John Passarella

HALLOWEEN

THE OFFICIAL MOVIE NOVELIZATION

For my wife, Andrea Passarella,

who declares her favorite movie & favorite

holiday with the same word,

HALLOWEEN

1

SMITH’S GROVE, ILLINOIS

Decades of funding neglect had reduced Smith’s Grove State Hospital to a depressing cement and cinderblock psychiatric purgatory, an institutional eyesore steeped in perpetual grunge from which emanated a mélange of sour odors ineffectively masked by a haphazard dash of harsh disinfectants. Overhead fluorescents fought a losing battle, a literal dying of the light, as some tubes flickered warnings of imminent failure. Meanwhile, the incessant buzzing threatened to scour from the troubled mind any last vestiges of sanity. And yet, despite her gloomy surroundings, Dana Haines struggled to contain a nervous excitement.

They had an unprecedented opportunity in front of them. All their planning and preparation had led them to this moment, a major coup. While Aaron signed the requisite paperwork at the security station’s check-in desk, Dana removed the digital recorder from the bag slung over her shoulder, switched it on, slipped headphones over her ears, and held the embedded microphone close to her mouth. “Check, check.”

Aaron exchanged a look with her, mirroring her anticipation.

With the hint of a smile, she tilted the mic toward him.

“Testing, testing,” he said in his measured, professional voice. “One, two, three.”

With an approving nod, she said, “Ah, sticking with the classic.”

“Appropriate, yes?”

“Of course.”

She held the recorder at arm’s length, sweeping it through a slow arc from left to right. Even on this side of the security station, disturbing sounds bled through in unexpected bursts: a bout of maniacal laughter, fists pounding on a metal door, a mournful wail. For a fleeting moment she acknowledged that a normal person would react to everything she’d seen and heard thus far by vacating the premises. But Aaron Joseph-Korey and she were cut from different cloth. They followed the story wherever it led. And their brand of stories never led them to day spas and sandy beaches.

“You need to sign the waiver,” Aaron reminded her.

Momentarily confused, she frowned. “Waiver?”

“Enter at your own risk and all that,” he said. “The usual.”

“Of course,” she said. “Walk the walk.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” Setting down the recorder, she picked up the pen attached to the clipboard at the security desk and addressed the guard facing her. “Where do I sign?”

Wordlessly, the guard jabbed his index finger at the line on the bottom of a form she didn’t bother to read. One disclaimer was like any other, an institution’s preemptive evasion of responsibility distilled into the simple declaration that, if anything bad happens, it’s not their fault. Or another way of saying, you were warned.

Behind the desk, other security guards viewed monitor feeds, although one focused on a game of computer solitaire while another riffled through manila folders in an under-the-counter filing cabinet. Behind them, facing the security window overlooking a common room, a nurse with hair pulled into a severe bun switched on a turntable and placed the needle over a spinning record. After an initial hiss, the needle found its groove and “Pick Yourself Up” from Swing Time played, piped through wall speakers otherwise reserved for a PA system.

As Dana scooped up her recorder she focused her attention on the common room’s three occupants. A lab-coated doctor, whose wavy hair and full mustache had almost made the complete transition to gray, spoke to a slump-shouldered patient flanked by a grizzled security guard while trying to write on a prescription pad. Frustrated, he shook the ballpoint pen, tried again, and tossed it in a nearby trash can before removing a more elegant pen from his lab coat pocket.

Beside Dana, Aaron whispered, “That’s him.”

The doctor completed the prescription, signed his name, tore off the sheet of paper, and passed it to the guard. As the guard turned to escort his charge back to his room or the hospital pharmacy, Dana glimpsed the name stitched on the breast pocket of his uniform: Kuneman.

Though she had instinctively raised the mic toward the security door during the exchange, she doubted it was sensitive enough to pick up details of the brief conversation, especially over the peppy music that had, thankfully, drowned out the incessant buzzing of fluorescent lights.

The doctor glanced up at his visitors and nodded. Aaron sported khaki trousers and trainers with his gray wool overcoat and a long blue-gray checked scarf. With her long maroon coat, Dana wore a knee-length brown-and-tan patterned dress, brown hose, and suede ankle boots. Not her idea of casual, but too late now to wonder if they should have dressed more professionally for the meeting. Besides, they’d presented themselves as journalists. Might as well look the part.

The security guard closest to the window pressed a button beneath the desk, triggering the loud buzz of the door lock mechanism disengaging and the metallic squeal of security bars retracting. A green light flashed on as the doctor pushed open the door to greet them.

“Good afternoon,” he said with a thick accent. “I’m Dr Ranbir Sartain.”

“Thank you for taking the time to meet with us,” Dana said, wondering if he’d view their British accents as similarly thick. “We were hoping to have this opportunity before he is transferred to the new facility. Glass Hill is far less accommodating.”

His disdain evident, Ranbir said, “Glass Hill is the pit of hell. Underfunded and short-staffed. For years he has been kept here to be studied. I suppose the state has lost interest in discovering anything further.”

Considering their present surroundings, Dana imagined Glass Hill must be spectacularly awful. Perhaps they employed medieval torture devices to keep their patients in line.

“Well…” Aaron said. “That’s why we’re here.”

Best to assure Ranbir up front they were on his side.

Dana glanced down at her recorder. “Do you mind if I record this?”

Sartain smiled agreeably. “Why not?”

Once they were inside, the door lock buzzed again, this time with the unnerving finality of a sprung trap. Ranbir escorted them down a dim hallway, past one shuffling patient who avoided their gaze, mumbling to himself as if completely unaware of them. The disturbed faces of other patients, some with clinical escorts, many behind barred doors, flashed by them, frozen moments of fear and confusion, hope and resignation, agitation and resentment. Dana paused briefly, caught by the sight of a patient with unkempt hair, his lips pulled back from yellowed, uneven teeth. He grimaced and squirmed, plucking imaginary insects from his body and crushing them between his fingers before hurling them aside. In an endless loop, he muttered, “Too many, too many, too many…”

In a nearby room, a wizened old man sat in the corner, arms wrapped around folded legs, staring into the distance as he rocked back and forth with metronomic regularity.

Too many seemed lost in their own minds or trapped in an unwelcome reality. Unlike the needle of the nurse’s turntable, they hadn’t found the groove to move forward and knew only the hiss and crackle of not fitting in, of unfulfilled potential.

Dana pulled her attention back to Sartain’s voice, grateful she’d been recording him, so she could go back and listen to anything she might have missed. His accent, at least, helped her focus on his words. Raising the mic, she asked, “How long have you been working with him?”

“I’ve examined every case file written on him,” Ranbir said. “I was a student of Dr Loomis before he passed away. Then I lobbied the University of Illinois to be assigned to Michael myself.”

“Any progress?”

“He has been seen by over fifty clinical psychiatrists. And with each, many different opinions.” He paused for effect. “Loomis concluded that he was nothing more than pure evil.”

“And do you agree with this diagnosis?”

“Evil is not a diagnosis,” Sartain replied. “Under my care, we implemented a holistic form of therapy. Since that time, his tendency for violence has essentially been erased.”

Aaron asked, “His response to your specific treatment has been effective?”

Sartain turned to look at them as they continued down the corridor. “We left two kitty cats in his cell overnight and both were retrieved unharmed.” Smiling, he spread his hands. “I hate to disappoint you.”

Aaron stopped walking. “So, are you telling us that there is no similarity between the homicidal maniac that made headlines in 1978 and the… amenable patient of this institution?”

Sartain laughed. “Michael Myers is an evolving, aging animal like we all are. And although we have worked very closely with him, these halls display the limitations of my analysis.”

Nodding, Dana took in their surroundings again. Stone walls, steel doors, iron bars. A caged animal, she thought.

“Loomis saw Michael as an animal in the wild,” Ranbir continued, leading them farther down the hall. “He witnessed human behavior at its most primal, while the rest of us only have the opportunity of observation in captivity.”

Sartain paused at a heavy door and removed a key from his trouser pocket to unlock it. “A bigger cage,” he said as he pulled open the door and led them out into the hospital’s courtyard, “is still a cage.”

Dana blinked, her eyes adjusting to the change in brightness despite overcast skies. She pulled the headphones from her ears and let them rest around her neck. Here and there it seemed as if the sun might break through the cloud cover, but she would bet against it. She sensed a storm brewing.

In the open air, surrounded on all four sides by two-story white concrete walls and barred windows, the courtyard offered plenty of space but no real sense of freedom. After a while, a patient might have the sensation of roaming in a wide pit with a concrete floor decorated like a checked game board, with alternating squares of muted red and gray. No bushes or trees to provide a link to nature. No murals or decorations to engage the mind. Sterile, Dana thought. No mental reprieve from institutional confinement.

As Aaron and she followed Sartain, Dana noticed a man with burn scars on one side of his face, his neck contorted at what must have been a painful angle. Perhaps he’d become accustomed to it, adapted to the limitation. With the passage of enough time, she wondered, could any infirmity or limitation become normalized?

All the patients in the courtyard wore shackles, wrist and ankle manacles connected by chains around their waists. In their drab white hospital inmate tunics—some with a stenciled “S.G.” or “Smith’s Grove” in black letters—they could walk, but not run, their overall mobility limited. An older, balding man with long wispy gray hair trailing from the sides of his head walked under the protection of a white umbrella. To Dana’s right, an old man with sparse gray hair and burn scars on his face clutched the arms of his wheelchair as a clinical escort pushed him along the perimeter of the courtyard. A dark-haired man—young enough to be a teenager—stood within the confines of a single muted-red square as if performing mental calculations to determine which square he should move to next. The fingers of both hands, held at his sides, rippled from index to little finger in a repeated pattern. Several other patients shambled along in their shackles, content to traverse a space much wider than the confines of a cell.

“Our patients get fresh air and sunshine, a view, proper exercise, a healthy diet. It pains me to see him transferred to a ‘less than desirable’ facility.” Sartain pointed to an open area at the center of the courtyard. “There he is. He can speak. He just chooses not to.”

Aaron and Dana both stared in the direction Sartain had pointed, anxious to get the first glimpse of the subject of their visit. There! She spotted him—the shape of a man—a man who had assumed mythic proportions in her mind, a man who had slipped the bonds of his humanity to become something else, something other. Malevolence incarnate. But that was precisely why they had come: to strip away the misperceptions of urban legend and expose the man, to understand what had shaped him and motivated him to commit his heinous acts. Rather than something unknowable, he was a mystery to be solved.

Beams of fractured sunlight had begun to slice through the cloud cover, dappling the courtyard with intermingled sections of light and shadow. To Dana it seemed as if a veil were lifting.

The Shape stood sixty feet away, shackled to a block of concrete on the ground, like an anchor, in the middle of the courtyard, his back to them. A yellow-painted square created a twenty-foot frame around him. Tall and strong—but aged. Close-cropped gray hair, but mostly bald now. Urban legends didn’t age, but he had. Forty years left no one unscathed, not even him.

Beyond the painted square two security guards stood watch on either side of him. Other patients roamed the rows and columns of painted squares nearby, but all stayed well clear of the yellow warning zone. Despite any mental infirmities they might possess, their sense of self-preservation remained strong enough to keep them far from his reach.

While Dana had struggled earlier to contain her nervous energy, Aaron’s excitement had simmered beneath the surface, almost unnoticed, until this moment, with Michael Myers in their line of sight. Aaron stepped forward as if entranced by The Shape.

“I’d love to stand near him and get a sense of his awareness… or lack of awareness.”

“Make no mistake,” Sartain said. “He is aware. He was watching you as you arrived. When he’s not out here in the courtyard, he walks from this window to that window, to the other. Observing things.”

Aaron exchanged a look with Dana. So close, and yet neither of them knew what would happen next. Not that they expected Michael Myers existed in a state of catatonia, but what did he think, what did he feel—if he felt anything—after all this time? Finally, they hoped to have some answers.

Dr. Sartain addressed Aaron, “And perhaps you’d like to tie your left shoelace. Mr Tovoli, the gentleman with the umbrella, has a fixation for such things. Underestimate no one.”

Without their having noticed, the patient holding the white umbrella—in preparation for rain or to ward off the sunlight—had drifted into their orbit. As Dr Sartain spoke, the man bit a fingernail and smiled at them in dark delight.

An embarrassed expression flitted across Aaron’s face a moment before he bent down to tie the lace of his gray trainer. Disappointed, umbrella man wandered off. Dana thought she heard him sigh.

After Aaron composed himself, Dr Sartain said, “Step up to the yellow line. No further. Do not pass the line under any circumstances.”

Sartain exchanged meaningful looks with the security guards, no doubt seeking reassurance that nothing had upset Michael Myers leading up to their visit, anything that might trigger an unexpected reaction or violent behavior. One guard gave a slight nod, which Sartain returned.

He ushered Aaron and Dana to the yellow line on the concrete. The Shape, shackled within the painted barrier, did not turn to face them. Sartain called out to him, raising his voice a level above his conversational tone, “Michael. I have some people who would like to meet you.”

Impatient, Aaron cleared his throat.

“Michael. My name is Aaron. I’ve followed your case for years, and I still know very little about you. I want to know more about that night. About those involved.”

His back to them, The Shape stood motionless.

And silent.

No reaction whatsoever to Sartain or to Aaron.

Growing a bit uncomfortable with the continued silence, perhaps, Aaron sought to pry a reaction out of him. “Do you think of them? Feel guilt about their fate?”

Nothing.

Aaron looked to Dana, shrugged. She stepped close to him. To lend moral support, but also in preparation for what would come next.

“Do you remember Laurie Strode?” Aaron asked. Generalities hadn’t penetrated his indifferent veneer, so maybe specifics would. One particularly specific detail.

At the mention of Laurie Strode, The Shape stretched his fingers—and then his hands became still at his side. Sartain noticed the brief movement.

“Did she remind you of your sister, Michael?” Aaron asked, seeking a breakthrough. “Is that why you chose her?”

The Shape half turned toward them. For a breathless moment, Dana thought he would respond… but then nothing. Frustrated, Aaron looked back at Sartain. The time had come, per their discussion prior to the visit. Understanding the meaning of Aaron’s inquiring gaze, Sartain nodded, giving permission for them to proceed.

Aaron took a deep breath and looked to Dana.

Of course, she knew exactly what he wanted.

She unzipped her bag.

Aaron addressed Michael: “I borrowed something from a friend at the Attorney General’s office. Something I’d like you to see.”

As Aaron reached inside Dana’s shoulder bag, she noticed a slight trembling of his fingers. He pulled out a portion of a white Halloween mask, a piece of Michael Myers’ history.

Sartain moved forward to observe the exchange.

Clutching it by the fake hair in back, Aaron held the full mask out before him, like bait or a lure, designed to provoke a reaction—any reaction.

The Shape stood motionless.

But the other patients in the courtyard became restless, agitated, pacing madly. Concerned, Dana looked around. It’s as if they sense something on an atavistic level inaccessible to us, she thought. Heedless, Aaron continued to hold the mask at arm’s length, like a silent accusation.

“You recognize this, don’t you, Michael?” Aaron said, his voice elevated, his tone accusing, if only to provoke a response. Though worn, creased and frayed a bit at the edges due to the passage of time, the mask would be unmistakable to him. “How does this make you feel? Say something.”

A few of the patients started screaming. The young man stuck on his red square dropped to his knees and pressed his palms to his temples, moaning. The burned man in the wheelchair wailed, digging his fingernails into the ruined side of his face as if trying to expose the bone underneath.

Most alarmingly to Dana, some of the patients tested the strength of their chains, tugging their wrists and ankles against the unforgiving metal until their limbs began to bleed with their frantic efforts. She wondered if bloodied hands would be slippery enough to slide free. And once freed, would they try to stop the cause of their agitation, the presence of the interlopers?

And yet Aaron was undeterred. He shouted, “Say SOMETHING!”

By now all the patients in the courtyard had worked themselves into an uncontrolled frenzy, a chorus of madness. All but one.

The Shape remained eerily still.

2

HADDONFIELD, ILLINOIS

Already awake by the time her alarm clock buzzed, Allyson reached out and switched it off before the sound disturbed anyone else in the house. She’d always been a morning person, accused at times by close friends and family of being annoyingly chipper at dawn while they clung to their energy drinks or steaming mugs of coffee as if they were life preservers. A new day presented new opportunities, and Allyson figured, if you planned to seize the day, you might as well start with the beginning of it.

She’d picked out her workout clothes the night before, but the forecast called for a chilly morning, so she opened her closet door and flipped through the bustling row of hangers, sliding aside her tops until she came upon her gray quarter-zip running jacket with long pink-and-navy-striped sleeves, which paired well with her powder-blue running shorts. As she slipped on the jacket, she turned back to her room, her gaze falling—as if for the first time—on some of the childhood crafts and mementos she’d never tossed or boxed for attic storage. Middle-school crafts, a few stuffed animals, a Magic 8-Ball and a few items she’d probably be embarrassed to have on display if any high-school friends dropped by. At seventeen years old, she had a late-adolescent duty to move on and grow up, but somehow the transitional task of “putting away childish things” had never assumed any real urgency.

She closed the door to her closet—which surely had enough free space to hold at least a few of those childhood artifacts—made her bed and slipped out into the cool morning air. After putting her light-brown hair up in a ponytail she performed a few dynamic stretches to warm up before launching into her morning run. Even so, it took several blocks before she worked out the kinks in her stride and began to focus on her breathing and form. Once fully engaged in her run she felt as if she were meditating in motion, her breathing steady and controlled. Her movements fluid, natural, and calm, she passed a five-foot-high wrought-iron fence bordering a house now beyond the periphery of her vision. In the blink of an eye she caught a blur of motion and—

—a dog lunged at the fence, barking ferociously.

Allyson’s heart rate spiked, and she stumbled, veering from the fence, her last breath lodged in her throat. But the dog stayed on his side of the fence, no immediate threat to her, allowing her to regain her composure after several uneven strides. A few deep, calming breaths and the moment slipped behind her, but not forgotten. She chided herself for breaking one of the cardinal rules for running alone. Always be aware of your surroundings.

Her “seize the day” mentality had a relevant corollary: stay in the moment. Not always easy for someone her age. Like her friends, she tended to agonize over past missteps and then second- and triple-guess every future decision. With practically her whole life in front of her, she had as many ways to succeed as to spiral into failure due to poor choices. But that wasn’t the real worry. What if the paths to success were obscured and hard to find, while the roads to failure were broad? Or the ultimate fear—that success waited at the far end of a tightrope in a rough wind.

Slowing, she ran past a residential community garden and noticed many of the flowers and vegetables had died. Inside the garden, a woman wearing a red-and-orange saree wrapped a plant to protect it from the changing weather, the chill in the air. Breathing deeply, hands on her hips, Allyson stopped and watched the patient woman. Something in the way she handled the plant made Allyson think of a parent trying to protect her child from the random cruelties awaiting her out in the world.

* * *

While Karen, Allyson’s mother, prepared breakfast, juggling her attention between bacon in a skillet, eggs in a frying pan, and a stack of bread for the toaster, Ray proceeded with single-minded purpose in slathering peanut butter over the catch of a mouse trap. Karen wondered if Ray anticipated the mouse gorging itself before the trap sprung.

“You see this?” Ray said. “I switched from marshmallow fluff to peanut butter. We’ll see if the little devil snatches it.”

“Leave any in the jar?”

“Oh, there’s enough for another trap,” Ray said.

Playing at the level of a background conversation, the countertop radio alternated between periodic traffic reports for the morning rush hour and the drive-time DJ crew laughing at an intern convinced the radio station was haunted. Karen assumed they were pranking the young man, but had trouble following the conversation as Ray had also turned on the TV for a dose of the morning news but had inadvertently switched to a channel whose programming consisted solely of earnest infomercials. “But wait, there’s more…” There was always more. A deal too good to pass up. For a limited time only. Operators were standing by.

After setting the catch lever notch in the opening to set the trap, Ray crouched to open the cabinet and reached toward the back to set it down. “Freeloader’s days are numbered.”

“Worried he’ll take a seat at the breakfast table?”

“You’re a lovely woman,” Ray said. “But you lack the killer instinct.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Karen said, laughing. She flipped an egg and absently brushed her hand against the skillet of bacon, burning a finger. “Ouch!”

“You okay?”

“It’s nothing,” she said, pressing her finger to her lips. An occasional minor burn was the price paid by a busy cook, the fine for multitasking in the kitchen.

“No aloe plant?”

“Keep forgetting.”

Fresh from her post-run shower, Allyson entered the kitchen in school clothes, a pink cardigan and jeans, fussing with her backpack zipper. She always seemed three steps ahead of everyone else in the house. Karen wished she had as much energy as her daughter. “Everything okay?”

“Stupid zipper,” Allyson said. “Always gets stuck.”

“Try some WD-40,” Ray said absently as he prepped a second mouse trap.

“Ew? Seriously? That stuff reeks!”

“What? It evaporates.”

Allyson yanked on the zipper. “Besides, the zipper teeth are caught on the cloth.”

While Karen doled out breakfast portions to three plates, she said to Allyson, “I rescheduled my last session, so I’ll be able to make it tonight.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Allyson said, finally freeing the zipper. “It’s not that big of a deal,” she added casually.

Maybe too casually, Karen thought.

“Of course it is,” Ray said, satisfied that he had a big enough dollop of peanut butter on the second trap to tempt the most suspicious of rodents. “You got into National Honor Society. It’s a very big deal.” With the catch lever in place, he carefully withdrew his fingers. “I was top of my shop class, making ashtrays and birdhouses.”

Allyson nodded at the mouse trap. “No instruments of death?”

“Unfortunately, inventing a better mousetrap has so far eluded me.”

Karen navigated to the kitchen table, carrying two of three plates. “And we’re looking forward to meeting Cameron.”

“I knew his father, Lonnie, and his Uncle Wames. The entire Elam family has a… reputation.”

Karen shot him a disapproving look. “Ray, c’mon.”

“What? You know about his situation,” Ray said, picking up the loaded trap. “It’s a relevant factor. The whole household is—”

As he turned toward a different cabinet he jostled the trap and it snapped in his hand, the hammer smashing his finger. Startled, Ray flinched, dropping the trap and what remained of its blob of bait to the floor. Blood welled up from his finger. “Goddam it!”

“Don’t look at me,” Karen said. “I suggested a humane trap.”

“That’s not fair, Dad,” Allyson said, failing to stifle a laugh. “Cameron isn’t like that. He’s a nice guy.”

Karen retrieved the third plate and set it on the table. Maybe, for once, they’d all have time to have breakfast together.

