LaLa's Halloween Nightmare

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I'm LaLa and babysitting is my thing. Halloween's my favorite holiday – freedom to be anyone for 24 hours! This year, I'm a cute farmer, and the eight kids I'm watching are adorable farm animals.

*The Night Begins*

Thirty minutes before our trick-or-treating adventure, my phone rings. Terrance, my boyfriend calls me and I say, "Hello, are you still coming?" Something's off. I hear the doorbell and rush to answer it. My farm animals have arrived!

"I will be right out. Just sit on the couch and watch TV really quick." They settle in, watching TV, their costumes shining under the dim living room lights.

Terrance's voice drops to a whisper. "Someone told me you went out with Barry." My heart skips a beat.

"Who told you that?" I ask, stalling, my mind racing.

"It doesn't matter. Did you cheat on me?" Terrance's voice cracks, his words laced with desperation.

I pause, swallowing hard. "It's not like that, I swear." But Terrance cuts me off.

"So you are cheating on me." He bursts into tears over the phone, and I'm caught off guard, unsure how to react.

"I'll call you later. I need to take the kids to get candy." I hang up, trying to shake off the unease.

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We hit the streets, the crisp autumn air carrying the scent of fallen leaves. But unease creeps in after 30 minutes. Terrance's texts flood my phone – threats and accusations.

"You're going to pay for cheating on me."

"I'll make sure everyone knows what you did."

"You'll regret this."

My heart races as I try to focus on the kids' laughter and excitement.

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My mom calls. "Are you okay, LaLa?" Her voice is laced with concern.

"What do you mean?" I try to sound calm.

"Terrance told me about Barry," she says, her tone firm.

"I'm fine, Ma. Just ignore him." We exchange "I love yous."

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The trick-or-treating ends, and we settle in for a kid-friendly horror movie at my house. Popcorn in hand, I try to shake off Terrance's messages. The lights dim, casting an eerie glow.

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Then, a loud bang at the door. My heart freezes. I turn off the lights, plunging us into darkness.

"Who is it?" I whisper, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Open the door, bitch!" A creepy mask stares back through the peephole but the voiceis Terrance's.

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I lock the kids in my room, phone in hand, and text Mom: "911 at home." Group messages fly out to parents. Police on the way.

The banging intensifies, windows shattering. Our family gun's upstairs, but I've never used it. Fear grips me.

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I grab the mace from my nightstand, ready to defend us if needed. Sirens approach, a welcome sound.

Footsteps fade. Familiar voices outside. Kids yell for their parents; my mom unlocks my room door.

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I sit, frozen, shaking uncontrollably, surrounded by my own urine. The kids rush out, seeking their parents in the living room.

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I stepped into the living room, and my world crumbled. Terrance's rampage was evident everywhere. Shattered glass littered the floor, our TVs lay smashed, sofas overturned, and the front door hung crookedly, its window shattered. Graffiti screamed from the walls: "Bitch, I hate you!" in red, taunting letters.

Tears streamed down my face as I collapsed into my mom's embrace. She held me tight, whispering comforting words.

Police officers swarmed the room, cameras clicking as they documented the destruction. Parents gathered, their faces filled with concern and judgment. Whispered conversations echoed through the room.

"We can't leave our kids with her anymore."

"This isn't a safe environment."

I stood silent, absorbing the blame.

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I gave my statement to the police, handing over screenshots of Terrance's menacing texts. With a resolute voice, I pressed charges.

A week passed, and the police arrested Terrance. I discovered he was 20 years old, with a prior record. Bail was denied.

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A chilling letter arrived, penned in red ink: "This isn't over. You're dead."

My heart sank, fear gripping me anew.

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The letter's words seared into my mind, but I refused to cower. I showed it to the police, strengthening the restraining order.

Months passed, and Terrance's trial approached. I testified, my voice steady, recounting the events.

The verdict: guilty. Terrance faced prison time.

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As the sentence was read, a weight lifted. I felt free.

My mom wrapped her arms around me. "You're safe now."

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Time healed wounds. I rebuilt my life, focusing on school and babysitting – but now, with caution.

Parents, once skeptical, returned, seeing strength and growth. 

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Years had passed since Terrance's imprisonment, and I thought I'd finally found peace. But the past crawled back into my life like a persistent shadow.

A letter arrived, its familiar red ink sending shivers down my spine:

"I'll be out soon, and you're the first person I want to see. I still owe you, bitch!"

Terrance's words reignited the fear I thought I'd long extinguished.

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I immediately contacted the authorities, updating my restraining order. Police assured me of heightened vigilance.

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Paranoia crept in; every knock made me jump. I varied my routine, always looking over my shoulder.

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Time ticked on, each day counting down to Terrance's release. I steeled myself for the unknown.