't laugh. Instead, their eyes were wide with fear. For a moment, he felt that surge of power that the greats must have felt. But then one the girls let out a nervous giggle. It all came crashing down.

    They weren’t afraid of him. Not really. They were afraid of the idea of him, of what he was trying to be. But him, the man in the yellow raincoat? He was a joke. An imposter. He was never going to be a Myers or a Voorhees. He was not even going to be a lame Ghostface.

    Rage boiled up inside him, a bitter, seething anger that had been building for years. He lashed out, the knife slashing through the air. It cut through flesh and bone. The room filled with screams. The sickening sound of metal on flesh reverberated through the halls of the old cabin, but all he could hear was that laugh—that mocking, pitiful laugh.

    When it was over, he stood in the center of the room. The blood-soaked knife hanging limply at his side. The bodies lay around him, twisted and lifeless. The thrill and satisfaction he had hoped for never came. All he felt was insecurity.

    He turned and left the carnage behind. The rain had stopped, the night air cool and still. He looked down at his raincoat, now splattered with blood, and felt a wave of disgust. He ripped it off, throwing it into the mud, and walked away into the darkness.

    He would never be like them. He would never be a legend. He was just a man, an imposter, playing a role that he would never truly fit. As he disappeared into the night, he couldn’t help but wonder if anyone would even remember him. Would he simply fade away, another failed imitation in a world full of real monsters.

    As the killer disappeared, the voyeur emerged from shadow. He walked up and grabbed the raincoat, trying it on for size. Now, he would make them pay for always excluding him, the voyeur considered.