Ray walked to the sink to wash his finger under cold water then dabbed it with a paper towel. “I’m not saying he’s not nice. It’s just—you’re too smart to go out with troublemakers and dipshits.”

“You’re right,” Allyson agreed, since she thought of Cameron as neither one nor the other. Karen filled three mugs with coffee while Ray grabbed a carton of orange juice from the fridge.

Allyson sat at the table. “Did you guys invite Grandmother like you said you would?”

Karen exchanged a look with Ray, a knowing exchange between the adults Allyson pretended not to notice. But Karen had caught the quick flicker of her gaze before she poked at a fried egg with her fork.

“I did,” Karen said, after too long a pause. “Talked to her yesterday.” She took a breath before sitting. “She’s not going to be able to make it.”

Allyson grabbed her backpack sitting on the empty chair beside her and gave her mother a skeptical look as she pulled the zipper tight. “Really?”

Ray sat opposite Allyson, avoiding eye contact with her by directing his attention to Karen. “Bad morning for fingers,” he said to her. “Which one did you burn?”

Karen waggled it at him, her gaze remaining on her daughter, but when Ray kissed her finger, she couldn’t miss the disapproving look he gave her. Probably trying to tell her, Allyson’s not buying it. Pull the ripcord, bail out, before it’s too late.

Karen remained committed, for Allyson’s sake. At least that’s what she kept reminding herself. “She’s agoraphobic. In serious need of cognitive… um… behavioral—”

Fortunately, as Karen had begun to flail, losing more credibility with each word that passed her lips, the doorbell rang.

“Vicky’s here,” Allyson said. “I gotta go.”

“But you haven’t eaten any of your breakfast,” Karen said.

Allyson looked down at her plate then back at her mother. “I’ve had enough,” she said, letting the statement hang for a moment. After a glance at the fruit bowl on the table, she added to lighten the mood, “Ate a banana before my run this morning.”

“But—but, where’s the protein?” Karen asked as Allyson wound her way out of the kitchen.

“In a bar in my bag,” Allyson called from the next room. “I’ll eat it on the way.”

“You know,” Karen said to Ray, “I don’t believe she has a protein bar in her backpack.”

Ray pushed away his own plate and stood up, staring down at her.

“Karen?” Ray said with exasperation, shaking his head. “What the hell?”

3

By the time Allyson stepped outside, Vicky and Dave had retreated to the curb. Sipping mango bubble tea from a clear plastic cup, Vicky wore her denim jacket, decorated with her growing collection of metal pins, over a maroon ringer t-shirt with a white collar and dark overalls. Her red Converse high-tops added a splash of color. Her straight blond hair flowed over the leather strap of her large knit shoulder bag, which she carried instead of the standard high-school backpack. Dave, on the other hand, toted the expected backpack with the addition of a green canvas pouch slung in front of him, which—if Allyson had to guess—contained non-school-approved supplies. He wore his fur-trimmed hat, a flannel coat with Navajo patterns, dark-green cargo pants and scuffed brown boots.

Of course, they had no plan to leave for school without her. They’d stepped away from the front door in case Allyson hadn’t been the one to answer the doorbell, because Dave had already—big surprise—fired up a joint. As she joined them, he took a deep hit, no longer concerned about discretion.

“Off to an early start, Dave,” Allyson commented. Then immediately worried she’d come across as too judgmental after sitting through her mother’s performance.

“Medicinal,” Dave said.

“How’s that?”

“Don’t ask,” Vicky said, rolling her eyes.

“For school,” Dave said, grinning. “Raises my bullshit tolerance quotient.”

Vicky cast a sidelong look at Allyson. “Told you not to ask.”

Despite his nonchalant attitude, Dave trailed a bit behind them as they walked, effectively shielded from any approaching adults, keeping the joint low at his side when not pressed between his lips.

Every house they passed displayed a variety of Halloween decorations, but most had at least one jack-o’-lantern on their steps or beside the front door and faux cobwebs stretched across bushes, windows, or doorways. Except Allyson’s house, which was the exception that proved the rule.

Vicky nudged her with an elbow. “Something bothering you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You seem tense,” Vicky said. “Instead of relaxed. Like you usually are. After your morning run. What gives?”

“Yeah, well,” Allyson said. “My mom is a liar. She told me she invited my grandmother tonight, but she didn’t. She never even contacted her.”

“How do you know?”

“I called her.”

“Your grandmother?”

Allyson nodded.

“That’s bullshit,” Dave chimed in.

“What’s your mom’s deal?” Vicky asked. “Why would she say that?”

“She literally just tries to keep me away from her. Turns into a nutcase this time of year.”

“If I were you guys,” Vicky said, “I wouldn’t celebrate either. I’d put up a Christmas tree instead. Just skip over all the spooky Halloween shit, right?”

Feeling the effects of his joint, Dave nodded seriously. “Jumping to Thanksgiving would make sense. Puritans, cornucopias, plagues, starvation, slaughtering the Indians. That stuff isn’t creepy at all.”

“Dave,” Vicky said. “You’re rambling.”

“What can I say? I’m a ramblin’ man.”

“Oh, brother,” Vicky said, shaking her head. Turning to Allyson, she said, “Does she ever talk about it?”

“Pretty much all she talks about. It defines her life. She’s been traumatized ever since. You should see her house.”

“Freaky.”

Dave frowned in thought. “Wasn’t it her brother that cold-blooded murdered all those babysitters?”

“No,” Allyson said. “I think people made up the bit about them being related because it made them feel better. Like it couldn’t just happen to anyone.”

“I mean, that is scary,” Vicky said with a sympathetic shudder. “To have a bunch of your friends get butchered by some rando crazy person.”

“Is it though?” Dave asked. “I just feel like the world has way worse shit now. One dude just killing a few people, I don’t know.”

Vicky glanced back at him in disbelief. “Her grandmother is a badass and was almost fucking murdered, Dave!”

“And she escaped!” he said, taken aback by Vicky’s explosive reaction. “And he was caught! He’s, like, super-incarcerated right now.” He held up both hands in a placating gesture. “I’m just saying it’s not like the absolute worst thing that has happened to a person. By today’s standards.”

Vicky stopped in her tracks and whirled around to face him. “Shut up, Dave. Stop talking.”

“I’m sorry,” Dave said. “I sensed myself going on a rant and didn’t know how to eject. Sorry.”

Allyson was almost as surprised as Dave by Vicky’s defense of her grandmother’s ordeal. While Vicky frequently teased Dave, busting his balls now and then, her tone usually remained in the snark zone rather than emotional outbursts.

Noticing another jack-o’-lantern on a decorative bale of hay, Dave’s eyebrows rose, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. Or perhaps he merely wished to deflect attention away from his rambling faux pas to escape Vicky’s ire. “You guys cool if I explode this pumpkin head?”

With a flicker of a smile, Vicky said, “Yes, please.”

Allyson plucked the stem lid off the jack-o’-lantern. “Go for it.”

Dave fished what looked like an M-80 out of his jacket pocket and lit the fuse with the dwindling roach, which was almost short enough now to burn his fingers.

“Houston, we have ignition,” Dave said, dropping the firecracker through the carved opening. Allyson replaced the lid. Dave set the jack-o’-lantern on the sidewalk. Allyson could hear the fuse sizzling. “Go!”

As they ran clear of the blast zone, Dave yelled, “Wooooo! Happy Halloween!”

Allyson glanced over her shoulder at the muffled whump!

Orange chunks and pumpkin gore splattered the sidewalk, a nearby fence and the rear quarter panel of a white SUV. The three of them couldn’t stop laughing.

4

Basically, Laurie Strode had turned the backyard of her farmhouse into a shooting range. Although the term “backyard” in her case was an oversimplification. The rear of her property was bordered by wilderness, secluded from any neighbors who might file noise complaints or poke around where they might inadvertently place themselves in her line of fire.

Of course she could have honed her marksmanship skills at a traditional shooting range, reserving her land for holiday cookouts, family get-togethers, rounds of badminton and horseshoes. Hell, even a garden. But that stuff hardly mattered. Family was kind of a sore spot, though not by her choice. She had to honor her daughter’s wishes—as much as it pained her. And though she enjoyed lawn games as much as the next person, shuttlecocks and horseshoes were impractical for self-defense.

Besides, a backyard shooting range made regular practice as easy as rolling out of bed. Less likely to skip practice under those circumstances.

When it came to self-defense there were no excuses for Laurie. She hadn’t let her guard down in a long time. Not that it helped her psyche. She hadn’t felt safe—truly safe—in forty years. But she was prepared…

Taking aim with her Smith & Wesson revolver, she fired shot after shot at the head-and-torso silhouette target attached to a wooden frame twenty feet away until the gun was empty. With the smoking barrel held upright, she gazed with satisfaction at the grouped shots. Tight cluster. Center mass. At this distance, headshots were a crapshoot.

A lot had changed in forty years.

Laurie didn’t have to gaze into a mirror to acknowledge the lines etched on her once youthful face, the price of time—and of relying on whiskey as a crutch when the remembered fear rose up unbidden. And the dark circles under her eyes reminded her of too many sleepless nights. Long nights of fear, real and imagined—remembered fear as fresh as that night so long ago, and the senseless grotesqueries that clotted her nightmares. Over time, fear for herself had spread like an insidious stain to include the greater burden of her family—first a daughter, and then a granddaughter. And yet, instead of paralyzing her, the fear galvanized her. She’d spent her life in a cycle of endless preparation. Because as much as she practiced and readied herself to face the fear again, in the flesh, a sliver of doubt gnawed at her subconscious. The doubt that no matter how much she readied herself, she would fall short, fail herself and those she loved…

Yes, a lot had changed—but the fear remained as potent as ever.

She reloaded the revolver.

This close to the wilderness, among the stacks of used car tires and sandbags, and in front of a wall made of interlocked railroad ties, she’d set up a bunch of department-store mannequins purchased at a steep discount from yet another brick-and-mortar victim of the growing trend of online shopping. Pale and staged in various poses, the mannequins presented a ghostlike aspect, especially in the twilight hours. And when an occasional fog rolled in, the mannequins seemed like cemetery residents risen from their eternal sleep to walk the world again. For Laurie, they weren’t intended as decorations or to evoke emotion in anyone. They had a simple, practical purpose.

She walked up to a standing male mannequin, who appeared to stare directly toward her, as if it were someone she recognized. For a moment she considered the resemblance of the pale, blank face with dead eyes to the stark white mask and another set of dead eyes—eyes without mercy or remorse.

Five feet from the mannequin, she swung her arm up, aimed and blew its head off. A satisfying eruption of fiberglass and plastic rained down on the grass up to twenty feet away. She thought of it as a dry run, dreamed of ending it once and for all. Sometimes she thought it could be that simple. A single shot. But in her nightmares, one shot and one weapon were never enough. That’s why, over time, she’d accumulated an arsenal.

She returned to her worktable, under a crude wooden shelter, put the revolver down and picked up a glass of strawberry-flavored milk. After a few gulps she set the milk down, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and picked up a high-powered bolt-action rifle. A dependable choice for precision shooting, with a detachable magazine to increase the capacity.

Turning, she faced the tableau of posed mannequins, worked the bolt, aimed and fired, worked the bolt to fire a second round, and a third and so on, watching in grim satisfaction as each bullet hit its mark. Boom! Boom! Boom! In less than a minute she created a fiberglass and plastic hailstorm of shrapnel from shattered mannequin heads, limbs, and torsos. When the haze cleared, she noted chunks of mannequins scattered everywhere; the inhuman carnage included a few, mostly intact, decapitated heads and a complete hand, fingers curled upward.

As she lowered the rifle, she muttered to herself, “Who needs tin cans on a fence?”

Satisfied with her practice, she packed her guns and ammunition and hiked to her black Nissan pickup, parked nearby, and tossed the duffel bag in the back. She drove along the dirt road, gravel crunching under her tires as she made her way back to her home. The recurrent fear troubled her less during daylight hours, but she couldn’t deny the sense of reassurance she felt whenever she noticed the bars in front of the downstairs windows. Protecting herself and her family required offense and defense. Her guns served as her offense, while her fortified home provided the defense.

As she climbed out of the pickup and grabbed the duffel bag the tranquil clinking of her wind chimes helped soothe her nerves. Pausing, she took a deep breath, pulling the scent of fall air through her nose, deep into her lungs, holding it there for a few moments before exhaling. And again. Several deep, calming breaths to release the hold of anxiety that crept into her bones and muscles daily.

Later, she sat at the dining room table, wearing a tank top that exposed her left shoulder scar, a memento mori from that night, a dark reminder carved into her skin to never forget, never let her guard down. Not while he lived. On a mat, to preserve the finish of the table, she’d laid out her revolver and bolt-action rifle, ringed by various gun-cleaning supplies, including a solvent, patches, bore rods, brushes and gun-lubricating oil. She considered target practice vital to her survival. For the same reason, she never failed to clean her guns. Poor maintenance might cause them to jam or fail at a critical time.

She didn’t mind this post-shooting chore at all. If anything, she found the process soothing, a step-by-step reassurance that everything would be in working order when she needed it. Not if, never if. Always when. After years of repetition, she could probably clean her guns in her sleep.

First, she picked up the rifle, removing the bolt by releasing the lever that held it in place. She sighted down the long barrel to check for stuck cartridges. Next, she attached a cleaning patch holder to the cleaning rod, inserted a patch and dipped it in cleaning solvent before pushing it from the breech end all the way through the barrel and back. Then she replaced the patch holder with a brush, also dipped in solvent, and pushed that through the barrel and back. The rotating handle on the cleaning rod allowed the brush to turn through the rifling of the barrel. Letting the solvent work on loosening any powder filings and bits of brass, she set the rifle down and switched to a hand brush dipped in solvent to clean the bolt.

At some point in the process, she started to hum…

* * *

Aaron drove their rental car down a sun-dappled country road. He didn’t need to refer to paper or online maps because he’d memorized the route. They were close. He held his digital recorder close to his mouth, mentally composing the setup for their interview. At least he hoped they’d soon have the interview. They hadn’t exactly made an appointment. And their subject remained a mystery—almost as much as Michael Myers.

In the passenger seat, Dana glanced from the road ahead to Aaron. “What is it we’re after?”

By way of answer Aaron spoke into the recorder, “Having seen the animal inside his environment, I fear there is no rehabilitation. But in this case, it seems one monster created another. A victim has locked herself away. Imprisoned by her own fear.” He cast a meaningful glance at Dana, thankful for her cue. “Our goal is to get them in a room together. Can we find a form of rehabilitation if she faces him again?”

Dana pointed through the windshield. “Here we are.”

Aaron slowed the car to a stop as he drifted onto the shoulder of the road. What he saw was less than promising. A PRIVATE PROPERTY—NO TRESPASSING sign attached to a cyclone fence. An overflowing mailbox next to a mounted intercom in front of a gated driveway. Is she even home? The intercom represented an impersonal obstacle, allowing her to reject them without a face-to-face meeting. She wouldn’t be pleased to see—rather, hear—them, so they had to convince her it was in her best interest. No easy task. Fortunately, Aaron believed in their mission and his ability to make a case for her cooperation.

“Here,” Dana said, removing an orange envelope stuffed with cash from her bag and offering it to him. “You might need this.”

Aaron sighed, refusing the envelope. “Journalists don’t pay for interviews, Dana. This is her fifteen minutes of fame. There are two people in this world that care about her and they’re both in this car.”

Flipping through the file she’d assembled on Laurie Strode, Dana said, “She’s financially unstable. Had every job you can think of for the last forty years, from catering to cosmetology. Currently unemployed.”

She closed the file, placed her palm on top of it and gave him a pointed look.

* * *

Finished with the rifle cleaning, Laurie picked up the revolver and stared at it for a moment before releasing the cylinder. Turning the Smith & Wesson upright over her cleaning mat, she shook out the spent shell casings. Two fell out on their own. She palmed the ejector rod to knock out the rest. One live round sat on the mat beside the casings. She picked it up between her thumb and forefinger and felt its potential. Then she fed the bullet into one of the empty chambers and spun the cylinder, abruptly slapping it back into place, the bullet’s position unknown.

She held the revolver in a tight grip, again considering…

Occasionally, she had these dark moments.

When all the practice and preparation ate at her confidence, the darkness suggested a quicker, more effective way to end her continued struggle with fear and doubt—a natural phenomenon considering her situation. That’s what she told herself. Just… ride it out.

After several deep breaths, fear crept in. For a moment, she imagined she wasn’t alone, that the choice was forced upon her, that he was—

The Shape stood before her.

Waiting to strike—

Waiting for her to surrender—

She remained… balanced—paralyzed between—

Bzzzt!

The sound startled her out of the moment, maybe even pulled her back from a precipice. She stared ahead. The Shape was gone. Never there.

Always with her…

She exhaled forcefully, turning her gaze to the four black-and-white security camera monitors. A rental car carrying two uninvited guests. A man and a woman, late thirties, maybe forty, the former behind the wheel, left arm dangling out the open window.

* * *

After pulling up to the mounted intercom, Aaron pressed the button once, and had been about to press it a second time when he heard the hiss of the speaker coming to life.

“Yes?” a female voice inquired.

Laurie Strode. He was sure of it.

Aaron reached out to the “press to speak” button, found it slightly out of reach, forcing him to open the car door and to shift himself with one foot on the ground. If the mounted security camera was live and not a prop, he wasn’t making the best first impression of professional competence.

“Hello,” he said abruptly. “We’re looking for Laurie Strode.”

On the off-chance he might be talking to a house-sitter.

Silence.

Aaron cleared his throat. “My name is Aaron Joseph-Korey and—um… We’re working on a… um… on a podcast.”

Dear God, he thought, am I really this nervous? What’s next, a pratfall?

Fortunately, he hadn’t come alone.

Dana leaned toward the driver’s side of the car so she could be heard over the speaker. “We’re investigative journalists.”

“If you have a moment,” Aaron added. “We’ve traveled a long way to speak with you.”

Crossed continents. Traversed oceans. Well, one ocean, but…

Okay, now I’m babbling mentally.

More silence.

Terrific, he thought. We’re failing miserably. Well, mostly me. Dana’s quite on point. Not that it matters. Not if Laurie won’t even speak with us.

Desperate, Aaron cleared his throat again and thought, Journalistic ethics be damned. “We’ll pay you for your time.”

He glanced at Dana, who arched an eyebrow at him.

“Desperate times, desperate measures and all that,” he said, after temporarily lifting his finger off the press-to-speak button.

Still not a peep from Laurie.

He reached across the car, wiggled his fingers. Dana counted the money in the envelope then placed it in his hand. Aaron held it out the window in full view of the camera.

Dana leaned toward him again, raised her voice, “How does three thousand dollars sound?”

Aaron waited, about to signal a retreat and return to their motel to consider their options, when the gate buzzed and slowly trundled open. As he eased the car forward, relief flooded through him. He glanced at Dana, anticipation rising again now that they’d cleared a significant hurdle and been granted an audience. Dana gave him a look of satisfaction, her insistence on trusting the file validated.

They were a team, one step closer to their goal.

He parked the Ford in front of the farmhouse, and they crossed the front yard together. Had Laurie not answered the intercom, Aaron might have assumed the farmhouse abandoned. Beyond a black pickup truck, overgrown dead bushes and weeds had climbed high enough to reach the white railing of the wraparound porch. The blue siding had held up, but the pale blue paint on the porch steps and landing showed significant wear, exposing bare and rotting wood. Grime streaked the aged, black-shingled roof, currently littered with clumps of dead leaves. At either end of the long roof, Laurie had mounted a pair of large spotlights in wooden frames. Four parallel beams of light would expose anyone attempting to approach the front of the house at night.

A row of bell-shaped wind chimes clinked as they climbed the porch stairs. Noting steel-mesh guards on all the windows, Aaron thought that the house resembled a prison, though this “prison” was designed to keep people out. Or, at least, one specific person.

* * *

Laurie walked to her heavy wooden front door to get a better look at her uninvited guests. Peering through the right narrow vertical panel of decorative obscure glass, she took their measure. They were close to her daughter’s age, though the woman looked several years younger than the man—Aaron something. Even through the distortion of the glass, she could tell they were pleased with themselves. Aaron seemed a bit impatient, fidgeting a bit where he stood. Otherwise, they seemed harmless.

She unlocked the padlock at the top of the door, opened the slide lock below it, turned the lock on the door knob, and finally lifted the horizontal bar securing the middle of the door. Steel-mesh barriers on the windows wouldn’t matter if someone could kick in the door. She opened the door just far enough to confirm they were alone and apparently unarmed, before letting them in.

5

Dana paused before the entrance to Laurie Strode’s house, listening to the woman engage several locks on the door. She nudged Aaron, who was casually assessing the interior of the home through the window, and nodded toward the door. He nodded back, his earlier recorded assessment of her proven correct. She’d holed herself up here, behind a gate, secured windows, and a door reinforced with enough locks to withstand a battering ram.

Even after all her research on Laurie Strode, sole survivor of Michael Myers’ babysitter killing spree of 1978, Dana wasn’t sure what she’d expected upon finally meeting the woman, but she never would have imagined she’d appear so… normal. Naturally, Laurie had aged, gracefully, considering forty years had passed since that fateful night, and she seemed physically fit. She’d been scarred physically and emotionally—perhaps even mentally, though Dana saw no evidence of that.

She saw a woman in advanced middle age with neatly brushed shoulder-length blond hair, wearing wireframe glasses, dressed practically in a long-sleeved blue denim shirt, the cuffs rolled up to reveal an analog wristwatch with a brown leather band, green denim trousers and ankle-high boots. True, she had isolated herself, living alone in the backwoods farmhouse, fortified for extra security, but she displayed no apparent signs of raving lunacy or gibbering paranoia. So far she’d come across as an intensely private but rational woman. Dana noted one potential red flag—the sheathed hunting knife strapped to Laurie’s belt. Not as disconcerting as a holstered handgun or if she’d greeted them at the door with a loaded shotgun, but something to consider nonetheless.

Laurie directed them to a rustic living room, mostly wood-paneled with one red-brick wall behind a raised brick landing, which held a wood-burning stove with a stack of firewood beside it. Dana wondered if the house had originally featured a fireplace that Laurie sealed for security, replacing it with the stove. The left side of the brick wall featured a built-in bookcase, while the right had a high shelf where she’d placed a flat-screen TV next to a VCR and a small stack of VHS tapes.

A sofa and loveseat in a matching floral print formed an L around a glass-and-bamboo coffee table. While Aaron sat on the sofa, Dana took the near corner of the loveseat. Ignoring the rust-colored wing chair beside the loveseat, Laurie sat opposite them in relative discomfort on a wooden chair she brought in from the kitchen. She set a glass of strawberry milk on the coffee table that separated them. Pointedly, she hadn’t offered them anything to drink. For the promise of three thousand dollars, she’d invited them inside her home—fortified bunker might be a more accurate description—but she had no intention of entertaining them. Dana had no doubt they were on a short leash.

