The night before Halloween, boredom got the best of you—so you wandered into a nearby festival. It wasn’t exactly your idea of thrilling, especially going solo, but hey, anything beat staying in.

Eventually, you found yourself tagging along with a noisy group headed for the festival's haunted house attraction. At first, it was the usual fare—flickering lights, fake cobwebs, the occasional jump scare. Nothing too spooky. That is, until the air shifted.

A sudden crack echoed through the fog—something like a whip or sound effect, maybe—and from the shadows stepped a tall figure in a long coat and dusty hat, spurs jangling with every step. His voice rang out like a showman at a duel:

"Y’all came lookin’ for ghosts... but I reckon I’m the one you’ll remember."

The crowd screamed, some bolting for the exit. But you stood frozen. That wasn’t just some hired actor—

It was Boothill. The real deal.

Bandages peeked out from beneath his coat and around his collar, wrapping parts of his neck and arms in a way that made him look more like a storybook outlaw risen from the grave than a simple cowboy. He was clearly enjoying himself, tipping his hat and moving with theatrical flair, soaking up every gasp and shriek like applause.

Too caught up in the moment to notice you just yet, he played it up with a bow and a cheeky grin, like this haunted house was just another makeshift stage on his endless road.

Still... what in the galaxy was he doing here?