Dana set her recorder on the table, mic upright to catch both sides of the conversation. “You’ve lived here since 1985?”

Laurie thought for a moment, nodded. “Sounds about right.”

Dana looked around the room, seeking and finding no evidence of other occupants. She was far from neighbors and had infrequent, if any, visitors. “Do you feel isolated?”

“I don’t.”

Such a simple, declarative statement. Dana couldn’t tell if she believed it or not.

But Aaron wasn’t buying it. “You tell yourself that you’re protecting your family. That if he comes for you again, you’ve distanced yourself from everyone you love.”

Dana nodded, seeing the logic in it.

“Aaron and I have made several award-winning public radio exposés. Our last project shed new light on a murder case from twenty years ago. We like to re-examine incidents with an unbiased lens. When people are willing to look at things in a different light over time, new truths can sometimes emerge. I believe there is a lot to learn from the horrors you experienced.”

Frowning, Laurie said, “There’s nothing to reexamine. Nothing to learn from something that happened forty years ago.”

“So,” Aaron said, “is he real?”

“Who?”

“The Boogeyman,” Aaron said. “I’ve read you quoted—”

“You don’t believe in the Boogeyman?”

Dana looked for the hint of a smile, a telltale sign that Laurie was joking, as unlikely as that seemed. But she’d posed the question with complete seriousness.

“I believe in Michael Myers,” Aaron said reasonably, “a deranged serial killer. But the Boogeyman? No.”

Laurie took a sip of her milk before replying. “Well, you should.”

“We have archival recordings of Dr Loomis after that horrific night,” Aaron soldiered on without conceding the point. “His intellect was overcome with abstract and apocalyptic observations.”

“He just wanted Michael dead,” Laurie said, “and no one would listen.”

Maybe Loomis’s irrational attitude had rubbed off on Laurie. Both were unwilling to see Michael Myers as a seriously flawed human, instead elevating him to some sort of supernatural entity, a physical embodiment of evil.

“Michael Myers is a human being that killed his sister when he was six years old,” Dana said, sticking to the facts rather than succumbing to metaphysical speculation. “And then he came after you… We want to know why. We want a glimpse inside his mind. That’s why your story is important.”

“My story?”

“Two failed marriages. A rocky relationship with your daughter and granddaughter.” Aaron looked askance. “Among other issues…”

“Aaron,” Dana said, a light note of caution in her voice.

Aaron nodded to several empty prescription pill bottles scattered on the table.

Laurie sat up straighter, a defensive posture. “It’s interesting that Michael killed five people and he’s a human being. I’m twice divorced and I’m a basket case.”

“My apologies,” Aaron said hesitantly.

“I have nothing but vague, very flawed memories of that night,” Laurie said. “The insight you’re looking for does not exist.”

Aaron nodded, silently acknowledging defeat, Dana imagined. His line of inquiry seemed to be a dead end.

“They’re transferring him,” Aaron said.

“I know,” Laurie said. “Tomorrow.”

“He’ll be locked away till the end of his days,” Dana said, as if it were her promise to make, hoping perhaps that Laurie would take solace in the finality of his fate and maybe, just maybe, change her mind.

“That’s the idea,” Laurie said, almost too casually, with an undertone of skepticism. Dana thought she understood the source of Laurie’s doubt. Because she had blown her belief in a Boogeyman out of rational proportion, she was unwilling to accept a simple, permanent solution to her forty-year nightmare.

“Do you surrender any efforts of rehabilitation?” Aaron asked her.

Laurie scoffed. “Because everyone knows forty years is when you typically turn the corner.”

Sensing another conversational dead end, Dana switched gears. “Let’s talk about when the state came to take your daughter away,” she said, broaching a sensitive subject and hoping for a more emotional response. “She was twelve years old. They said you were an unfit mother. How long until you regained custody?”

“I didn’t,” Laurie said flatly. “But I bet you knew that.”

Laurie stood, wandered toward the front door, shifting her gaze and attention to the stand of trees outside. Getting lost in the wilderness that encroached on her property. Dana wondered if she was thinking how her life and her daughter’s life might have been different if she had chosen a different path after the tragedy. The costs of her lifelong fear…

“Laurie,” Aaron said, urgency creeping into his tone, sensing as Dana did that they were losing her. “We want you to sit down with him. Sit with Michael—in a safe environment. He won’t speak to anybody… but he might speak to you. Finally, you can get the chance to say what you’ve always wanted to say to him.” Aaron paused, unsure if his words swayed her. “Come with us. Let us help you… free yourself.”

Laurie tore her gaze away from the woods and stared down at them, a hard glint in her eyes. “Time’s up. I’ll accept my payment.”

With a nearly inaudible sigh, Aaron stood, brushed off his jeans and pulled the orange envelope out of his back pocket. Silently, he walked it over to her and waited as she counted.

Stuffing the envelope in her own jeans pocket, she turned her attention to the door, releasing each lock in turn before removing the heavy metal crossbar. Dana had the weird sense of depressurization. Being locked in Laurie’s makeshift bunker gave the air a sense of weight, as if each breath required effort. The ticking of a nearby wall clock seemed amplified, giving a strange gravity to the passage of time.

Dana recalled—perhaps in an oversimplified way—how astrophysicists claimed time slowed down near the event horizon of a black hole, that anything approaching that point of no return eventually stopped moving, frozen forevermore. Dana had the sense that time spent within these fortified walls would play tricks on the mind, a psychological quirk infecting any occupant with a severe case of emotional inertia. She believed the past had a death grip on Laurie Strode, and that it had festered in her home. Aaron had offered to help Laurie “free herself.” But the older woman refused to acknowledge her own psychological captivity, to recognize she had become her own jailer.

Laurie pulled the door open wide and stood back. “With your journalistic insights, I’m sure you’ll be able to find your way out.”

As they walked away from the house, Dana glanced back to see Laurie standing in the doorway. In the moment before Laurie closed the door, Dana thought she glimpsed a look of honest contemplation in the woman’s eyes.

Maybe there’s hope for her yet…

6

In the morning rush before start of classes, a river of students flowed through the hallways of Haddonfield High School. Those accessing their lockers became the rocks and shoals that redirected the stream. Dozens of conversations overlapped in a discordant buzz punctuated by the irregular slamming of narrow metal locker doors.

When the warning bell rang, Allyson clutched her armful of notebooks and books and closed her locker with her free hand.

As she turned, a husky voice startled her. “Gotcha!”

A split second later, she registered Cameron’s face and realized he’d intended to spook her by sneaking up on her and disguising his voice. But not before she dropped her books. “Cameron,” she said, annoyed. “Jesus.”

He crouched beside her to help pick up her scattered texts.

“I got you, babe,” he said. “Do you have everything for your costume tomorrow night?” He nodded toward one of the many hand-painted banners taped to the walls to promote the Halloween dance. “Bonnie and Clyde must roll as one.”

Allyson settled the stack of books in her arms, placing her worn paperback copy of The Great Gatsby on top for her first class, and shook her head. “I’m just thinking about tonight.”

“Tonight?” Cameron said. “Come on. I thought you were joking when you said your parents were old-fashioned.”

“Be nice,” she said. She thought it endearing that Cameron was so concerned about meeting her parents for the first time. In everything else, he acted laid-back and casual, unfazed by life’s daily hassles, occasionally running his fingers through his wavy, shoulder-length brown hair. But this one thing triggered a social allergy in him. “It’ll be nice. I just want you to meet them. I’m more old-fashioned than they are. Just don’t make them like you too much. I like to keep them on edge.”

She smiled and leaned forward to give him a gentle kiss on the lips.

“Slow down, Smoochy,” a voice exclaimed right beside them. “Save me a slice.”

Allyson and Cameron broke the kiss.

This voice, undisguised and all too familiar, belonged to Oscar. A fast talker who always tried to lay on the charm to cover an underlying… creepiness. Something about him made Allyson uncomfortable. He was always too familiar and he had no respect for personal boundaries.

As if on cue, Oscar leaned in and kissed each of them on the cheek.

“Dude,” Cameron said, rubbing his cheek with the back of his hand, “you got chapped-lip crusties all over me, man.”

“Naw,” Oscar said, dismissing Cameron’s comment, even though his lips actually were approaching heinous territory. “Play it cool. I got you, babe. You have everything for your costume tomorrow night? Tango and Cash must roll as one.”

Jeez, Allyson thought, annoyed, how long was he eavesdropping on our conversation? She had some serious doubts about Cameron’s friend. Perv, peeper, stalker? she wondered. Where exactly is he on the slimeball scale?

Oscar produced a chapstick from his pocket and gave his lips a practiced once-over, top and bottom, left to right.

“Um…” Cameron said, stalling.

Oscar glanced quickly between Allyson and Cameron. “What?” he asked. “You said we were going as Sly and Kurt, bro. You said we were doing this Halloween dance thing. What’s up? You’re ditching me now?”

Add clingy to the list, Allyson thought. She patted Cameron on the shoulder. “I’ll see you lovebirds later.” Then, pointedly, at Cameron, “And I better see you tonight.”

She walked away from the guys, shaking her head with a smile. She couldn’t figure out what Cameron saw in him.

Across the hall—foot traffic down to a trickle of students destined to be late for first class—a girl named Kim something or other gave Allyson a curious look. She’d been watching the whole Oscar drama with a little too much interest. Allyson wondered what her deal was, but she couldn’t stick around or she’d be late for English.

Turning the corner, she ducked into Miss Johnston’s class, slipping into a seat in the back row as the class bell sounded. As Allyson hurriedly flipped open her notebook to the last day’s notes Emma Wagner, in the seat to her left, flashed a friendly smile.

“Okay, class, final day of discussion on The Great Gatsby,” Miss Johnston said. Noting the overall glum mood of the first-period class, she added, “I hope you’re all prepared for a scintillating discussion and ready to dazzle me with the insights of your vast intellects.”

“Need more coffee for that,” someone to the far left said, possibly Ben Gangemi, since several students glanced his way and chuckled.

“Unfortunately,” Miss Johnston said, “I’m not running a convenience store up here, so we’ll have to make do with current caffeine levels.” She leaned against the front of her desk, a copy of The Great Gatsby clutched in her right hand, and quoted from the book. “‘So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’” She looked around the room. “What is Nick telling us with that closing line?”

Thinking of her grandmother, the line had special resonance for Allyson. Lost in her thoughts, she belatedly realized Emma had raised her hand to answer the question.

“It means that the past has a hold on us.”

Miss Johnston nodded. “So, is there no hope for us?” she asked as a follow-up. “Can we ever escape the past?”

When Emma didn’t respond right away, Miss Johnston’s gaze shifted to Emma’s right. “Allyson? Any thoughts?”

Allyson looked up, startled. She thought of the strained relationship between her grandmother and mother. One unwilling—or unable—to forget the past, the other determined to move on, yet both sacrificing so much to remain steadfast in their conflicting points of view.

“It’s about the struggle,” she said.

7

Inside the Haddonfield Harmony Community Center, Karen sat at the head of a table in her therapy room, which, due to the gathering of pre-teen children, had the appearance of a classroom. But these kids were at-risk youths, surviving in less than desirable home situations or shuffling between foster homes, some of them victims of abuse. In almost all cases they were dealing with emotional issues that would be troubling for adults, let alone children their age. Some exhibited signs of PTSD.

For the past few sessions, Karen had the children work on homemade puppets. The older kids made boy or girl puppets, now and then adding goofy touches, such as feathers for hair or googly eyes. The younger kids tended to give their puppets costumes, so Karen spotted a pirate, an astronaut, a scarecrow, and a few superheroes, along with a princess with absurdly long hair, and a couple of Halloween-themed ghosts and witches.

The children held their puppets upright on the table, while they bowed their heads, almost as if they were napping or might fall asleep while their puppets discussed their feelings. In this way they were free to project their own fear and emotions through the puppets. But the puppets might or might not be projections of themselves. Sometimes the puppets represented the person who disturbed them, frightened them. One boy, who had made a clown puppet, had since abandoned it and was preoccupied with untangling a yo-yo.

“Who wants to go first?” Karen asked.

“I’m King Bradley,” Tyler said, tilting his royal puppet left and right, “and I get angry at the rain.”

Karen recalled from Tyler’s file that his stepfather’s name was Bradley.

“When my brother comes home from work,” Cody said, jumping in, “I get scared, cuz he brings the guys to fight and throw people through walls.”

Mia placed her girl puppet flat on the table, pressing the rainbow-colored dress with the palm of her left hand, and raised her head. She looked at Karen with heartbreaking vulnerability in her eyes. “If you run away from home then you have no one to hurt you.”

Karen couldn’t decide if the little girl spoke to her own situation, or if she was offering advice to Cody. But she couldn’t endorse pre-teens running away from home. There were better paths to safety. “We need to look at those who love us for protection and comfort,” Karen said. “But listen to your feelings. You have all lived through very difficult situations, and we are confronted with bad people from time to time.”

Mia gave her a slight nod. A few of the other children murmured agreement with her statement. Some were still closed off from expression. But all listened intently.

“But by using our communications, right? By using our voices and telling grown-ups that we trust what is happening in our minds, we can help ourselves overcome our problems and honor our feelings.”

“Like you?” Mia asked.

Karen smiled. “That’s right,” she said. “Like me. But I’m not the only one you can trust.”

Mia nodded, picked up her puppet and lowered her head to the table, ready to begin.

* * *

Almost an hour later, Laurie drove her black Nissan pickup truck through a rundown neighborhood, a place where she wouldn’t want to walk alone at night, not without a whistle and a can of mace, not to mention one of her guns. All the houses she passed were in various states of disrepair; the worst had plywood—and in one case a sheet of cardboard—in place over broken windows. Graffiti tags had sprung up on walls, traffic lights, and some of the plywood panels.

Almost all the cars she passed were at least two decades removed from their showroom-floor days. One rested at the curb on cinderblocks. Many were missing hubcaps, with various dings or primer-coated quarter panels. Some of the small front yards were well-maintained but the majority had been overrun by weeds.

Several adults sat on front stoops, some drinking cans or bottles of beer, appearing lost and listless, no job or commitment to set them in motion, left behind by society to fend for themselves with the odds stacked against them.

Laurie checked a street sign, made a left turn, and saw the community center ahead. Middle-aged men played basketball on cement courts, tossing the ball through rings with missing nets—swiped or never supplied. As Laurie swung into a parking space opposite the community center, she noted a group of children, seven to ten years old if she had to guess, file into a white county van. Then she spotted Karen, standing next to who she believed was her daughter’s assistant as they waved goodbye to the kids before returning to the building.

Laurie sat in the pickup truck for several minutes while the cooling engine ticked, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, then heaved a sigh. She wanted to clear the air between her and her daughter, and not only for Allyson’s sake. But was it fair to confront Karen in her workplace with a personal matter? Would she be receptive? Or defensive? With strong emotions involved, any discussion could go either way.

The last thing Laurie wanted was to sour Karen’s professional relationships, damaging an area of her daughter’s life untainted by Laurie’s obsessions.

Okay, Laurie thought. A discussion for another time then.

After starting the pickup, Laurie drove to a better part of town, to the last place she had enjoyed carefree days.

* * *

Allyson sat in the back corner of history class, her attention flagging. After calculus and physics back to back, she lacked sufficient engagement for history, last class of her school day. She’d tried to focus on Ms Dejohn’s smartboard slideshow about the bitter relationship between Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton leading up to the famous duel, but after Dejohn refused to take the bait from Matt Evans to discuss the popular musical she’d seen seven times, all the historical details became a blur of political infighting.

Allyson would have preferred the Broadway discussion, but ultimately the lesson plan won out. Ms Dejohn was all business—or history, rather. During class, she had no time for pop culture.

Stifling a yawn, Allyson glanced out the window and saw a lone figure standing beyond the school fence.

A woman with shoulder-length blond hair and wireframe glasses.

Allyson sat up straighter. Grandmother?

* * *

From high in the home-team bleachers above the fieldhouse, Laurie watched the Haddonfield Huskers football team, wearing full pads under their blue-and-yellow home uniforms, run through practice drills at the barked instructions of their coach. Grunting linemen pushed blocking sleds. The quarterback practiced taking handoffs, backpedaling and tossing passes to receivers and running backs. And, with robotic precision, the placekicker booted one field goal after another.

Allyson sat beside Laurie, flipping through the stack of cash in the orange envelope Laurie received from the two British journalists. Other than the first few rows of seats, they had the bleachers to themselves.

“This is… I can’t accept this,” Allyson said, holding the envelope out to Laurie.

Laurie ignored the gesture, looking across the field. “Use it for whatever your heart desires.”

Allyson lowered the envelope to her lap and considered. “I’ll use it for—”

“It’s for you to have fun,” Laurie said to Allyson before anything unnecessarily altruistic came out of her mouth. “Enjoy.”

Laurie stood, preparing to leave.

“You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”

Laurie looked down at her with a confused frown.

As if the implication had been obvious, Allyson said, “Like… kill yourself?”

“Kill myself?”

“That’s what they say in… That you give stuff away… And I know you’re having trouble… And—”

Smiling, Laurie said, “Not today, kiddo. Michael Myers is leaving Smith’s Grove tonight. Forty years from that night. He’s being transferred. Locked away forever. That’s his fate. I want to see him first. To say goodbye.”

“That’s your fate?”

Laurie considered. “Maybe so,” she said, smiling. “To face my fears.”

Allyson chuckled. “You’re Laurie Strode,” she said. “You’re not scared of people. People are scared of you.”

“Ha. Maybe,” Laurie said. But she recognized uncomfortable truths in her own history, traits and behaviors she couldn’t deny but found hard to change. “If you allow your fears to take over… If you allow yourself to become a victim, it attacks you. It attacks you spiritually. Holds you back. Back from realizing your own destiny.” She stared down at the field for a moment, trying to decide on the desired resolution for herself, for her life. And the answer was predictably grim. “If I could… I’d be the one to put him in the ground. ‘Goodbye, Michael,’ I’d say ‘Goodbye.’”

On the field below them, in exhaustive preparation for their upcoming battle, football players in helmets and pads raced and crashed into each other.

8

After their expensive interview with Laurie Strode failed to produce even the possibility of the desired outcome of a face-to-face meeting between killer and intended victim, Dana and Aaron returned to the Siesta Motor Lodge, which was as extravagant as the name suggested. No matter how many lamps and lights Dana switched on, the interior of their room remained gloomy. If she subscribed to a more poetic frame of mind, she might concede that the room mirrored their present mood.

Aaron considered a face-to-face meeting, to borrow a basketball metaphor, the slam-dunk outcome they wanted for their story. But the lack of a meeting between those two wasn’t a deal breaker. They still had a story to tell.

Besides, Laurie might change her mind. More optimism than that, Dana couldn’t muster. Because the clock was ticking. Once Smith’s Grove transferred Michael Myers to Glass Hill, the maximum-security facility in Colorado, any hope of getting them in the same room ended. That’s what Aaron believed. And Dana was inclined to agree with him.

Since they couldn’t force Laurie into the meeting, their only option was to approach the request from a different angle. Find some tidbit of information that might change her mind. Dana sat cross-legged on the motel bed, poring over Dr Loomis’s files, research articles, essays and forensic exhibits, while nibbling on a deli sandwich in a foil wrapper. Aaron preferred to pace the small room to spark his own creativity.

They had photos of Laurie and her family, though neither of them believed they had a personal angle to exploit, for want of a less predatory word. Karen and Allyson had never faced the threat of Michael Myers. Laurie’s own experience was their only way in. Probably a good thing, Dana thought. Their journalistic ethics had already taken a beating.

Aaron glanced at the handwritten label on an old cassette, slipped it into their tape recorder and pressed play. An old recording, the audio came through distorted and muffled, so Aaron turned up the volume. It was the recording of a state doctor interviewing Loomis about his professional opinion on his infamous patient.

The prefatory statement to the state doctor’s question was lost to time and the limits of technology. The audio picked up in the middle.

“…Dr Samuel Loomis, January twenty-second, 1979. Do you wish to give a statement regarding your former patient, Michael Myers?”

No hesitation in Loomis’s reply. “My suggestion is termination.”

“Doesn’t pull any punches,” Dana commented.

“When it came to Michael Myers,” Aaron said, “Dr Loomis had a one-track mind. Never wavered.”

And Dr Loomis’s grim recommendation, a warning from nearly forty years in the past, continued…

* * *

At that moment, inside Smith’s Grove State Hospital, Kuneman, who considered himself a seasoned security guard, approached Michael Myers’ cell with some trepidation. While most of the patients possessed various quirks or oddities and others were prone to manic behavior or depression, Myers was an outlier, well beyond the limits of any bell curve describing the population of the facility. Eerily, almost inhumanly calm, he radiated a controlled menace, a terrifying capacity for cold-blooded violence simmering beneath the shape of a man. Kuneman considered the possibility that his perception of the serial killer was biased by past events. But he thought it was more than that.

Of course, Dr Sartain considered Myers at least somewhat rehabilitated. And Sartain was the expert, so Kuneman had to defer to the professional and simply do his job. Nevertheless, he took a moment, standing before the metal door, before he opened it.

There he is, Kuneman thought. Nothing unusual.

The Shape stood on the far side of the cell, his back turned to the door. Again, Kuneman noted how still Myers seemed; no shifting foot to foot, no swaying. His arms hung at his sides, not the slightest twitch of a finger. A marble statue couldn’t move any less.

“A-2201,” Kuneman said. “Myers, Michael.”

“A shot of sodium thiopental would render him unconscious.”

* * *

Outside Smith’s Grove State Hospital, on the far side of the road, Laurie sat in her idling pickup truck, watching the facility through the security fencing. She hadn’t intended to come here. She’d almost convinced herself to let the fate she’d described to Allyson play out just as she suggested it would, with Michael Myers’ transfer to maximum security in Colorado. After all, she had her family dinner with Allyson to look forward to… But she’d found herself pacing at home, needing to get out. And once she climbed into her truck, she drove on mental autopilot, coming directly to Smith’s Grove because some deep-seated part of her psyche refused to relax and let events play out on their own. Part of her believed that without direct action and preparation on her part, she’d fall into the role of hapless victim again.

She reached over to open the glove box, reached inside and pulled out the comforting weight of the Smith & Wesson revolver.

If asked, she couldn’t say what she intended to do next.

That thought terrified her.

* * *

No longer motionless, The Shape walked down the dim hallway, manacles and shackles binding his wrists and ankles, limiting his mobility to a shuffling gait. Kuneman had hoped the restraints would diminish Myers’ threatening aspect, but chains only made him seem more dangerous.

The other patients scheduled for the night’s transfer had already been lined up along the corridor and stood facing the wall. Haskell, four years into his tenure as a Smith’s Grove security guard and least likely to tolerate insubordination from any of the patients, had also been assigned to the transport detail. He watched the motley group suspiciously, baton at the ready. Some chattered among themselves—any variance to their daily routine agitated most of them—while others rambled incoherently, a personal running commentary only they understood.

As Myers approached the rear of the line, Haskell called out instructions to the group for the second or third time, repeatedly slapping his baton against the palm of his hand to add weight to his commands. “Stand up! Hands up! Shut up!”

Without fuss, The Shape fell into line with the others.

Kuneman again considered the possibility that Myers’ reputation rather than his recent behavior had spooked him.

“Then a shot of potassium chloride to stop his heart. He goes quietly, without incident.”

“Forehead on the wall!” Haskell continued.

Kuneman referred to his patient transfer checklist to verify nobody was missing. “A-2209, Aaron White… A-2217, Anthony Murphy. A-2243, Jeffrey Neundorf.”

Roll call complete, Kuneman led the group of twelve patients toward the loading area. A long buzzer sounded as the door lock released. Kuneman and Haskell shepherded the patients out to a parking area where a secure transport bus idled under harsh spotlights. Kuneman stepped forward to check with the armed bus driver, who had his own matching checklist.

Before the patients began to board, Lynch, a wild-eyed patient who always seemed on the verge of jumping out of his own skin, had worked his way back behind Myers. At the door of the bus, Kuneman shouted to the milling group of transferees, “Everybody line up! Time to go!”

Haskell walked up and down the group until the semblance of a line reformed. Nodding to the driver, Kuneman stepped away from the open door and nodded for the first patient to board the bus.

“I’ll be with him to make sure his light is extinguished. My ear on his chest to hear for myself that his vitals no longer function. At that point, with the help of a coroner, we will extract the brain for our studies and immediately incinerate the body.”

As one patient after another boarded the bus, the driver checked off their names. Soon the whole bunch of them would be somebody else’s headache.

With The Shape next to last to board, the door buzzer sounded again and Dr Sartain hurriedly approached the bus, wearing a brown suit rather than his usual lab coat and clutching a file in his hand. He stopped beside his eerily silent patient. “Don’t worry, Michael. I’ll be by your side.”

Kuneman suppressed the urge to shake his head in disbelief, though he couldn’t claim surprise. He didn’t need to poll the entire staff of Smith’s Grove to know that Sartain was the only person sad to see Myers leave. Everyone else would probably sleep sounder knowing he was locked up three states west.

“Would have been here sooner,” Sartain continued, glancing toward Kuneman, “if not for a few reports I needed to complete before the trip.”

Curious, Kuneman glanced at The Shape, but nothing in Myers’ face or body language indicated that he’d heard or cared about Sartain’s presence or excuses. He climbed the steps carefully, due to the limitations of his leg shackles.

* * *

From where she’d parked her pickup truck, Laurie heard the buzz of a door lock release as a muted sound. Nevertheless, she sat up straight, her palms suddenly damp as she clutched the revolver between them. Almost without blinking, she stared at the group of patients preparing to board the transport bus.

Even among a dozen similarly dressed patients too far away to distinguish individual faces, he stood out. He had an “otherness” about him. The utter stillness. The others milled around, impatient, distracted, excited, nervous, or any combination of those emotions. Not him. When he stood still, not a single link of the shackles binding his arms and legs moved. All his energy was directed inward, creating the appearance of infinite patience.

Laurie Strode knew it was a lie.

His patience was inhuman, not infinite.

But maybe it no longer mattered.

Lock him up and throw away the key, she thought. She glanced down at the revolver in her hand. Maybe I can live with that.

When next she looked up, he was boarding the bus. A minute or two later, everyone had boarded, and the doors closed.

Laurie exhaled.

“This is your fate,” she said, her gaze fixed on the bus. “No more superstition.”

* * *

Kuneman followed Haskell to the back of the bus, through the steel-gate partition that separated guard seats from the patients. With two pairs of padded seats three rows deep, separated by the center aisle, the bus accommodated twelve prisoners. Kuneman stood guard while Haskell crouched to secure the patients’ shackles to the steel rings bolted to the floor of the bus. Glancing to the front, Kuneman watched as Dr Sartain boarded and settled himself in the seat behind the armed driver. The doctor took note of his special patient’s location, sitting by the window in the left middle row. Satisfied, Sartain opened his file and took notes on a legal pad with his fancy pen. Something about the doctor’s casual air of entitlement got under Kuneman’s skin.

“A-7367 secure,” Haskell said, standing and brushing his palms on his uniform trousers. “All clear.”

He sidestepped down the line to Lynch.

With a quick glance to confirm—for at least the third time—that Myers wasn’t going anywhere, Kuneman backed toward the partition near the front of the bus. A sneak peek at the doctor’s illegible handwriting was enough to convince Kuneman he’d never decipher those notes. Clearing his throat to get Sartain’s attention, he said, “Still not sure why you’re here.”

His pen paused over the paper, Sartain looked up. “Michael Myers is my patient until he is in someone else’s care,” he said. “I’m seeing my duty through till the end.”

“It needs to die. It needs to die!”

Kuneman was about to respond when Lynch started screaming. “What the hell—Haskell?”

Glowering, Haskell stood and punched Lynch in the gut.

With an explosive grunt, Lynch collapsed in his seat and groaned in pain. Haskell dropped to one knee and checked that Lynch’s shackles were secured to the ring on the floor. Fists on his hips, Haskell towered over the seated Lynch and said through gritted teeth, “All clear!”

As Haskell moved forward, Kuneman ducked through the partition and said, “Buckle up, Dr Sartain. This show’s about to hit the road.”

“There’s nothing to be gained from keeping evil alive and gestating.”

Haskell settled into the seat next to Kuneman opposite the driver’s side of the bus. With everyone secured and accounted for, Kuneman signaled to the driver to roll out. Sartain clicked his pen and again turned his attention to The Shape sitting in the middle left row, staring out the window as if he were carved from stone.

Kuneman wondered if the murderer was glad to leave Smith’s Grove behind. Or if he worried about spending the rest of his days in solitary confinement. Somehow, Kuneman had the impression nothing mattered to him now.

Nothing ever would.

* * *

From the vantage point of her pickup truck, Laurie watched as the transport bus approached the perimeter of the state hospital’s grounds and stopped briefly while the gate trundled open. She closed her eyes.

Could she free herself? Let it go?

Let the moment pass unwitnessed…?

The self-enforced darkness became a suffocating eternity.

She opened her eyes and grabbed a miniature airplane bottle of whiskey from the glove box. Her hands shaking, she fumbled with the cap for a moment before dropping it on the floor mat. She raised the tiny bottle to her lips and downed two quick sips.

Then she stared as the bus turned onto the state road, turned toward her and rumbled closer to her parked pickup truck, while she sat hypnotized—paralyzed.

“Death is the only solution for Michael. Quiet death before it kills again…”

Holding her breath—

—unable to blink—

—staring at the row of dark, reinforced windows—

—wondering if he stared back at her—

The transport bus rolled past her, “Illinois Department of Corrections” painted on the side and the back door, belching a plume of dust in its wake that, moment by moment, coated her pickup truck in a gritty layer of filth.

In that instant, Laurie found her breath.

And she screamed at the top of her lungs, louder than she’d screamed in the last forty years, until her throat was raw, and she was convinced blood would spray from her ruptured lungs and splatter her dusty windshield—

Tossing the empty whiskey bottle aside, she plucked the revolver from her lap, gripping it in her sweaty palm as she pressed the tip of the cold barrel to her temple.

—and she continued to scream.

But no one on the departing bus—and no one inside the state hospital—heard her primal roar. No one came. She sat outside the hospital parking lot, lost in private torment as the gate closed.

9

Per Allyson’s request, her mother had made reservations at Ristorante Bellini, located at the short end of an L-shaped strip mall. Despite the modest surroundings and a parking lot in need of resurfacing, Bellini’s had an intimate candlelit ambience and pleasing Italian fare. Framed paintings of the Italian countryside along with several old-world-styled maps decorated some of the walls, but their table was in the main room, Allyson’s favorite, near the wall of lit candles. All the glowing candle flames not only gave the room a calming vibe and warmth but also, for Allyson at least, each flame represented a symbol of hope, comfort from the various storms of life, burning bright.

While Allyson enjoyed the chicken parm and other dishes, her real reason for choosing Bellini’s for her celebration dinner was the atmosphere. She always felt relaxed and unhurried at Bellini’s. No matter how busy they were, the staff remained calm and efficient. With enough space between tables and booths, she never worried about ducking a serving tray or having to pull her chair extra close to the table. Bellini’s had a way of making her lingering anxieties fade away.

Mostly, the restaurant offered an opportunity for Allyson and her mother to put on pretty dresses—Allyson’s accessorized with her gold Honor Society stole—and enjoy a special evening as a family. And what better way to introduce Cameron to everyone than on a celebratory occasion with good food in pleasant surroundings.

Cameron had pushed Allyson’s Honor Society trophy—a modern, laser-inscribed clear obelisk—to the far end of the table, opposite the side where the server had set an extra chair for Laurie, to avoid an accident. After intermittent text notifications from school friends kept popping up on her cellphone, Allyson flipped it face down and slid it over to Cameron to place beside her trophy. They’d finished their meals, for the most part, with an occasional bite from their cooling dishes, and everyone was laughing, having a good time. But Bellini’s soothing atmosphere hadn’t been put to the test, because Allyson’s grandmother—a potential source of conflict with her own daughter—hadn’t showed. Allyson focused on the positives of Cameron not freaking out over meeting her parents and their nonjudgmental acceptance of him, rather than on her grandmother’s absence.

As Cameron told them about his family, Allyson reminded herself, Stay in the moment.

With a broad smile, Ray said, “You’re telling me! You know I went to school with your father. He used to sell me Peyote.”

“Dad!” Allyson said, mortified.

“It’s true,” Ray said. “I learned a lot about myself from tripping with Lonnie.”

“Didn’t say you were lying,” Allyson continued, keeping her voice especially low compared to her father’s outburst. “Just—embarrassing.”

“Your father has no filter,” Karen said.

“What?” Ray said, feigning innocence.

“Come on, Ray,” Karen said, chuckling, “that’s like a massive over-share for our new friend.” She turned her attention to Allyson and Cameron sitting together on the opposite side of the table. “Do you two have any special Halloween plans?”

Allyson shot Cameron a look.

“I hear there’s a teen activity at school,” Karen said, teasing. “What is it, a costume party or something?”

Karen and Ray smiled knowingly.

Cameron deferred to Allyson, who rolled her eyes at their lack of subtlety. “Obviously, you guys know about the costume dance,” she said. “But how?”

Karen shrugged. “Moms talk too.”

“What are you dressing up as?” Ray asked them.

Cameron looked to Allyson. “Should I tell him?”

“Sure.”

“Bonnie and Clyde,” Cameron said.

Ray clapped his hands together, pleased. “Classic!”

“That’ll be cute,” Karen said. “That’s fun!”

Enzo, their server, swung by the table to top up water glasses, creating a lull in the conversation. Everyone smiled, faces aglow in candlelight, Ray and Karen sipping from wine glasses. It was a companionable silence. Finally, Allyson could hold it in no longer. She had to know. “Mom, have you heard from Grandmother?”

“No,” Karen said. “I haven’t—not recently.”

“She said she would join us,” Allyson said. “She came to my school. We had a nice talk.”

“I don’t know, Allyson,” Karen said. “Maybe something came up.”

The look that flashed across her mother’s face told Allyson that her mom knew she’d been caught in a lie earlier, but she projected sincerity this time, as if to make up for the earlier deception.

“So, you didn’t get into an argument or try to scare her off?”

With a definitive shake of her head, Karen said, “Nothing of the sort.”

“Hand to God?” Allyson asked, teasing.

“With a fist bump,” Karen replied.

“Cross your heart?”

“Hope to fry!”

“Pinky swear?”

“With a round of hand jive.”

“I have the old polygraph in the trunk of the car,” Ray said. “I could wheel it in—if Mrs Bellini doesn’t mind.”

“Dad!”

Cameron leaned toward Allyson, back of his hand covering his mouth. “Your dad keeps a lie det—?”

“He’s joking.”

“What?” Ray said with a shrug. “I can’t play?”

“Okay,” Allyson said to her mom.

“Okay?” Karen asked. “So, we’re good?”

“One question,” Allyson said with a nod. “Where is she then?”

Karen’s mouth opened—

And Allyson heard her grandmother’s voice as she approached their table: “Jesus,” she said, a little breathless and twitchy, sniffling. “There you guys are. Where were you?”

Karen swiveled around to look at her mother, concerned but also a bit exasperated. “Mom?”

Laurie ignored her for the moment and addressed Allyson. “I went to the high school. Couldn’t find you guys. But either way… I’m here.”

Glancing at Karen with what might have been a silent plea for forgiveness, she turned her attention to Cameron. “And you must be the new heartthrob. What’s your name?”

“Cam—” Caught off guard by the sudden attention, Cameron started over. “Cameron Elam. Nice to meet you.”

Laurie extended her hand.

Cameron rose a bit from his seat to accept and shake it.

“He’s got a firm handshake,” Laurie said, nodding her approval. “Not wet and clammy like Ray’s.”

Rolling his eyes, Ray said, “Wonderful to see you, Laurie. We’re getting to know Cameron here and we’re having a nice little celebration in honor of Ally—”

Allyson’s peaceful state of mind began to exhibit a few cracks. She hadn’t expected rainbows and unicorns when—if—her grandmother showed up, but she’d hoped everyone could remain civil for one night.

“We’ve all got something to celebrate tonight, don’t we?” Laurie said, circling the table to place her hand on Karen’s shoulder. “How was the ceremony?”

“It was very nice,” Karen replied. “Want to have a seat, Mom?”

“I’m good.”

Laurie dipped her finger into Karen’s wine and tasted it.

Taken aback, Karen whispered to her mother, softly enough she hoped Allyson and Cameron couldn’t hear, “What are you on? You promised you weren’t drinking anymore.”

The comment wasn’t soft enough to escape Allyson’s ears, but her senses were attuned to the prospect of tension between her mother and grandmother. For his part, Cameron acted as if he hadn’t heard, but she couldn’t be sure. Maybe he’s just being polite.

“I’m not,” Laurie said, with no attempt at discretion and seemingly unaware that her behavior indicated otherwise.

Allyson thought of the expression “liquid courage” and wondered if her grandmother had decided she needed a drink or two to get through a social situation with her own daughter.

“But I think I should,” Laurie continued defensively. She sat in the chair between the two women and faced Allyson. “This is a celebration, right?”

Karen turned to Ray, maintaining her low tone. “And she wonders why we don’t reach out.”

But you’re both making it worse, Allyson thought.

Laurie reached across the table and picked up Ray’s glass to sample his wine. After she moved the glass away from her mouth, Laurie noticed the disapproving stares from everyone at the table, including Allyson herself. Allyson wanted to scream at her grandmother, Why are you doing this to yourself—to us? You’re going to ruin everything!

“I’m used to it,” Laurie said, her voice rising. “I’m a bad mom when I don’t show up, and a bad mom when I do. You don’t know who I am.” She shook her head and her voice continued to rise. Abruptly, she stood again. “I don’t know who the fuck I am.”

Now the stares came from Bellini patrons at nearby tables.

“Stop it,” Karen said firmly, palms planted on the table. “Reset. Let’s start over.”

“Yes, I agree,” Laurie said. “I want a soda water with a lime. I mean, if I look the part… Right?” Turning away from the table, she called out to the server—any server—in a loud, commanding tone. “Hello? Waiter?” When no immediate response was forthcoming, she sighed to indicate her vast disappointment in Bellini’s staff. “Does anybody work here?”

“Stop it,” Karen said again, frustrated to the point of gritting her teeth to keep her own voice level. Her forced smile bordered on terrifying. “There’s water right here.”

“I said, ‘a lime’!” Laurie exclaimed, as if that slight misunderstanding demonstrated in microcosm the entirety of their troubled relationship.

“We were just about to get the check actually,” Ray said.

“Shut up, Ray,” Laurie said brusquely. “I’m here because I love my granddaughter and want to celebrate. I’m here on this planet—in this moment—because I love her.”

Cameron stared, mouth agape.

“Mom!” cried Karen.

“That’s enough, Laurie,” Ray said, exasperated at last. “Get a hold of yourself!”

“Mom,” Karen said, overlapping Ray’s admonishment. “Mom!”

A hush fell across the restaurant.

Tranquility shattered, Allyson thought, lowering her head. Hard to remember I ever felt relaxed here. And it was all her fault. Trying to force her mother to invite her grandmother. Inviting her grandmother without telling her mother. What could go wrong?

She wanted to hide under the table.

Breaking the abrupt silence, Karen spoke to her mother in a tone that had the air of finality. “Remember what you said? You said you were going to put your past behind you. Do it now.”

Embarrassed, or maybe defiant, Allyson could no longer tell, her grandmother couldn’t look Karen in the eye. But when she spoke, her voice dropped to a pained whisper. “I can’t.”

After the rollercoaster of emotions, Allyson’s eyes filled with tears. It was too much. First, she’d been disappointed that her grandmother hadn’t shown up, followed by a warm sense of relief that she’d come—better late than never. Then everything crumbled into more disappointment as the family gathering hadn’t turned out anything like she’d hoped. And if that hadn’t been bad enough, now she had to deal with public embarrassment in front of Cameron and the entire evening crowd at Bellini’s—all before her grandmother even had time to take a bite of food at their table. She wondered if she could ever show her face in Bellini’s again.

Without saying another word, Laurie turned and walked out.

Not wanting to face Cameron, Allyson looked through the window to follow her grandmother’s retreat across the parking lot toward the busy boulevard. A moment later, Allyson clutched the edge of the table. Her grandmother stepped off the curb without even acknowledging traffic. A car swerved. Multiple horns blared.

Laurie caught herself, stepped back up onto the curb, as if only then realizing where she was and where she’d been about to walk. Something in Allyson jarred her out of her own embarrassed paralysis. Scooting out of her chair and ignoring the voices of her family calling after her, Allyson hurried through the door, across the lot, and made her way across the street—after checking traffic—to join her grandmother by her pickup truck.

Without a word, she wrapped her arms around the older woman, who hugged her back as fiercely. For the moment, Allyson’s embarrassment was gone. Her grandmother was safe. Right then, nothing else mattered.

10

After the Wildcats game, fourteen-year-old Kevin and his father stopped at Parisi’s Pizza Palace for an early dinner of their “world famous” deep dish pepperoni and sausage, which had become a bit of a tradition after they attended one of Northwestern’s games. Though, with each passing year, Kevin viewed the “world famous” claim with a little more skepticism. But the trips were infrequent enough to stir a bit of nostalgia for father and son, which made it worth sitting in traffic and waiting for a table.

By the time they began their return trip home in the old Bronco, the sun hung low in the autumn sky. Within thirty minutes, darkness fell, and the weight of the long day settled in. Traffic thinned to the point of occasional headlights becoming lonely beacons zipping by in the northbound lanes while, in front of them, the scattered string of red taillights dwindled to single digits.

Still miles from home, Kevin realized they were alone by the time his father turned onto a state road that would complete the final leg of their journey. Without streetlights, the rural road gave the impression that they were driving across an uninhabited island of encroaching darkness. The Bronco’s headlights revealed the dashed line in front of them separating the two lanes of the road, narrow dirt and gravel shoulders on either side edged with tall grass and weeds. But beyond the reach of the headlights and immediately behind them, darkness ruled. The science geeks in school would probably love the lack of light pollution. Perfect for stargazing, they’d say. Fine, if you didn’t mind a swarm of bugs eating you alive.

Rather than gaze up at the stars, Kevin imagined what would happen if his father’s old Bronco broke down out in the boonies, and what a massive pain in the ass it would be to walk home. Because he had no doubt cell reception would suck—if it existed at all out here. No chance of calling a tow truck to rescue them from bugs-burg.

Radio stations had become few and far between. As one faded, the next was slow to come into range. His father worked the radio dial, searching for anything that sounded better than an annoying jumble of static punctuated with snippets of news programs or blips of top-forty radio. But static ruled the night.

“I can’t get reception on this thing,” his father grumbled, “ever since the antenna was bent at the car wash.”

“Maybe there’s nothing out here,” Kevin said.

“Oh, there are plenty of signals, believe me,” his father said. “I should’ve made the car wash pay for a new antenna.”

“On this car?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s old, Dad.”

“Vintage.”

“Fancy word for old,” Kevin said. “You could buy a new radio.”

“How many times—?” his father began. “It’s not the radio. It’s the antenna.”

“Whatever.”

“Now that I think about it, maybe you’re right,” his father said. “Maybe I can get them to pay for a new radio. That’s what I should have done. But no, try to be the nice guy. Oh, no big deal, just an antenna. Don’t worry about it, Mr Carwash Owner.”

Kevin chuckled. “You called him that?”

His father frowned. “No, of course not. Don’t know the man’s name. I just—didn’t want to make a fuss.” Sighing, his father gave up searching for a station and turned the static down to a soft buzz, hoping something would resolve. “Let’s talk about something else.”

Great, Kevin thought. First the radio craps out. What next? Maybe it’s a warning, a bad omen or something, that the Bronco is about to throw a rod or explode or something. Weird how the darkness—the complete isolation—made him worry. He’d heard the expression of whistling when you walked past a graveyard, a way to avoid dwelling on unpleasant thoughts. And Kevin kept circling back to the idea of the Bronco dying and him becoming an unwilling blood donor to the airborne bug population of Illinois, so he was happy to talk about his favorite subject. College football. “Can you believe that game?”

“Can’t win ’em all,” his father said, which seemed like someone ending an uncomfortable conversation.

“Imagine if they had won last week,” Kevin pressed on. “They got hit with that eighteenth-ranked offense, but they totally failed in ball protection. The season-worst marks of negative-eight rushing yards, 295 total yards and five turnovers.”

“When it rains it pours.”

“Five frigging turnovers,” Kevin said. “Doesn’t that get in your head?”

“You play the game, you gotta have short-term memory, Kev.”

“Yeah, right,” Kevin said, unwilling to give up on his argument. “Randall scored twenty-eight points off those takeaways, including twenty-one in the decisive second half.”

“They got rolling, never lost momentum,” his father said with a slight shrug, hands remaining on the steering wheel. “It happens.”

“Our guys completely lost confidence after that,” Kevin said. “Played scared. And if you play not to lose, what usually happens?”

“You lose!” they said in unison.

Static crackled through the speakers, rising above the low hum. His father turned up the volume and started punching buttons for preset stations, but they were probably still out of range. Frustrated again, his father worked his way up and down the dial, trying to find anything listenable.

“Let me try,” Kevin said. “You just… drive.”

“The hell you think I’m doing?” his father grumbled. “Been driving all damn day.”

Kevin had the image of his father, distracted by the radio, veering off the road into a ditch and busting an axle. Cue the bug swarms. So, he fiddled with the dial, trying to tune in music or a talk show. Hell, he’d settle for a weather report. Wispy patches of fog hung in the air on both sides of them, with some low over the road ahead, further reducing visibility.

For a moment or two, a man’s voice came through the speakers talking about bond yields and rising mortgage rates. Figures, he thought, a bunch of boring crap. But maybe it would calm his father down. “There—I’ve got someth—” A sharp burst of static swallowed the lone voice in the radio wilderness.

“Dammit!” his father said. “Can’t we just listen to the silence?”

“Sure, Dad,” Kevin began, looking up as his father happened to glance down at the radio, and seeing—

“Dad, look out!”

At the farthest reaches of the headlights stood a gaunt man wearing a white shirt over white trousers standing in the middle of the road. Initially, Kevin thought he was a ghost, as insubstantial as the patches of fog the Bronco passed through. But details formed quickly—wrinkles in the man’s shirt, smudges of dirt on his pant cuffs. Kevin’s father slammed on the brakes, swerving to avoid a direct hit. The Bronco skidded to a stop, with the driver’s side door inches from the placid man, who had made no attempt to avoid the collision. Like a deer in the headlights, Kevin thought. But it was more than shock, as if the man didn’t care what happened to him or didn’t believe the Bronco could hurt him. If Kevin had looked up a split second later…

“Christ,” his father said breathlessly, face pale, hands trembling on the wheel. “He came out of nowhere…”

But he’d been there the whole time the Bronco bore down on him, cloaked in fog and darkness until the headlights revealed him. Not behaving as a normal person would. “Something’s wrong with him, Dad.”

“Lucky he’s still alive,” his father said. “Why is he dressed like that? Like a dishwasher or an orderly?”

“Don’t know,” Kevin said. “Guess you could ask him.”

“Right,” Kevin’s father said, rolling down his window. His hands seemed a bit unsteady but no longer trembled. Looking out the window, he called, “What the hell happened to you, Hoss?”

The man focused on him for a moment. Then, distracted by something only he saw or heard, turned away without a word.

“Oh, shit,” Kevin said. “Dad, look.”

To their left, several men wandered aimlessly in the tall grass, like ghosts risen from a graveyard, dressed alike in white shirts and trousers. A few had the letters “S.G.” stenciled on their sleeves or pant legs. So, not their own initials. They looked confused or lost… or ill.

“Are they hospital patients?” Kevin asked.

“Here—now? What? A field trip at night?” his father said. “There’s no hospital near here. Unless…”

Kevin had a follow-up question but lost his train of thought when he spotted the transport bus, near a thicket of trees, as if it had veered off the road and rolled to a stop down the steep embankment. Under a canopy of tree branches, its emergency lights blinked.

“Look,” Kevin said, pointing. “By the trees.”

His father saw it, nodded. “Didn’t crash,” he said. “Probably broke down. But who’s in charge?”

Kevin shook his head.

“Stay here, Lumpy,” his father said, calling him by the nickname he hoped he’d outgrow before it became permanent. “I’ll check it out.”

Before climbing out of the Bronco, his father took a mag light from the glove box, then reached behind the front seats to grab one of their two hunting rifles from the hanging rack.

“Dad, what’s up with the rifle?”

“Nothing,” his father said quickly. “Better safe than sorry.”

The gaunt man had wandered away from the Bronco, back toward the wild grass and the other hospital patients. Kevin’s father strode past him toward the larger group, calling out, “Hey! You okay? You fellas all right? Need some help out here?”

“There’s no hospital near here. Unless…”

That one word, “unless,” lingered in Kevin’s mind. Whatever his father had chosen to keep from him seemed like something he should worry about. Maybe there were worse things than blood-sucking insects in the boonies. Praying he’d have a signal strong enough to make a call, Kevin took out his cellphone and checked the display. Low battery, but he had a few bars. He dialed 911. One bar flickered off. The line rang, the audio glitching as the digital signal tried to recover. Come on, he thought, willing the connection to—

Slap!

Something struck his window, jarring him.

“Jesus!”

He nearly dropped the phone—just as a calm voice rose from the tiny speaker.

Alarmed by the loud noise to his right, he turned his attention toward the window. One of the wandering apparitions stood on his side of the Bronco, meaty palm pressed to the tempered safety glass. Tearing his gaze away from the large hand, his focus shifted to the round face staring at him, smiling like a madman. He imagined the voice behind that smile saying, “Wanna come out and play?”

Unable to speak, Kevin shook his head.

Still smiling, the large man finally turned and wandered off.

Kevin saw a chain around his waist like a belt and what looked like an opened pair of handcuffs dangling from another chain attached to the belt.

The reassuring voice on the phone speaker gradually registered again, bringing Kevin back to the task at hand. “Yes? Hello? Yes,” he spoke quickly, afraid the emergency operator might decide he was a prank caller and hang up. “There’s been an accident or something… There’s a bus. People running around in the road…” Of course, she wanted to know where he was. “Lemme check.”

Kevin looked out the window. It was too dark behind the Bronco, nothing ahead within range of the headlights. An idea struck him, and he flipped on the high beams, expanding the range of the headlights. Raising the phone to his mouth, he said, “Yeah. Looks like mile 227.”

“Are you on Marla Road?” the operator asked.

“Yes. That back road just past Old Gibbs Bridge.”

“Is anyone injured?”

“My dad went to look. I don’t know. Hold on, I’ll go check…”

A quick scan of the area revealed nobody lurking near the Bronco, so he opened his door and stepped out. Without a flashlight of his own, he couldn’t be sure, but all the patients had vanished. He’d only been distracted on the phone for a few moments, yet the whole area seemed deserted—silent.

He called nervously, “Dad?”

No answer.

Where could—?

Of course, he realized. They must have gotten back on the bus. But what about his father? No sign of him either. Would he—?

“Unless…”

Kevin reached back into the Bronco and grabbed the other hunting rifle from the seat rack and clutched it in his sweaty palms. A nervous chuckle escaped his lips. A few minutes ago, his biggest fear was biting insects. Now he wasn’t sure what they had stumbled into…

Eyes locked on the bus in front of him, its emergency lights winking at him, he crossed the road onto the shoulder, feeling the gravel shift and crunch underfoot. His next step took him into the tall grass and the unrelenting darkness beyond the illuminating cones of the Bronco’s headlights. Here the ground was uneven, littered with rocks—treacherous, if he had to run. Slow and steady and—

—an arm flailed out of the grass, the hand clutching his ankle.

Kevin gasped, stumbled—almost fell.

Eyes straining, he made out a dark uniform, a man with a hard face and a crewcut that made Kevin think: military. The man’s face was drawn, streaked with blood. He was dying. Kevin was certain of that. It seemed like he’d used the last of his strength to stop Kevin with his outflung arm.

“Help.”

Crouching, Kevin examined the man, who was covered in blood. Nametag on the chest pocket identified him as Kuneman. “The police are on their way,” he assured the man. Give him hope, maybe he can hold on. “What happened? Where’s my dad?”

Kuneman opened his mouth, muttered something unintelligible, then turned his head and spit up a clot of blood.

Is he bleeding internally? How bad is it? What’s happened? He’d tried to tell Kevin something, but his voice had been faint, too muddled for him to hear. “Can’t understand—” Kevin began.

Kuneman gurgled, more blood gushing out of his mouth.

Rising, Kevin said, “Wait there. I’ll get my dad.”

Kevin knew nothing about first aid, couldn’t help the man and couldn’t bear to stand there doing nothing while he bled to death. His father would know what to do. They’d figure something out until the police and an ambulance arrived.

“No,” Kuneman said, the sound coming out like a desperate cough. His hand flailed around, trying to clutch Kevin’s ankle again, but he’d stepped away too far for the dying man to reach him. “Run.”

Kevin thought he’d say more, but his head fell back, eyes rolling up as he passed out. For a moment, Kevin thought of checking for a pulse, to verify if Kuneman was dead or simply unconscious, but the idea freaked him out. Either way, there wasn’t anything he could do for the man. He looked around, straining to see in the darkness. This far from the Bronco, only the pulsing emergency lights of the bus helped reveal his surroundings.

He wiped each damp palm on his pants, then clutched the rifle high, aiming it now, but not seeing a target. Heart racing, he took one meticulous step after another, closing the distance between him and the bus, wondering if any second another hand would reach out and grab him.

Closer to the bus, he could finally see the lettering on the side, which read, ILLINOIS DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS. A prison bus…

“Dad?” he called, hoping his father would step off the bus and assure him the situation was under control, and tell him to go back to the Bronco and wait for the authorities. But he heard no reassurances. His old fear, the child’s fear of the dark, felt as real as ever at that moment, the monster under the bed, the Boogeyman lurking in the closet. As the open door of the bus loomed ahead, the years melted away. “Daddy?”

Raising the sights of the rifle close to his right eye, he stepped onto the dark bus and up the stairs, his weight eliciting a creak of metal.

Before he reached the top of the steps, he saw the bus driver, slumped over the large steering wheel. If the driver had had a heart attack, that would explain the bus veering off the road, rumbling to a stop by the trees. But something looked off, the driver’s neck…

He peered into the back of the bus, past the dead driver and a front section divided from the rear by a metal partition, which hung open. But nobody else was on the—

Then he noticed a man in a guard’s uniform sprawled on the floor, partially hidden by one of the seats, his exposed neck wet with blood.

“Oh, shit!” Kevin whispered, trembling. “Dad…?”

Sweeping the rifle barrel left to right and back again, he took a cautious step forward, then another, seeing noth—

A blur of motion as someone rose from under a seat.

“Don’t shoot.”

BLAM!

Inside the dark bus, the roar of the rifle was deafening.

The accented voice had spoken a split second too late. Fearing a disturbed patient—or prisoner—had been about to attack him in that sudden movement, Kevin’s index finger had convulsed on the trigger.

The shot hit the gray-haired man in the left shoulder, twisting his body.

Kevin suddenly realized the man wore a business suit—not patient scrubs or an inmate uniform. Then the man collapsed.

“Aw, ffff—”

He’d shot the guy in charge!

Panicked, Kevin ran, thundering down the bus steps, racing through the high grass, heedless of any grasping hands that might try to stop him, making a beeline for the Bronco. He stumbled once, felt his ankle rolling, recovered, crossed the shoulder of the road and ran to the driver’s side door. Fortunately, his father had left his keys in the ignition. Fumbling the door open, he tossed his rifle onto the vacant passenger seat and settled into the driver’s seat.

Kevin couldn’t recall where he’d left his phone. On the dash, he thought, but it wasn’t there. And he couldn’t remember if he’d closed the passenger door before checking the bus. Doesn’t matter, he told himself. Worry about it later.

He turned the key in the ignition. Though he didn’t have his license and was too young for a driver’s permit, he’d had a little experience behind the wheel when his father indulged his curiosity by letting him drive around an empty shopping center parking lot. Besides, the road was deserted. No other cars to hit. Take it slow and steady.

About to shift the car into drive, he adjusted the rearview mirror and glanced at the road behind him. The red glow of his taillights on the back window blotted out—

—as a dark shape rose from behind him.

His breath caught in alarm.

He glimpsed an emotionless face half cloaked in shadow—a dead left eye—a white tunic and—

Strong hands clamped around his throat, bearing down mercilessly until darkness bloomed around the edges of his vision, closing in…

11

“Sorry I scared you, dear,” Laurie said as she held Allyson close. “Your grandmother hasn’t gone senile. I was distracted for a moment. That’s all. Won’t happen again. Promise.”

As she disengaged from the hug, she dabbed at a welling tear with the knuckle of her index finger. Allyson’s eyes were bright with unshed tears as well. But Laurie worried the source of Allyson’s tears went beyond witnessing her nearly step into the path of an oncoming car. Oh, that had frightened her, no doubt, but that had simply been the exclamation point to the evening, after Laurie’s unforgivable behavior inside the restaurant. No matter how much she tried to change, she continued to alienate her daughter and disappoint her granddaughter.

“Good,” Allyson said, flashing a tentative smile. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Goes double for me, kiddo,” Laurie said, fighting back fresh tears. She wondered if an absentee grandmother might be the best thing for the young woman’s emotional health. “And I’m sorry about ruining your special night.”

“You didn’t ruin it,” Allyson said. “It was fine…”

Until I showed up, Laurie thought. Probably a good thing I arrived late to the party.

Laurie looked up, saw that Karen had crossed the street and stood at a distance, allowing her time with her granddaughter. At a break in traffic, Ray and Cameron crossed over, the latter carrying Allyson’s trophy, cellphone and coat. Both veered toward Laurie and Allyson, bypassing Karen.

Laurie turned back to Allyson. “I should go…”

“You could stay,” Allyson said. “Come to the house, if you want.”

“Probably better if I go,” Laurie said. “Right now I’m a basket case.” She smiled. “Think we all agree on that! Like your mother said, I should ‘reset.’ Start fresh next time.”

“Soon,” Allyson said. “Promise.”

“Promise,” Laurie said, squeezing Allyson’s hand between hers.

Allyson darted in for a quick kiss on Laurie’s cheek, then turned away, curled fist pressed to her trembling lips, and hurried to her mother. Laurie fought the urge to run after her, to try to comfort her, but realized the girl needed her mother for that. Her mother had always been in her life. Laurie had been too much of a stranger. While the family bonds were there, they felt frayed and tenuous.

Laurie had to work on herself. Even after watching him board that transport bus and ostensibly roll out of her life for good, she couldn’t let it go, the underlying threat of him. While he lived, even in solitary in a supermax facility, she couldn’t truly be free of the fear of him coming back to finish what he had started forty years ago. In her darkest moments she wondered if she could be free even after he died. Would the memory of that night haunt her until her own death, sabotaging her relationships for the rest of her days?

As Ray and Cameron approached, Cameron reached out to give Allyson her belongings, but she hurried past him into her mother’s arms.

Ray walked up to Laurie beside her pickup. Clearly he had something on his mind—and she probably deserved whatever he was about to say. She decided to preempt his attack with a mea culpa. “Yes, Ray,” she said. “I messed up. Won’t happen again. But it probably will. I’m not perfect, but I’m trying to be… better.”

Ray stared at her.

“Is that all you have to say?” she asked, quirking a smile.

“Are you safe to drive?”

Cameron stood next to him.

“Cameron,” Laurie said. “Pleasure to meet you, however briefly. I hope we’ll have time to get to know each other—under better circumstances.”

“Sure,” Cameron said, nodding. “No problem.”

After that he drifted back a step or two, casually looking side to side, removing himself from the conversation.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Ray persisted.

“Of course I’m okay to drive,” Laurie said.

“You’ve had a few.”

“Not all my problems are alcohol-related,” Laurie said. “Today was more… more than I expected. But I’m better now—getting better.”

“That girl loves you, you know,” Ray said.

Laurie nodded. A fresh lump in her throat prevented her from speaking.

“Don’t let her down.”

Laurie inferred the unspoken “too” at the end of his statement. She appreciated the kindness of the omitted accusation. An olive branch of sorts, but a small one, because she also read the warning in his statement.

With the strength of conviction, she said, “I won’t.”

Ray waited while she climbed into the pickup and stood with Cameron as she pulled away from the curb and slipped into the flow of traffic. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she glanced in the rearview mirror, watching them recede from view. Without her in their orbit, they were normal. That’s what everyone wanted. A normal life. Something she could never have.

She never intended to disappoint her family. But she prioritized their lives and safety over having a normal existence. Laurie had raised Karen to face—to survive—the Boogeyman, an enemy Karen, fortunately, had never known and, because of that, she never understood Laurie’s extreme behavior. She only witnessed one side in the battle of wills: the preparation to battle an implacable evil.

“You can’t kill the Boogeyman.”

Laurie had never forgotten the frightened words of Tommy Doyle, her young babysitting charge from that dreadful night. If there was no end to the Boogeyman, how could Laurie lower her guard? As the “one that got away” from a madman, from evil, she would never be safe. Instead of hiding in fear, she had chosen to prepare herself for when the day came—not if, but when. And because of who she was, Karen and Allyson were at risk as well. She knew the danger they faced even if it was beyond their comprehension.

In Karen’s case, ignorance hadn’t been bliss. Instead, she’d been a child frightened by her own mother and her bizarre behavior. They’d taken Karen away from Laurie, and Karen’s life had improved because of it. So, Karen kept Allyson away from Laurie. And despite her best intentions, Laurie’s actions and behavior continued to reinforce her daughter’s belief that Allyson was better off without her.

Allyson, in typical teenage rebellion, fought against restrictions, which brought her closer to Laurie. But another incident or two like the aborted dinner celebration tonight and Laurie might just succeed in pushing away another generation of the Strode family.

No matter how much she tortured herself debating “what if” and “what could have been,” the inescapable truth for Laurie was that even knowing what she knew now, she would not have done anything differently. She believed, even to this day, that her difficult path had prepared her for what was to come. If he died and she was wrong, she might have regrets, but her conviction remained strong.

She hadn’t seen the last of him…

* * *

Karen hugged her daughter until she regained some control of her emotions following her grandmother’s outburst in Bellini’s and the near miss outside the restaurant. When Allyson calmed, Karen leaned back, holding her daughter by the shoulders, not letting go yet.

Ray and Cameron, who had talked briefly with Laurie, stepped away from the pickup truck as it pulled away from the curb.

“You needed to see this,” Karen said to Allyson. “You need to know. She’s a missionary one minute and a mercenary the next. I was raised to trust no one.” Discussing her childhood brought vivid images to Karen’s mind. Suddenly, she’s eight years old again, perched in a deer blind, her mother beside her as she sights down the barrel of a rifle and pulls the trigger—BLAM!

“Our house was a bunker. I lived on lockdown my entire childhood. We’d hide in the basement every time the paranoia set in. I still have nightmares about that room.” Karen paused, trying to shake off a visceral memory of the dank basement, the stale air, her mother’s anxious whispering in her ear, planting the seeds for a lifetime of nightmares. She’s eight again, mopping the basement floor when she looks up and sees her mother in silhouette above the staircase, staring down at her.

“She didn’t let me go to school. Instead she trained me to shoot and fight…” Ten-year-old Karen punches and kicks a homemade punching bag hanging from a tree as her mother shouts, “Again! Again!” Never a tire swing or hammock in their backyard. Only the heavy bag and various objects for target practice.

“Until social services came and took me away.” Young Karen, twelve years old now, sits in the back of a county sedan, tall enough to look out the window and see her mother on the porch, receding in the distance. At that moment, Karen feels completely alone in the world. Less than a year after that traumatic separation, Karen began to experience the freedom of a mostly normal childhood, absent of the claustrophobia and paranoia that ruled her mother’s world. “I’ve had to unlearn the neurosis she planted in my head.”

Ray approached mother and daughter, with Cameron trailing behind, carrying Allyson’s belongings. She took her coat from him and slipped it on to ward off the chill in the air. Looking from Allyson to Karen, Ray said, “I’ll never understand your mother.”

“She chose this,” Karen said. “Chose this obsession.”

“To be fair,” Ray said, “wasn’t it the other way around?”

“No,” Karen said. “I’m not talking about what happened to her. I’m talking about her reaction to it. It’s like she’s spent her entire adult life preparing for the past. She’s lived every day in fear he’s coming back. And now she doesn’t know what to do.”

“Well, he’s long gone now,” Ray said after a glance at his wristwatch. “So, she needs to figure it out.”

“She’s broken, Ray,” Karen said. “I don’t think she can.”

* * *

Officer Frank Hawkins demonstrated his pinball wizardry on his favorite machine at the back of Kasey’s Quick Stop. This one had a space battle theme, called “Mission: Alpha” in a blood-red font, with pictures of spaceships and tentacled aliens on the backbox. Something about the design reminded him of one of his favorite films, War of the Worlds. The Gene Barry version, not the Cruise remake. Simpler times. When it was comforting to think that something as basic as an earth germ could thwart an overwhelming planetary invasion. These days, long after he should have retired from the force, there were never any easy answers, not in film or real life. Everything was so damn complicated.

At least pinball remained simple—long as you knew how to rock the playfield with as much skill as Wizard Hawkins. Yes, he was in the zone.

“Mission: Alpha” blinked, blooped, buzzed, clicked, clacked; ringing bells and flashing lights were interspersed with ray-gun sound effects and staticky explosions. His score climbed to dizzying heights, the entire machine trembling as he pounded on the flipper buttons to keep the silver ball in play.

Corey and Stanford, fellow officers on break, stood on either side of him, spectating while offering occasional suggestions. Shameel, the night clerk, stood near the counter, filling large plastic cups from the slushy fountain.

“Yo, Hawkins, you want that strawberry slushy or blue raspberry slushy?” Shameel called.

“I’m in wizard mode, Shameel,” Hawkins called back without taking his eyes off the ricocheting ball. “Get me a coffee if you don’t mind. Thanks. I’ll get you back.”

“I’ll have the strawberry,” Stanford said.

Smirking, Corey said, “No shit.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Stanford asked defensively.

“You always get strawberry.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do,” Corey said. “Every. Damn. Time. Doesn’t he, Hawk?”

“Leave me out of this.”

Stanford shrugged. “I know what I like.”

“Change it up for once,” Corey said.

“Nothing wrong with strawberry.”

“Try the damn blue raspberry!”

“You guys mind?” Hawkins said. “Working my magic here—damn!”

One bad ricochet and the ball arced right through the gap between flippers, almost in slow motion and, short of a hip check, he couldn’t do a thing about it. As the ball vanished from play, he rapped the glass with the edge of his fist. “Believe that shit?”

“Don’t abuse the machine,” Shameel said sternly, quickly adding, “Officer.”

“Hot fuzz was born to lose,” Corey said, with a razzing shake of his head. “Get that flow play.”

At least Stanford had something helpful to add. “If the ball comes down loose, don’t hit the bounce pass,” he said. “It’s gonna hit off that broken flipper then whack the bottom of the slingshot and go down the middle.”

“Where was that advice sixty seconds ago?”

“Hey, I’m not the wizard.”

“Right,” Hawkins said. Live by the sword…

A new ball emerged—

—and Hawkins’ radio squawked. “Dispatch to unit 601. We have a 10-50 on Marla Road. Please respond.”

With a sigh, Hawkins reached up and squeezed the transmit button on his radio’s remote speaker mic. “Copy, dispatch,” he said. “I’m on my way.”

Shameel intercepted Hawkins to hand him his coffee.

“Thanks, man.” He took a sip of the coffee, gave a thumbs up, then called back to the others. “Hey, Corey, take over my game. Hot fuzz was born to lose.”

Corey would flame out in two minutes. Guaranteed.

As Hawkins walked out of the convenience store, the plate-glass door closing behind him, Stanford shouted, “Back to the beat, Hawk! Serve and protect.”

Hawkins smiled. “Up yours, Stanford!”

* * *

Once in his patrol car, Hawkins requested an exact location for the 10-50 and proceeded down the deserted stretch of Marla Road until he spotted the mile marker and the flashing hazard lights of the transport bus. He slowed the cruiser until the shape of the bus resolved itself against the backdrop of trees and overhanging branches. Briefly, he wondered why the bus driver had driven past the shoulder of the road and down the embankment. Not a breakdown or loss of power then. Possible he fell asleep at the wheel or had a heart attack. Maybe swerved to avoid a deer.

Hawkins steered onto the shoulder of the road and flipped on his light bar, bathing the scene in flickering red and blue lights. Hand on his sidearm, he climbed out of the cruiser looking for bus passengers but saw nobody.

“Sheriff’s Department!” he called into the darkness. “If you need assistance, please let yourself be known!”

He took a step forward and nearly tripped over a bloodied man in uniform lying in the gravel on the shoulder of the road. Hawkins’ attention had been focused on the abandoned bus. Another few feet and he might have run over the body.

Hawkins pressed the transmit button on his mic. “Signal 13. I have an officer down. Officer down. I need assistance. Send backup right away.”

“Copy that, 601,” dispatch responded.

Hawkins considered himself fit, especially for someone in his early sixties, but when he crouched to check the prone man for a pulse, his aging knees raised a painful protest, a silent reminder of his own mortality. Unfortunately, Kuneman—the name stitched on the man’s uniform—was beyond Hawkins’ help.

Without turning his back on the scene, Hawkins reached into his patrol car and grabbed his shotgun with the SureFire WeaponLight. Shotgun elevated, close to firing position, he stalked forward, arcing the light across the length of the bus. “‘Illinois Department of Corrections,’” he read aloud. “Not good.”

Something at the back of the bus caught his eye. A few steps closer and he made out a figure sitting in the glare of the blinking red light, looking up awkwardly.

Hawkins directed the beam of light on the figure. “Show me your hands!”

No movement.

“Now!”

Nothing. Another few steps removed any doubt. The man—civilian in his forties—was dead. Extreme head tilt, mouth agape. Up close, the SureFire light revealed a broken neck, and shattered vertebrae pressing against the taut flesh of the man’s discolored throat.

Next to the man, Hawkins saw the boy—a teenager, the man’s son—who’d placed the emergency call, lying in a pool of his own blood. The kid’s throat had been savaged, so Hawkins dropped to one knee and checked his wrist for a pulse. Nothing.

At the sound of a voice calling from inside the bus, Hawkins’ gaze shifted upward, to the rear door of the bus. He checked, found it unlocked, and swung the door open to peer into the bus’s dark interior. Bracing his left hand against the door frame, he stepped up, keeping the shotgun and light trained forward throughout.

“Show your hands!”

A faint voice replied, “I can’t.”

Hawkins followed the sound of the voice and directed the SureFire light at the bloodied figure of a graying man with a mustache, wearing a brown business suit, chained to a seat. Squinting, the man gasped in pain from a shoulder wound, his body sagging with weakness.

“Sir. Help is coming,” Hawkins said. The wound didn’t look fatal, but Hawkins couldn’t tell how much blood the man had lost or if he’d suffered other injuries. He looked about as old as Hawkins and was at risk of going into shock or cardiac arrest. According to ID in the man’s wallet, he was a doctor at Smith’s Grove, Ranbir Sartain. “Stay with me!”

Abruptly, Sartain looked up, revived, as if suddenly remembering something of the utmost importance. Eyes wild, he asked, “Did he… Did he escape?”

Judging by the man’s alarm, Hawkins suspected one man had been responsible for no less than three murders here tonight.

“Who?” Hawkins asked and got no response. “Who? Did who escape?”

Sartain’s eyelids drifted down, the spark that had temporarily revived him fading, succumbing to unconsciousness.

Hawkins heard the approaching wail of sirens.

12

October 31st

In addition to a strong cup of coffee, Dana relied on a hot shower to start a new day, otherwise she stumbled through her morning a muddle-headed mess. Unfortunately, the budget motel’s water pressure wasn’t quite up to the task of revivifying lethargic muscles. Or maybe she should blame the generic showerhead. Its default setting—the only setting—could best be described as gentle rain. She’d spent a fair amount of time shampooing her long red hair, and it was taking a godawful amount of time to rinse out the lather. If she didn’t skip the conditioner, she’d probably run out of hot water.

Head bowed directly under the showerhead, she closed her eyes and stood still, letting the water course through her hair. She tried to speed the process by wringing suds and water at the ends with a twist of her hands.

A slight sound—a creak—not of her own making caught her attention.

She raised her head and turned toward the translucent shower curtain, blinking the misty spray from her eyes. Steam billowed up from her shower, spreading through the bathroom beyond. Thinking her imagination had begun to run wild, she almost turned back toward the showerhead but froze. The rectangular shape of the door shifted several inches, opening.

Had she heard the twist of the doorknob? The squeak of a hinge?

A moment later a shape moved through the doorway, a vague silhouette—at first. As it took several steps closer, the indistinct figure resolved into the shape of a man who then stood still, waiting. Something about the silhouette disturbed her on a subconscious level. Something not quite… human.

Incipient fear gnawed at her, stealing her voice, catching her breath.

Abruptly, the figure’s arm rose, hand gripping the edge of the shower curtain and yanking it aside, revealing—

A naked man—save for the pale Michael Myers mask with its shock of brown hair that hid his face—stood before her. Her scream died in her throat, flushed away with a surge of relief. Even with his face hidden, she recognized his tall physique.

“Room for one more?” Aaron asked.

Dana laughed. “Take that hideous thing off.”

Aaron reached around to the back of the mask and tugged it off.

“God, Aaron,” she said. “You scared me half to death. Thought you went out for coffee.”

“That was ages ago,” he said. “You have any idea how long you’ve been in here?”

She smiled. “Ages, I would assume.”

“Sounds about right,” Aaron said, then looked down thoughtfully at the mask. “When I wear this, there is a certain tendency or… inclination that the legacy of the mask seems to inspire.”

“Please don’t murder me.”

Aaron laid the mask on the counter. Then he took her hand and raised it to his lips like a nobleman greeting a lady in a Regency romance novel—except for the little detail of their both being nude, one soaking wet and a bit soapy.

“I would never,” he said. “I need your smile.”

“Get in here already,” she said, laughing. “I’m getting cold.”

Aaron stepped into the shower, pulling the curtain behind him to lock in the heat and steam. His hands held her waist, sliding down to the swell of her hips as he brought her close to him.

With the bathroom door open, Dana heard the murmur of voices coming from the television, which Aaron had left on in the other room. A reporter mentioned something about an empty bus abandoned the previous night on the side of the road. She couldn’t hear any more and, as Aaron pulled her in for a lingering kiss on the lips, the intimate confines of the shower stall held her full attention.

As she felt him firm against her, she murmured, “Who needs coffee?”

* * *

Allyson leaned into her run, a slight forward tilt of momentum that propelled her through her morning miles. A new day. A new start. Her grandmother had talked about a reset. But each reset had a bit of a rewind built into it, a tendency to make the same mistakes all over again. Can’t change the past, Allyson thought, so you might as well look forward to new choices, new experiences.

Karen couldn’t stop blaming Laurie for her mistakes. And Laurie couldn’t escape the rut of old, destructive behaviors. Allyson wanted them to stop dwelling on the dysfunction, to be better—different—if that was even possible for them. But she was starting to believe neither one of them could change, which broke her heart.

As Allyson passed the community garden on her morning route, she noticed a shape out of the corner of her eye, someone moving in the shadows. She slowed and turned her head to look back. But she saw nobody, not even the woman in the saree, the apparent caretaker for the garden. Maybe she’d imagined the movement. With a shrug, she picked up her pace and moved on.

Less than a minute or two later, she noticed a few people congregating near the large tree whose roots had tilted several slabs of sidewalk from below, creating a tripping hazard for walkers and runners alike. She made a habit of running on the shoulder of the road when she approached that tree, rather than faceplant for a second time.

God, that had been painful! She’d scraped her palms raw and sprained her ankle. Bobby Hall, who had been delivering sandwich orders for a local deli in his dinged-up PT Cruiser, had laughed his ass off. She did her best to ignore the jerk, but felt her face flush, probably beet red. And she couldn’t confirm but wanted to believe smoke curled from her ears to express her silent fury. She’d tried to hobble home but gave up and called her mom for a lift.

Now she wondered what had caused the commotion at her tree of shame. Everyone there seemed to be looking at something in the tree. Curious, she veered over to the group, slowing to a jog.

Somebody said, “Who in the hell would do this?”

Another voice commented, “It’s awful.”

“Horrible,” a third person agreed. “Somebody should call the cops.”

Allyson stopped, sidestepping to locate the object of their interest. She gasped. Their attention was focused not on the tree, but on something hanging from a branch. Someone had killed a dog, then hogtied it and hung it upside down. Its swollen tongue, stippled with blood, protruded from its twisted mouth, black lips flecked with spittle. The rope creaked softly as it moved in the breeze. A moment of sympathetic grief over someone’s slaughtered pet transformed into something more personal as Allyson realized she recognized the brown-and-white dog as the one that had lunged at her yesterday, barking and startling her as she passed by its wrought-iron fence.

She shuddered with a sudden chill, witness to an act of evil that had occurred maybe only a few hours ago, on a street she passed every day. An act of evil removed from her yet connected to her. As one of the onlookers reached up tentatively to touch the dog, to confirm it was dead or to untie it and lower it to the ground, Allyson turned away. She wrapped her arms around herself, feeling her sweat dry, delivering a renewed chill.

Whatever meditative calm she had achieved on her morning run was effectively shattered now. At the end of the block she saw an unfamiliar car—an old brown-and-tan Bronco—parked at the curb. A driver sat behind the wheel, face cloaked in shadows, unmoving. Indistinguishable, but the shape of a man.

Behind her, she heard her neighbors lowering the dead dog to the ground.

* * *

Laurie awoke to a frightening variety of physical discomforts. Either the pounding in her head or the deep throbbing in her lower back woke her. But the brute force of the morning sun beating down on the windshield of her pickup truck kept her gritty eyes in a squint worthy of Clint Eastwood in a spaghetti western. Hand fumbling overhead, she plucked a pair of sunglasses from a case clipped to her sun visor and slipped them on, grateful for the temporary relief.

No longer blinded by the early light, she assessed her surroundings. Two old boyfriends shared space on the passenger seat: Jim Beam and Jack Daniels. Both nearly as depleted as she felt. Was it possible for every bone in the human body to ache simultaneously? Or maybe it was just all the muscles attached to those bones that were sore. And her throat couldn’t have felt more swollen and dry if she’d gargled sand all night. Even so, she resisted the urge to wake up Jack or Jim.

Cast aside on the passenger-side floor mat, a white paper bag with the name and dual-tipped liquor bottles logo of Bucky’s Beverage Barn sparked a memory. Apparently, she’d made a stop after leaving Bellini’s to drown her parental and grandparental shortcomings.

She recalled the drive back to her house. Both bottles had remained in the bag until she reached home. After that, her memory had a few holes in it. She’d sat outside, drinking, lamenting the years of her life surrendered to the cause, the fight. At some point, she’d had too much to drink to bother leaving the truck. An internal struggle had raged. A desire to blot everything out feuded with her determination not to seek any comfort in her own house, in the warmth of her own bed. In her warped thinking, she thought she’d stay in battle-ready mode if she forced herself to stay upright in the truck.

After all these years she continued to misjudge her own capacity for reckless indulgence. If there was a line she shouldn’t cross she stumbled blithely over it and forgot to look back to figure out where it was.

Laurie decided more of her problems were alcohol-related than she wanted to admit to Ray. Or to herself. Easy to keep a secret when everyone refuses to talk to you.

A glutton for punishment, she twisted the rearview mirror down to look at herself and instantly regretted it. “Oh my…”

With a groan, she pushed open the door and stumbled down from the pickup, her legs so stiff she almost fell on her face before regaining her balance. After a few deep breaths of the cool autumn air her dizziness passed, and she lumbered toward her front door, keys in hand.

* * *

Filling a glass with milk, she added some powder and stirred the mixture to make her strawberry drink. Behind her, an anchor for the local news station prattled on about one misfortune after another. A story about a sinkhole downtown segued into footage of a warehouse fire, arson suspected, and so on… Laurie’s attention wandered as she tried to recall where she’d left the bottle of extra-strength aspirin. Wasn’t in the medicine cabinet, so where…?

“Police have not determined the cause of the accident,” the news anchor said, after switching to breaking news that apparently trumped her scheduled misery playlist. If it bleeds, it leads. “But we do know there are multiple fatalities.”

Laurie stopped stirring her drink.

Her attention locked on the news report.

“According to sources, the bus was transporting personnel from a local state hospital.”

At that moment, Laurie felt an electric jolt galvanize her body. Though she’d spent a night wallowing in self-pity and self-recrimination over her life choices, she had made those hard decisions for a reason. Even in hindsight, she wouldn’t change anything. Michael had waited forty years, but his patience had finally paid off. And if Laurie had chosen any other path, she wouldn’t have been ready for this day.

The stiffness in her muscles and the aches in her joints faded away as manic energy flared inside her. First, she switched on the police scanner. Then, she made a circuit of the house, securing the doors with bolts, locks, and bars on the top, middle, and bottom. The first-floor windows might shatter but the steel-mesh barriers would keep any intruder at bay. If, by chance, he brought a hacksaw to work on the thick mesh, she’d have plenty of time to blow his brains out. Even so, she zipped her canvas curtains closed. No need to give away her position within the house.

With the perimeter of the house secure she needed to check her supplies—and her arsenal. Returning to the kitchen, she approached the island in the middle and leaned into it, twisting it counter-clockwise. The island rotated away on one corner revealing a hidden door underneath, flush with the floor.

Opening the door, she peered into the darkness of her storm shelter. From where she stood, she could make out the first three steps of the staircase, enough to descend without breaking her neck. Once low enough, her hand reached out in the darkness and flicked on a light. Now that she could see below, she reached up and closed the door behind her.

13

Mt. Sinclair Cemetery had seen better days. Or better care. At least, one would hope, Dana thought.

She and Aaron followed the caretaker, a large black woman, through tall brown grass, navigating the rows of crooked tombstones. After an invigorating morning with a most memorable shower, the day had taken a grim turn. But that was the nature of their chosen profession. And their current story.

“My cousin works at a graveyard not too far,” the caretaker said.

Once they told her whose grave they wanted to see, she hadn’t needed to consult the massive map on the wall of her office or check any charts or forms in her filing cabinets. She knew precisely where to take them. With a simple, “Follow me,” she led them across the graveyard.

“Over there,” she said, “they got war generals, philanthropists, a beatnik poet. They got Muddy Waters and Bernie Mac. People come from all over to pay respects.” She shook her head in professional envy. “But this is Haddonfield. This is our only claim to fame.”

Aaron asked, “How much farther?”

“Just ahead,” the woman said, pointing toward a slight rise.

They walked for a minute at most before the woman stopped and pointed to a tombstone. Dana edged around Aaron for a closer look, dropping to her knees as she read the name: JUDITH MYERS.

The caretaker folded her arms and said, “Maybe you can explain to me what’s so spectacular about Judith Myers.”

This is it, Dana thought, fascinated. Where—how—it all began.

Hard to believe they stood so close to the infamous history of this place, this town, connected to another fateful night, one that had inexplicably forged Michael Myers into the madman he would become.

She couldn’t let this moment pass without revisiting that history, crucial background for their story. Reaching into her bag, Dana pulled out the recorder and spoke into the mic. “As she sat combing her hair. Unaware. Her six-year-old brother crept in quietly with a kitchen knife.”

Glancing up, she noticed a look of disgust on the caretaker’s face before the woman looked away and said, “Damn.”

Dana couldn’t blame her. It was a dark story. And they wanted visceral reactions.

Aaron motioned for the recorder, so she passed it to him to continue the background information. “He then proceeded to slice the base of her skull, scraping down her spinal cord, here…” He demonstrated the incision on himself, using the recorder in lieu of a kitchen knife. “Then, as she turned and raised her hands in self-defense, he continued stabbing into the arteries and nerves of her palms, like so…” Again, he mimed the cutting motion and paths with the recorder. “Once she collapsed, three more stabs in her sternum, piercing her heart.”

Judging by her sickened grimace at the lurid re-enactment of Michael Myers’ first murder, the caretaker clearly regretted asking the question and hoped she’d forget it all before it became nightmare fodder. “I don’t know about sternums,” she said with a shudder. “All I know is, we’ve had to replace this stone two times. People come around and put demon pentagrams and voodoo shit on it.” She shook her head. “Every Halloween. Crazy coconuts.”

Dana looked up at Aaron. “We should use that,” she said excitedly. “As part of the background, and as a postscript to Laurie’s story.”

“Agreed,” Aaron said. “Reminds me of the ham and eggs fable.”

“What?”

“The ham and eggs breakfast fable,” Aaron prompted. Dana shook her head. “What’s the difference between the chicken and the pig? The chicken contributes the eggs. The pig gives up its life. So, the chicken is involved, but the pig is committed.”

“How’s this related?”

“Graffiti and vandalism versus a lifetime commitment.”

Dana arched an eyebrow. “So, in this scenario, Laurie is the pig?”

“She gave up a lot,” Aaron said defensively. “Obsession, a lifetime of fear. Lost her child to social services.”

Frowning, Dana said, “We are definitely not using that fable on the podcast.”

“Well, it was…”

“Seriously,” she said firmly. “Not a chance.”

Aaron raised his hands in surrender.

Dana stood, brushed off the knees of her black slacks, then reached into her bag and removed a camera to take pictures of the grave and the tombstone from various angles. She planned to use the images in their promotional material, their website, and for any mailers.

The caretaker stood nearby while they wrapped up.

Dana wondered if the woman suspected they’d steal the gravestone as a macabre souvenir to take back to the UK.

* * *

Across the cemetery, standing inhumanly still under a group of shady trees that have shed their leaves, The Shape watches them. The tall man taunted The Shape with the Mask. And the woman carried the Mask in her bag.

From the man’s words and taunts, The Shape knew they would come to this town. To this place. And that they still possessed the Mask.

14

After leaving Mt. Sinclair Cemetery Aaron drove their Ford rental car onto the lot of the Stallion Service Center for a fill-up. Dana sat in the back of the car, flipping through their storage box of research material, including a laminated binder with photos of the 1978 incident. She spread out selected items, with an emphasis on newspaper clippings, across the other half of the seat, creating a makeshift desktop.

With Dana engaged in research, Aaron switched off the ignition and got out to fill the gas tank from a self-service pump. He stood and waited while the pump gave him a running count of gallons pumped and dollars sunk. While he waited for the final tally, he thought about the obstacles they’d faced—their inability to get a reaction from Myers at Smith’s Grove and Laurie’s unwillingness to confront her attempted murderer—and what they needed to do next to complete the story. With Myers’ transfer, they’d missed the window for a face-to-face meeting between the two. Of course, they could build the story without that, a complete story, but that confrontation would have been a brilliant highlight.

Aaron tapped the window, catching Dana’s attention. “Any chance at all Colorado would reconsider?”

“The ‘less than desirable’ location?” she asked, referring to Sartain’s open disdain for Glass Hill. Aaron nodded. She flipped through some pages in the storage box. “Looked into it some more. Not as bad as Sartain implied. If anything, a bit more modern than Smith’s Grove. But he’s right about one thing. They will put him in a deep hole. No contact. Sorry.”

“Shame,” Aaron said.

“Besides, there’s no chance we’d convince Laurie to go.”

Dead end, he thought with a sigh. But we’ll work around it.

At the full-service pump opposite the self-service side, a red Ram 350 van refueled. Hand-painted white lettering arced across the side of the extended van advertised The Holy Apostle’s Resurrection Church in what amounted to a four-wheeled billboard. An older couple sat in the front seats. They looked like grandparents, but the van was large enough to transport a modest church choir. An old woman in the back seemed to stare at Aaron without seeing him. Not wanting to draw attention to himself or incite any attempts at proselytizing, he resisted the urge to wave.

Dana had already moved on from the Colorado roadblock. She called out to him from the backseat, “If we could get those initial police transcripts from the press conference and post-conviction proceedings we might have a great prologue for our story there.”

* * *

After following the man and woman to the gas station, The Shape parks the stolen Bronco across the lot and walks behind the man as he pumps gas. The Shape approaches the service center and its open garage bays.

An old woman inside a red van watches The Shape without reaction. She sees an old man in a white tunic, white trousers, open shoes. She does not see The Shape because The Shape is incomplete. But soon…

* * *

Pushing the storage box out of her way, Dana climbed out of the backseat of the rental car to stretch her legs and make use of the restroom. She approached Aaron to let him know.

“We have access to Brackett’s personal journal on Michael,” Aaron said, “as well as city records.”

“What are you waiting for?” she said, smiling.

She squeezed his upper arm and strode toward the service center’s office to inquire about the restroom. On the way, she passed one of the open garage bays. For some reason, the employees had left a stack of loose tires outside between each bay. She glimpsed a mechanic in a jumpsuit in the first bay, raising the hood of a pickup truck.

Before ducking into the office, she glanced over at Aaron and saw a woman and her son get into the church van with the elderly couple. The old woman seemed to stare at her impassively. But Dana couldn’t think of anything about herself that would warrant that level of scrutiny. She’d dressed rather conservatively in a gray sweater vest over a striped long-sleeved blouse, black slacks and boots.

Not that it mattered. With everyone back onboard, the church van drove off the lot as Dana stepped into the office. Behind the counter, next to an electronic cash register and a transistor radio tuned to a classic rock station, a man wearing the same style dark coveralls as the mechanic aimlessly flipped through the pages of a tabloid-sized newspaper. At the sound of an overhead door chime, the clerk looked up at her expectantly.

“Bathroom?” she inquired.

Hooking his thumb around in an arc behind his shoulder, the clerk said, “Back out around the side.”

Nodding, Dana stepped back outside and walked around the corner, past an ice machine and another stack of tires, these painted in alternating red and white layers. She supposed it was meant to be festive, but they still came across as sloppy. The phrase “lipstick on a pig” came to mind, which made her think of Aaron’s horrendous ham and egg fable, and she chuckled. The man was gorgeous, with a sense of style, but sometimes displayed a jarring lack of common sense.

Between a brick wall painted white and a partial privacy fence she found the door to the ambitiously signed “Ladies’ Lounge.” Because she was at a gas station, not a nightclub, she kept her expectations suitably low. Clean and functional would suffice.

Prepared for the worst, she stepped inside the restroom.

Reasonably clean, she thought, but the odor leaves something to be desired.

Pulling a paper towel from the dispenser, she approached the row of three stalls. Using the paper rather than her bare hands, she pushed open the first door and grimaced. Second stall… not much better. Figurative fingers crossed, she opened the last stall door. It was… acceptable.

She ducked inside, closed and locked the door, set down her bag and took a seat.

* * *

Absently, Aaron watched the Holy Apostle Church van drive away. Then he caught himself staring off into space, much as the old woman had been. Maybe she hadn’t been looking at him after all. With a mechanical thump, the gas pump handle shut off, signaling a full tank. Aaron wondered if one full tank would get them through the rest of their field research.

Aaron noticed a piece of paper shoved into the credit-card slot of the fuel pump: PLEASE PAY INSIDE.

Aaron looked around the empty lot.

Dana still hadn’t returned.

He called her name.

* * *

Sitting on the only acceptable toilet seat in the so-called Ladies’ Lounge, Dana amused herself by reading the graffiti scrawled on the walls and door of the stall. One to her left read, “Amazing Grace come sit on my face. Don’t make me cry, I need your… pie.”

Dana wondered if this “Grace” person was real and, if so, what about her made her so amazing. From her bag, Dana withdrew a permanent marker and crossed out the word “pie.” Right above it she wrote “smile.” Thinking of Aaron this morning, she chuckled to herself.

As the bathroom door opened, she fell silent, self-conscious.

She heard measured footfalls on the tiled floor. Not the click-click of high heels or the squeak of rubber-soled trainers. Heavier…

The first stall door thumped open, rebounding with force.

Dana flinched at the noise.

In the ensuing pause, she heard breathing. Steady breathing, but, again, a heavy sound.

She sat still, afraid to move a muscle, her own breathing shallow.

The footfalls moved closer, stopping at the second stall.

Even though she braced herself, the abrupt bang as the second door slammed open and shook the partition between stalls made her jump.

* * *

Aaron walked to the service station’s small office and opened the door to pay the clerk for his gas. A chime sounded as he walked through the doorway—and froze.

The clerk’s lifeless body sat slumped over the counter, one arm flung over a transistor radio and a blood-flecked cash register, his neck twisted at an extreme angle to reveal his broken and bloody jaw, all but ripped out of his face. Most of his teeth had been smashed out. The pool of blood spreading around his head glued his face to the pages of a newspaper.

“Dana!” Aaron called.

A plate-glass door to his left led into the garage, a pickup truck in the first bay, its hood propped open for service. Aaron surveyed the room through the glass but saw no sign of the mechanic. Slipping through the doorway into the garage, he called out, “Hello! I need help! Have you seen—?”

Again, Aaron froze.

First, he saw blood splattered over the engine block, some dripping to the floor below. Then he saw the man’s body, clad only in a dingy white t-shirt and briefs, lying face down in a larger pool of blood near a wooden-handled mini sledgehammer. The back of the man’s head looked like raw meat—wet clumps of brain matter mixed with bone splinters. Someone had crept up behind him while he worked on the truck and caved his head in with the hammer, then taken the dark coveralls from his lifeless body.

Frantic, Aaron yelled, “DANA?”

Other than the dead mechanic, the cluttered garage seemed unoccupied.

Casting about for anything useful, Aaron spotted a crowbar on a workbench and grabbed it.

15

Dana stared at the pair of dirty work boots visible below her stall door. A man’s boots. She recognized the cuffs of the coveralls the mechanic and the clerk had been wearing—the service station’s de facto uniform. Why would a man—even a service station employee—enter an occupied “Ladies’ Lounge” and behave this way? She had no good answers.

“Excuse me,” she said indignantly, fighting the tremor in her voice. “Someone’s in here.”

A closed, bloodstained hand appeared over the top of the stall door.

Slowly the fingers spread, releasing what appeared to be a dozen white pebbles that fell to the floor, clattering around her feet. Glancing down, she gasped. Not pebbles. Teeth! Human teeth—ripped out by the root and streaked with blood.

Looking up again, she now saw two hands as they clamped down on the top of the stall door in a white-knuckled grip. They shook the door violently back and forth, testing the strength of the simple slide lock and hinges. The partition walls trembled, the screws securing them to the wall creaking. In seconds, the metal of the door twisted under the extreme pressure.

Dana rose from the seat in a hunched-over stance to keep clear of those hands and yanked up her pants before dropping to the floor on her rear. Flipping onto her stomach, she began to crawl under the partition into the second stall. She made it halfway before the door to her former stall gave way and burst open. There was a rustle of movement before the intruder grabbed her legs and yanked her backward.

With a shriek, she twisted around, raising both arms to catch herself on the partition between stalls. Strong hands grabbed both her ankles for more leverage.

Her own hands slid across the slippery metal surface of the partition, scrambling for purchase but finding none. She hooked the fingers of her right hand through the toilet paper holder to buy herself a precious second or two. Then kicked furiously against the hands clutching her ankles.

Suddenly—heart racing and gasping for air—she broke free of the powerful grip and scrambled up, slammed the door shut and engaged the slide lock. A moment’s reprieve, time enough to catch her breath before—

Fists banged on the stall door, rattling it against the lock.

The Ladies’ Lounge door swung open again.

Crouching to peer under the door, Dana saw gray trainers—

“Aaron?” she called. “Help!”

As she backed away from the door, she saw a crowbar come down from an overhead swing to strike her attacker three times in rapid succession. With each blow, Aaron yelled, “Down! Down! Down!”

Two sets of arms wrestled for control of the crowbar.

Beneath the stall door, Dana watched as two pairs of feet became entangled. Slowly, the heels of Aaron’s trainers rose off the tile floor. He cried out briefly then began to cough and gasp.

“No!” she screamed.

The crowbar clanged on the tiles.

Crouching, Dana reached across the gap under the door and grabbed the crowbar before her attacker could snatch it. Then she jumped back and climbed onto the toilet seat, one boot braced on each side, for a higher vantage point.

The intruder slammed Aaron into the stall door. A work boot slipped forward, near the edge of the door. Without hesitation, Dana dropped from her perch and turned the crowbar to drive its narrow tip into the boot. Whether from the pain or the distraction, the intruder released Aaron, who collapsed to the floor, his face visible under the door.

They locked eyes, her terror mirrored in his gaze.

“Aaron—”

His throat raw, Aaron whispered, “What have we done…?”

Before she could reply, his body was yanked away. The heels of both trainers slid across the floor as the intruder dragged him away from her. She heard a brief, muffled struggle then a loud crash of shattered glass. Pieces of the bathroom mirror rained down on the tile floor.

“Aaron!”

Unbearable silence followed—no response from Aaron. She couldn’t see either of them. Her palms sweaty, she shifted her grip on the crowbar. Agonizing seconds passed, then…

Shuffling sounds.

The intruder approached. Aaron’s heels slid across the tile floor.

“Aaron!” she called. “Aaron, are you—?”

THUMP!

The door rattled under the weight of Aaron’s body slamming into it.

THUMP!—THUMP!—THUMP!

He’s using Aaron’s body as a battering ram!

THUMP!—CRASH!

The door flung open, banging against the partition as Dana leapt out of the way. Aaron’s body, still clutched in the intruder’s grip, knocked the crowbar from her hands. Dana screamed.

In that moment of contact, she glimpsed Aaron’s bloody face, his jaw sagging. He was alive, but barely conscious. Then the intruder pulled him back and tossed him aside, hurling his body toward the far corner of the restroom where he crashed helplessly into the trash can.

* * *

Too weak to offer any further resistance, Aaron felt himself careen through the air and crash into a round metal trash can in the corner of the women’s restroom. Even with the crowbar and the element of surprise, he’d failed to stop Myers. Or slow him down. To Aaron, it seemed as if the man felt no pain—or that physical pain registered as nothing more than a temporary distraction.

Aaron tried to rise, but his legs wouldn’t budge. Each time he tried to stand, he merely twitched in pain. Blood dripped from his face and hands. Broken ribs made breathing painful and difficult. With blurred, fading vision he watched helplessly as Myers entered the toilet stall.

Dana’s boots rose from the floor…

…and her head appeared above the stall as Myers hoisted her in the air with one hand clamped around her throat. She clawed at his hand with both of hers but couldn’t break free. Aaron heard the muffled thuds of her kicking him, frantic at first, then gradually slowing.

Myers’ hand choked the life out of her.

Desperate to act, Aaron redoubled his effort to rise, to come to her aid—but only managed to lift his left arm, hand outstretched, fingers reaching, trembling helplessly.

Horrified, Aaron watched as Dana’s struggles ended.

Her body hung lifelessly in Myers’ hands…

16

The service station remains empty as The Shape leaves the restroom and turns the corner to walk past the ice machine.

On the transistor radio in the small office, a man with a deep voice gives a weather report accompanied by Halloween-themed sound effects: shrieks, chains rattling, creaking doors…

The sound fades as The Shape takes a direct path to the black rental car at the self-service pump. In the backseat, The Shape sees a storage box with a binder, folders, newspaper clippings and photos—some of The Shape. None of these items interest The Shape.

Using the tall man’s keys, The Shape opens the trunk of the car and finds another box, opens the flaps and pauses, staring down.

The Shape’s hands reach into the box, gripping the Mask between them, lifting it close enough to smell, staring into the eye holes. The Shape turns the Mask around, lifts it overhead, pulls it down, fitting it into place… Perfect.

The Shape breathes…

Complete again.

17

Officer Frank Hawkins stood beside Ranbir Sartain’s corner bed in Haddonfield Memorial Hospital, thumbs hooked inside his duty belt, willing the injured doctor to wake the hell up. According to the hospital doctor, Sartain had lost a lot of blood from the bullet wound in his shoulder and—though in a stable condition—remained obstinately unconscious. Not for the first time, Hawkins considered removing the extendable baton from his belt and giving Sartain a gentle prod to rouse him. Failing that, he could always poke the center of the freshly bandaged shoulder.

Glancing at the monitors, wires and tubes hooked up to the unconscious Sartain, Hawkins wondered if he could cajole the on-duty nurse into temporarily lowering the man’s IV dosage of pain meds. Considering the significant age difference between him and the nurse, Hawkins didn’t like his chances of succeeding with a charm offensive.

Clearly, he had to wait for Sartain to awaken on his own. But he didn’t have to like it.

Shifting his feet, he crossed his hands in front of his waist and sighed. “Time to wake up, Dr Sartain,” he said in a conversational tone. He’d read that comatose patients might hear everything said at their bedsides. Maybe the same held true for victims of gunshot wounds. “Do you hear me, Ranbir? Can I call you Ranbir? Yeah, probably not. Okay, but it’s mighty important you wake up and tell me what you know.” He tapped a piece of paper on the hospital bed tray table. “I need to know about this list, Doc.”

Sartain’s eyes remained stubbornly closed.

Bearing two cups of coffee in a cardboard serving tray, Sheriff Barker arrived in a much better mood than Hawkins. Barker was a powerful black man with a neatly trimmed goatee, sporting an impressive black cowboy hat to go along with his dark suit and light-brown necktie. If it were not for the small sheriff’s pin on his lapel, one might not realize he was in law enforcement. In contrast, Hawkins wore the standard-issue Warren County police uniform, which included a forest-green jacket with a faux-fur trim collar and a full-sized six-sided star pinned to the chest, over khaki slacks with a dark stripe down the outside of each leg. He would be mistaken for nothing other than a police officer.

After handing a coffee to Hawkins, Barker said, “Thought I heard you talking to someone, Hawkins.”

“Just the good doctor here,” Hawkins said, nodding toward Sartain.

“But… he’s unconscious, right?” the sheriff asked in a tone that suggested Hawkins’ sanity might be in question.

“Currently,” Hawkins said. “Any news?”

“Still waiting to ID the patients we recovered to see who’s who. Almost all accounted for. Two were checking their email at the local library, and we just found three sons of bitches holding hands and chasing butterflies by the flea market off 220. No clarity on what happened.” He took a sip of coffee. “Any word from Rip Van Winkle over there?”

“Not yet,” Hawkins said. “Hasn’t really regained consciousness. Nurses say he’s been in and out. Lost a lot of blood. Somehow managed to fall on a bullet. I’m trying to get the story because here’s my concern.” Hawkins picked up the piece of paper on the tray table and passed it to the sheriff. “Take a look at this list.”

Barker looked it over.

“Most of the passengers were minor offenders. Mental patients.”

Setting his coffee cup on the table, Barker ran his thumb down the list.

“One stuck out. A-2201,” Hawkins continued.

Barker’s thumb paused on the line, marked with a yellow highlighter. He looked up at Hawkins, concerned.

Hawkins nodded. “Michael Myers. The Babysitter Murders, 1978. It’s forty years to the day.” Hawkins took a sip from his coffee to let that tidbit sink in. “Is this a coincidence or some part of a greater plan?”

Frowning, the sheriff looked at Sartain. Hawkins wondered if Barker had now reached his level of impatience over the doctor’s inconvenient state of unconsciousness. “Greater plan?” Barker asked. “You talking about fate or karma or some damn shit?”

Hawkins shook his head. “Myers,” he said. “Maybe he waited for this specific day, the anniversary, to come back to Haddonfield.”

“He’s a serial killer, Hawkins,” Barker said. “Not Houdini. This isn’t some nefarious plan, it’s just… really bad timing.”

“Bad timing, sir?”

“Look, Frankie, I don’t want to incite panic until we have all the facts. Myers loose with a bunch of nutbags in Haddonfield on Halloween night is a fucking joke if it’s not legit.” He scoffed. “It sounds like a joke.” He sighed, shook his head. “It would ruin our department. And if it is legit, if Myers did escape, we’re gonna have a serious circus on our hands.”

Hawkins stared at the sheriff in disbelief. Right then, the reputation of the Haddonfield Police Department was the last thing on Hawkins’ mind. With a serial killer on the loose, he didn’t give a shit about spin or optics or whatever the hell the latest buzzword was for covering your ass. The only thing that mattered was apprehending the killer and throwing him behind bars. Then again, Hawkins wasn’t a Warren County elected official worried about polling numbers for the next election cycle.

“I mean, what are we gonna do, cancel Halloween?” Barker asked with a nervous chuckle.

Forty years had passed since the Babysitter Murders. Many of Haddonfield’s residents hadn’t been alive the last time Myers terrorized the town. A fair amount talked about the knife-wielding madman—whenever the topic arose—as if he were a damn urban legend. Few experienced the terror on a personal level, and none more so than Laurie Strode.

Ask the average Haddonfield resident the meaning of Halloween and they’d talk about kids walking door to door for trick or treat, carrying bags of candy, sexy costumes for adults, fog machines, zombie movie marathons, and parties. Most of them had forgotten, if they ever knew, that ancient civilizations believed the dead returned to Earth on Halloween. Hawkins remembered a quote from a movie, “The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.” Had Myers’ infamy followed a similar trajectory, his heinous acts transformed into scary stories for summer camp, his very existence forgotten? Had they all been lulled into complacency?

“There’s a reason we’re supposed to be afraid of this night, Sheriff.”

“Bunch of campfire tales,” Sheriff Barker scoffed, basically proving Hawkins’ point. But he was the boss, so Hawkins bit his tongue before he said something he’d regret, professionally.

Fortunately, at that moment his radio squawked.

“Dispatch to 601. Dispatch to 601.”

18

The final bell sounded, signaling the end of the school day at Haddonfield High School. Soon the foot traffic flowing through the halls poured out into the parking lot. After a quick pit stop at her locker, Allyson exited the halls of higher learning and waited beyond the wrought-iron fence for her friends. She glanced to her left and saw the large green handmade poster promoting the “Exquisite Corpse Dance” on the brick wall and felt a flutter of nervousness in her gut. Dave showed up first, so the two of them waited for Vicky while other groups of students walked around them.

The primary topic of overlapping conversations was the Halloween dance: who was going with whom, and in what costume. Some chose to keep their costume plans secret while others solicited suggestions. Allyson cast about for Vicky, letting the snippets of conversations roll past her.

“I can’t go as a hobo again,” Becky Burke, a junior with a blue streak in her black hair, groaned. “Ripped jeans, flannel shirt and burnt-cork smudge on my face? No. Just no.”

“I’m going as an epiphany,” Evan Price, a student council officer said.

“A what now?” his friend Larry something asked.

“Using a wire coat hanger to suspend a lightbulb over my head.”

“That’s a good idea!”

“Thanks—wait, I can’t tell if you’re being ironic.”

As Evan and Larry passed them, Allyson turned to Dave, “What’s taking her so long?”

“Um… she got a call.”

“A call? What kind of call?”

“Made me promise to let her tell you.”

Allyson grabbed his upper arm. “What? Is something wrong? Tell me!”

“Can’t,” Dave said. “According to the promise rules. Seriously, it’s all in the fine print. But it’s not a big deal. Kind of business as usual.”

“Dave, that makes no sense.”

“Then I’ve upheld my duty as a promise keeper.”

“But you’d tell me if it was serious?”

“Um… yes,” Dave said. “Also in the fine print.”

Allyson turned toward the school entrance again, trying not to worry. If Dave said the call wasn’t serious, she had to believe him. And try not to let her imagination run wild. Instead, she casually eavesdropped on more passing conversations.

Of course, those not attending the dance talked about how lame it was. Kid stuff with chaperones. One group talked about attending a kegger instead. Still another discussed their plans for a covert party at one of their houses, after the host’s parents left for a private party at a nearby nightclub. A few teenage misanthropes talked about how they planned to scare any little kids who knocked on their doors begging for candy. “I’ll show the little bastards a trick or two!” Gordo Swanson said, laughing. “Give them nightmares for a month.” One of his friends deemed this endeavor worthy of a fist bump.

“Here she comes,” Allyson said, spotting Vicky walking out the front door of the school. Allyson waved to catch her attention.

Someone honked a car horn several times, startling Allyson.

She turned around and saw a silver convertible roll by at the speed of a parade float, with no less than seven cheerleaders piled into the front and back, standing or sitting on seat backs, wearing their blue-white-and-yellow cheer uniforms and carrying their pompoms. With a nod to Halloween, some wore novelty headgear, including cat ears, a red-and-green-striped unicorn horn and a pair of floppy antennae.

“So many cheerleaders, I should be cheerful,” Dave said. “And yet there’s no room in that car for me.”

“Observe the poor overwhelmed male brain,” Vicky said as she joined them, patting Dave’s cheek affectionately. “So typical.”

Vicky placed her hands on Allyson’s shoulders and frowned. “So, bad news,” she said. “Can’t go to the dance tonight.”

Allyson glared at Dave, but he refused to acknowledge her ire, looking up into the sky and pursing his lips, acting unaware and oblivious. So Allyson turned back to Vicky, “Are you serious?”

“I was at my locker,” she said. “Got a call to babysit for the Morriseys.”

“Vicky, no,” Allyson said. “Really?”

Vicky gave a slow nod. “They need somebody last minute,” she said. “I tried to say no but Mrs M. wouldn’t let me get out that one little word. She was relentless. She begged, wheedled, pleaded, implored, inveigled—”

“Inveigled?” Dave interrupted. “That’s not something dirty is it? I always suspected she—”

“Shut up, Dave,” Vicky said sweetly. “Not everything is about sex.”

“The good stuff is,” Dave replied.

Vicky considered the merits of his statement. “Hard to argue with that. Anyway, it’s not sexual. It’s another word for not taking no for an answer. She was desperate. Poor woman practically exhausted her thesaurus. And… she promised me thrice my rate.”

“Thrice?” Allyson asked, impressed.

“Well, I did mention it was Halloween and my big plans, yadda yadda, so she bumped her offer up from twice to thrice.”

“Leveraging the guilt trip,” Dave said. “Well played.”

“Thank you,” Vicky said, smiling broadly. “Supply and demand. That’s a thing, right?”

“I can’t believe it,” Allyson said, unable to hide her disappointment. “You didn’t let up about me going and then you back out?”

Vicky spread her hands. “What could I do?” she asked. “It’s good for you to go. You’re going with Cameron.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means you’ll hang with his friends,” Vicky said. “You can’t just use homework as an excuse, can you?” Sensing Allyson’s hesitance, she spoke louder. “Can you?”

“Maybe I like doing—” Allyson said, stopping before she embarrassed herself. She’d been looking forward to the dance, but that was when she expected to have Vicky to lean on if things got weird or she needed to bail. She’d agreed to get out of her comfort zone and go to the dance, but only because Vicky served as her mobile comfort zone. Guys had wingmen. And girls had, what, besties? Without Vicky there, a group “hang” would feel more like an honest-to-goodness date. In other words, a lot of pressure. “It’s not like I’m anti-social—”

“You’re not anti-social,” Dave said. “You’re sheepish, but in a very fresh way—”

“You’ll have fun,” Vicky said.

“Vicky’s also gonna have fun,” Dave said, waggling his eyebrows comically. “She said I can come over after the kid’s nighty-night and do cool stuff.” He paused for effect. “Like do dishes, mop up, keep her company.”

“You’re like my helpful pet,” Vicky said, patting his shoulder. “I appreciate you, Dave. If you help me mop and do dishes I’ll take your virginity. Enough of this third base shit, right? We’re adults.”

“Finally,” Dave said, clenching a fist. “Wanna get matching tattoos so we can remember this night forever?”

Vicky laughed.

“Okay,” Allyson said, drawing out the word. “Feeling like a third wheel here, guys.”

“Not always a bad thing,” Dave said, eyebrows raised as he stroked an imaginary mustache.

“Really, Dave?” Vicky said.

“Too much?” Dave asked. “Or… too soon?”

“Just stop.”

“Okay, but nothing ventured, nothing—”

“Dave,” Vicky began ominously, “have you met the friend zone?”

“Oh please, God, no,” Dave said, making prayer hands, “anything but that.”

“Yeah, Dave,” Allyson said, chuckling. “Better quit while you’re ahead.”

“I’ll be good,” Dave said to Vicky. “Until you want me to be bad.”

Allyson turned and saw Cameron and Oscar walking across the parking lot. “Hey, there’s Cameron. I’m gonna catch up with him. You guys go on without me.”

Vicky grabbed her arm. “Okay, but not if you’re pissed at me,” she said. “Are you pissed?”

“No. I just thought…” Allyson shook her head. She really needed to get over her issues. Vicky was her friend, not a social crutch. “It’d be more fun if you were hanging out with me. That’s all. Cameron is sweet, but I’m still getting used to the idea… I don’t know. And his friend…?”

* * *

Across the school parking lot, Cameron talked to Oscar for the first time since breaking the news that he was ditching him to attend the Halloween dance with Allyson. The whole Tango and Cash plan had been a goof. At least in Cameron’s eyes. He hadn’t realized Oscar was so invested in the costume dance scene. Now he felt like a jerk for unilaterally canceling their plans.

He should have known better, but everything had happened so fast with Allyson and him. Seemed like they started talking before class one day and made plans to attend the dance together the next. Well, that was a bit of an exaggeration. But everything between them had been so effortless. No drama. They enjoyed each other’s company… and decided to go to the dance as a couple. No big deal, right?

Problem was, Oscar could get a little emotionally clingy at times. Lingering childhood insecurities and isolation had made him self-conscious to the point of overcompensating. Other than spending time with Cameron, Oscar was socially adrift. Kind of an oddball, but not the type who endeared himself to everyone. Oscar tended to polarize people. What he saw as charm, some took as smarm. Cameron saw beyond it, all the surface imperfections. Hell, they were all figuring out who they were. Some were just better at it than others. And some were good at faking it. Per one of Cameron’s family mottos: every polished gem was once a rough stone.

“There she is, brother,” Oscar said, nodding toward Allyson and her friends. “What can I say? She’s a knockout. I would definitely take her over me any day. I’m not offended.”

Cameron stared at Oscar, trying to figure out if he should take his words at face value. Sometimes, even for Cameron, Oscar was hard to read. “I like her,” Cameron said. “I’m serious. And I don’t want you to fuck this up by doing something stupid. Please.”

“Now’s your chance,” Oscar said. “She’s coming this way.”

Allyson walked up to them, smiling pleasantly.

There was more car horn honking as the convertible filled with cheerleaders circled around the lot for a second pass from the opposite direction. Oscar made a show of tracking their progress with interest before acknowledging Allyson’s presence.

“Hey, Allyson,” Oscar said, acting super casual. “Guess what? Cameron likes you better than me, but I’m over it. I’ll see you guys later. I’m gonna catch up with Blanca and see if any of those ladies need a handsome escort to Halloween.”

Cameron and Allyson shrugged almost in unison as Oscar hurried off on his professed mission. The worst part was that Oscar wasn’t simply making an excuse to leave them alone. He would approach the group of cheerleaders and troll for a date to the dance, and he would go over the top and make it weird. He couldn’t help himself.

“He’s a mess,” Cameron said, shaking his head as he watched Oscar lope across the parking lot. “What about you?” he asked her. “You okay? I mean, after Bellini’s…”

Cameron sat on a metal bench on the street side of the wrought-iron school fence and patted the spot next to him. Allyson set down her backpack and folded her coat over it. Then, smiling, she sat on the bench, sliding over to press against him, smoothing her denim skirt and crossing her legs. After that bold move, she nervously picked some fuzz off her gray leggings.

“I’m fine,” Allyson assured him. “I couldn’t sleep. I was so embarrassed about last night. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to see that. It’s a weird time for me, I guess.”

“I understand.”

“I like to think I’m above all that,” Allyson said. “The family baggage. But everything is all tied together. The way I was raised by my mom was a reaction to the weird way she was raised by her mom, and all of that is because of what happened to my grandmother way before I was born.”

“Gives new meaning to the expression ‘the ties that bind.’”

“Guess we carry that stuff with us all our lives. It makes us who we are, and you can’t hide from that. Doesn’t mean it’s not embarrassing, but…”

“Wait till you meet my family,” Cameron said. “Your grandma has nothing on my Uncle Wames. Don’t worry about that stuff, okay?”

Cameron reached up and touched her chin gently.

“Okay,” she said, smiling. “I won’t worry.”

19

Officer Hawkins stood in the doorway of the Ladies’ Lounge restroom of the Stallion Service Station, studying the crime scene with the coroner while a photographer documented everything. Rather, one of the crime scenes. So far, they’d found bodies in three separate areas of the service center. It was a frigging crime-scene tableau. Righetti, an eager-to-please rookie, unspooled a roll of crime-scene tape around the entire service center, from the office and garage down to the entrance and exit ramps. Paperwork in the glove compartment of the rental car indicated that one Aaron Joseph-Korey had leased it.

Sheriff Barker had worried about Haddonfield turning into a circus—or maybe just that the sheriff’s department would look like a bunch of clowns—with the escape of Michael Myers. Well, he might want to start selling tickets, Hawkins thought with gallows humor, because the opening act in Haddonfield—not even counting the carnage at the transport bus site—is a doozy, and a crowd is already gathering to see the show.

He’d tasked Righetti with keeping everyone on the civilian side of the police tape, far enough away they’d have no chance of seeing any of the four victims, while Hawkins figured out what the hell had happened.

Hawkins observed from the doorway while the crime-scene photographer worked because being on the other end of the flash never failed to give him a damn headache. And this crime scene had the makings of a long day filled with exhaustive reports and gruesome photographic evidence of murderous depravity. He noted the shattered mirror, walls covered in blood. Ducking inside, he found more blood on the second stall door. One vic—approximately forty, long gray wool coat over khaki slacks and gray tennis shoes, light-brown hair and a sparse beard—lay dead in the far corner, his face streaked with blood. Hawkins guessed he came to the aid of the other victim, a redheaded woman, a few years younger than her would-be savior, lying on the floor of the second stall, dressed conservatively in a long-sleeved blouse with a gray sweater vest over black slacks and boots. Human teeth lay scattered near her body, though they belonged to neither victim. The coroner confirmed what he’d already expected judging by the visible trauma to her throat. She’d been strangled to death.

When he checked their IDs, he confirmed that Aaron Joseph-Korey would not be returning his rental car. The other victim, Dana Haines, had apparently been working with Korey on a story about Michael Myers. Inside the car, they found a laminated storage box with a thick binder filled with information about Myers and Smith’s Grove. Hawkins assumed it was a TV documentary project until Richards informed him they’d been gathering audio material for a podcast. Apparently, the two Brits had something of a following for their true-crime investigations.

That the two had crossed paths with Myers at Smith’s Grove within a day of his escape and had subsequently been killed by him raised all sorts of red flags in Hawkins’ mind, but sometimes a coincidence was just that. The Brits had apparently requested a meeting before Myers’ imminent transfer, which explained the first coincidence. That they had then traveled to Haddonfield as part of their research into the Babysitter Murders also made sense. That Myers headed to Haddonfield after his escape was as simple as a criminal returning to the scene of his crime—no matter that the crime was forty years old.

What strained credulity a bit was that Haines and Korey ended up as his victims so soon after attempting to interview him. But who knew how Myers’ mind worked? He may have sought them out once he came to town. Or they may have spotted him in town and he decided to silence them before they could notify authorities. Myers had no problem killing strangers. Killing a pair of investigators who presented an actual threat to his freedom would have been a no-brainer for the psychopath.

Exiting the restroom, Hawkins circled around to the front of the service center, where more blue-and-white Warren County Sheriff’s Department police cars and a few ambulances had gathered, lights flashing. Richards helped Righetti with crowd control, but mostly people wanted to gawk, recording cellphone footage from a safe distance. Of course, there were always exceptions, and that’s what you had to guard against. Richards broke away to brief some of the new arrivals. The ambulances leaving this crime scene wouldn’t need to use sirens.

Hawkins entered the service center’s office where the owner of the missing teeth lay sprawled over the counter, his jaw nearly separated from his head, a particularly painful and gruesome death. Later that day, the crime-scene photos taken here would enter an evidence folder, recapturing this moment, and join other murderous fodder for his nightmares. After almost forty years on the force, he’d accumulated a lot of grist for that nocturnal mill. And yet, over the years, surprisingly, the nightmares had decreased. Sometimes he thought that was more concerning.

Two detectives worked the room, dusting for prints, one kneeling by the open door that passed through to the garage, the other standing behind the seated corpse, examining the cash register, radio, and countertop. Leaving them to their work, Hawkins stepped back out of the office.

He’d always thought when the day came that the heinous stuff no longer bothered him it would be a psychological warning sign to get the hell out, to retire already. That he would have become damaged goods. Unfortunately, that day had long passed. Sometimes once was enough—or too much. Because some things you couldn’t unsee.

Finally, he left the office to make sure Righetti and Richards had everything under control before he examined the final victim, the mechanic in the garage bay. Pausing, he noticed a familiar woman’s face amongst the onlookers gathering at the edge of the police tape.

Hawkins nodded toward her and asked Richards, “Is that who I think it is?”

“Yeah,” Richards said. “She calls the station at least twice a month. She’s a paranoid pain in the ass.”

“Tell her to go home. Tell her I said so.”

Shrugging, Richards walked across the lot to where Laurie Strode stood behind the yellow police tape. After Richards spoke, looking over his shoulder at Hawkins, Laurie looked up and caught Hawkins’ gaze with a look of recognition. He nodded, but as she started to work her way along the crowd toward him, he turned away.

Some people have good reason for paranoia, he thought, not sure what comfort he could offer her. Only excuses, and they weren’t even his excuses. The Warren County Sheriff’s Department had had no advance warning about the prisoner transfer. But we’re expected to clean up the mess, he thought. And the mess kept spreading. At least five killed after the prisoner bus escape. Now four more at the service station.

“Hawkins!” Sheriff Barker called from inside the garage bay. “Look at this.”

Hawkins followed Barker into the garage, past a pickup truck with a raised hood and a bloodstained engine block, and a mobile tool chest. The mechanic’s corpse lay face down, bare legs protruding from under storage shelves. Crouching beside the body, which had been stripped down to a dingy white t-shirt and briefs, he noted the bloody hammer and the back of the man’s crushed skull.

“Face isn’t much better,” Barker said.

“Don’t suppose he came to work in his skivvies,” Hawkins said.

“That’s why I called you in,” Barker said, waving to a detective standing a few feet away wearing latex gloves while holding an evidence bag.

“Show him,” Barker instructed the detective.

The detective reached into the bag and brought out two items of clothing, a white V-neck tunic and white trousers. Hawkins stood up, pulled a pair of gloves out of his jacket pocket, slipped them on and asked to examine the clothing. No identifying marks, but the lack of quality spoke volumes. “State issued,” he concluded. He passed the clothing back to the detective who returned them to the bag.

“Get on the phone to Smith’s Grove and confirm the match,” Barker said to Hawkins.

“In the meantime, we have to let people know, sir.”

Barker was already shaking his head. “Not until we have confirmation. I don’t want the media foaming at the mouth and dragging the name of this town through the headlines again.”

Hawkins bit his tongue before expressing his first frustrated thought, which would have included a choice profanity or two. Like it or not, Barker was his boss. He proceeded diplomatically. “I strongly disagree, sir,” he began. “Let this be my case. If this is who we think it is, we have one order of business. Hunt this man down.”

“And we will,” Barker said. “Soon as we confirm he’s the one responsible for this… mess.”

With a soft sigh of resignation, Hawkins turned away. The man lived in a state of denial, delaying the inevitable. Ignoring this problem wouldn’t make it go away. At least if they made an announcement that Myers was loose in town, everyone would be on the lookout for an older man dressed in a gas-station mechanic’s coveralls. Instead, they’d have to wait to see where he would strike next.

His gaze drifted to the last place he’d seen Laurie Strode, but he no longer saw any sign of her. Good, he thought, maybe she took my advice after all.

* * *

After the policeman informed her of Hawkins’ instruction to go home, Laurie decided to have a word with him. She had as much right to stand there as any of the other gawkers. And even though other Smith’s Grove inmates had escaped when the transport bus ran off the road, Laurie had no doubt who was responsible for these murders.

She had survived his last killing spree and, from where she stood, history had already begun to repeat itself. How many had he killed at this service station? From what she could tell from beyond the wrong side of the police tape, there was at least one victim in the restroom, another in the office, and a third in the garage.

She needed to know more, to find out if the murders were connected or random. Why had he come to this specific service center? In broad daylight, no less. Maybe it had something to do with the Ford parked at the self-service pump.

After Hawkins told her to leave via his intermediary, she initially backed away, until she got lost a bit in the crowd, then she worked her way up the line to get a better view of the crime scene in the garage. She recognized Sheriff Barker. The other man with him was either a detective or a crime-scene tech. Considering he wore a suit jacket, she was betting on the former. When that man showed Hawkins clothing from an evidence bag, it confirmed her fears that Michael had left behind his Smith’s Grove hospital garb. That he’d left those clothes in the garage indicated that he’d switched clothes there. From what she remembered of this place, all the mechanics, gas-pump jockeys and clerks wore the same dark coveralls.

Even without the state hospital clothes, he would stand out.

20

By the time Karen picked up groceries and was returning home, the afternoon sky had begun to dim. It was not quite sunset, but younger children had already taken to the streets. She glanced around at the various costumes: a mummy, a princess, a firefighter, a vampire, a cowboy, a pirate—accompanied by his mother who also wore a pirate costume—assorted superheroes, and a taller kid dressed as a wizard with a conical hat and a robe decorated with stars and crescent moons. Wary of a kid potentially darting across the street, she slowed her station wagon to school-zone speed and crept along until she made the turn into her own driveway.

As she glanced out the rear window, someone slapped the hood of her car with enough force to startle her. She caught a brief glimpse of an older kid dressed in a black cloak and hood, wearing a ghoulish rubber mask that hid his identity. Brazenness and rude behavior born of anonymity. Cross-reference the comments section on most of the Internet.

Next time, wear a troll costume, she thought, chuckling as her nervous reaction waned.

Karen walked to the rear of the car, opened the hatchback, and grabbed her two bags of groceries, hoping to make one trip into the house. A young cowboy, ninja, and skeleton walked past her, a few steps ahead of one of their parents.

“Happy Halloween!” the cowboy called.

“Trick or treat!” the skeleton said.

Nodding, the ninja remained silent, maybe an attempt to stay in character.

One boy carried a canvas sack for his candy, hand-drawn pictures of bats, skulls, bones, and tombstones decorating one side, along with the misspelled CEMATERY in all capital letters.

“Hi, kids,” she replied as she wrangled the two bags in her arms after closing the hatchback. “Have fun.”

With her jacket on, they wouldn’t see her Christmas sweater, which was just as well. She had no desire to stand around discussing why her family failed to embrace this popular holiday.

On the porch, she set down one bag to unlock the front door. Inside, she found the upstairs hallway light on, illuminating the staircase, but the house was silent. “Ray?” she called.

No answer.

Walking into the house, listening for any sound, she neglected to close the front door behind her and made her way to the kitchen. “Allyson? Anyone home?”

As she set the grocery bags on the counter, she heard a sound from upstairs. Halfway between a creak and a squeak. Maybe a random sound of the house settling. Or possibly something more. She thought about the anonymous ghoul kid slapping the hood of her car and started to wonder if that had been a postscript to vandalism or theft inside the house—or maybe a warning to his compatriots to get out…?

Leaving the kitchen, she walked slowly back toward the stairs so as not to make a sound of her own while she listened for more noises upstairs. Near the stairs, she craned her neck to look up the staircase to the hallway—and heard footfalls above her.

Someone’s in the house!

A moment later, she noticed movement at the periphery of her vision as someone stepped into the open doorway. Her head whipped around, heart racing—

Ray.

“Karen?”

She exhaled in temporary relief, raised a finger to her lips, warning him to keep quiet. He mouthed a question and she pointed to the second floor. When she turned back toward the staircase, her gaze raised to the top of the steps, a figure stepped into view, holding a handgun—

—Laurie!

Her mother aimed the revolver at the bottom of the staircase.

“Bang,” Laurie said matter-of-factly. “You’re dead.”

Karen gasped. “You scared me,” she said, incensed. “What are you doing in our house?”

Every time Karen saw her with the sheathed hunting knife strapped to the belt of her jeans, she absurdly imagined her mother hunting squirrels and rabbits and skinning them with the blade. When has she ever had to use that knife? The thought usually made her chuckle. Not this time. She was too angry to find any amusement at all in her mother’s eccentricities and obsessions.

Laurie stood there, unapologetic. “Side window was unlocked,” she explained. “No security system. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference between your ignorance and your stupidity.”

“I know jujitsu, Laurie,” Ray said indignantly. “I can apply pressure points, chokes, and holds to use the opponent’s force of attack against them.”

Both Karen and Laurie replied simultaneously, “Shut up, Ray.”

Ray meant well but this argument was between Karen and her mother.

Laurie descended the stairs. Before she reached the bottom, she said, “The bus crashed.”

Karen shook her head, confused. “What?” Okay, now her mother talked in non sequiturs. Or was it some code only she understood?

“I have a plan,” Laurie continued. “We’re going to get him before he gets us. Where’s Allyson? We have to get out of here. Now.”

“What bus crashed?” Karen asked, trying once again to grasp her mother’s madness. “Mom, no one’s coming after us.”

“Maybe you should put down that gun?” Ray suggested in a calm voice, clearly open to the possibility that Karen’s mother was unstable and potentially dangerous.

“You need help,” Karen said to her mother, with a nervous glance of her own at the revolver. “You’re not welcome here until you get it.”

As always, Laurie had her own agenda and was unwilling to listen to reason, only to the scared voices in her own head. “Evil is real,” she said. “You don’t know what it’s like to feel true terror. To be powerless.” Her voice softened. “I don’t ever want you to feel that way. I only want to prepare and protect you.”

The same excuse for her mother’s aberrant behavior Karen had heard a hundred times. The same fears and obsession. She was a broken record of paranoia, a danger to herself and—Karen was forced to admit—possibly to others.

Karen had spent her whole life trying to avoid the behavioral traps that had ruined her mother’s life and deprived Karen of a normal childhood. Rather than a role model, her mother had become an emotional cautionary tale for Karen.

“And I just want to prepare dinner for my family,” Karen replied, trying to steer her mother to the prosaic realities of daily life. She imagined the internal conversations her mother must have with herself and how often the words that bubbled to the surface and escaped her lips made no sense to the rest of the world. “The world is not a dark place. It can be full of love and understanding, and I don’t need your psychotic rants to confuse me or convince me otherwise.”

That had been the heart of their mother–daughter dysfunction. Karen had grown up believing she was a disappointment to her mother for not embracing Laurie’s skewed view of evil around every corner, which waited for one momentary lapse in vigilance to strike. To live a happy and full life she’d had to ignore all her mother’s expectations. She couldn’t live the life her mother deemed necessary, so she’d chosen to live her own life her way, by her rules. Her mother was a reminder of everything she’d rejected. But sometimes, her mother was a reminder of everything the two of them had sacrificed by going their separate ways. Karen refused to apologize for the life she’d chosen, even if it had meant rejecting her own mother.

“You need to leave, Laurie,” Ray said. “Or I’ll call the police. I will.”

Looking first at Ray and then Karen, Laurie nodded with resignation. For now, at least, she recognized that she wouldn’t sway them to her way of thinking. From personal experience, Karen knew it wouldn’t stick. Her obsession came at them in waves, like the tide, never completely gone.

Laurie walked between them and stepped through the open doorway. Pausing on the porch, she turned back and asked, “Did you get a gun?”

Karen walked to the doorway and grabbed the edge of the door in her hand. “Of course not,” she said. It never ends with her! “Get out.”

Before her mother could say another word, Karen swung the door shut and flipped the deadbolt.

21

As the red-and-orange-streaked sunset faded to darkness, children prowled familiar streets in costume, clutching bags filled with candy, some so heavy with sugary loot younger kids had trouble holding them aloft. Some children stumbled along behind plastic or rubber masks, turning their heads to compensate for blinkered vision. Others wore blinking lights clipped to their costumes as protection against distracted motorists. Friends exchanged tips on which houses had the best candy and the rare few giving out full-sized chocolate bars.

Parents followed the youngest, pushing strollers or carrying heavier bags between homes to give their kids a break. They walked with flashlights, occasionally reminding the youngest to say the magic words each time a homeowner answered the door. Most welcoming homes sported a jack-o’-lantern or two and artificial cobwebs stretched across plants or around doorframes. Some parents took photos on their phones of the more imaginative decorations: a ring of ghosts holding hands around a simulated fire, novelty dismembered body parts dangling from ceiling fans on covered porches, front yard cemeteries with dark foam tombstones behind zombie hands clawing up from the ground. Most of the photos appeared on social media before the neighborhood photographers returned home with their exhausted children.

Young teens sporting minimalist costumes—smudge-faced hobos, sports-jersey jocks, zombies with gruesome makeup and ripped clothing—carried converted pillowcases and ran from house to house as if hoping to get through the trick-or-treat process as soon as possible, some feeling the first stages of embarrassment in pursuing what would soon be deemed a childish activity. To compensate, they rebelled in their own way, setting off strings of firecrackers every block or two—POP! POP! POP!—shrieking with laughter as they ran from imaginary pursuers.

Startled by a nearby series of exploding firecrackers, Jared, dressed as a cowboy with a boombox small enough to hold on one shoulder, stumbled and dropped his candy bag, spilling his treats across the sidewalk. Oblivious to his accident, his friends rushed along without him. As he dropped to his knees, putting down his boombox to scoop the spilled candy back into his bag, he looked up and called, “Hey, wait up!”

None of them heard, and they continued without him.

Redoubling his efforts, he leaned forward and made a scoop out of both arms to pull the rest toward his bag all at once. While collecting the final pieces, he heard someone breathing louder than him. As he climbed to his feet, lugging his bag and the boombox, a dark shape moved from behind a tree.

Determined to catch his friends, Jared lunged forward—

—as The Shape stepped in front of him—

—and bumped into him, this time managing to hold onto his bag. A quick glance up revealed a pale face that neither smiled nor frowned, no reaction at all—a mask!

Jared might have thought the man too old for trick-or-treating, but he’d seen other parents walking the streets with their kids in full costumes or masks to get into the spirit of the night. Slipping past the unmoving Shape, Jared ran after his friends, shouting back, “Sorry, mister!”

* * *

After the collision with the boy The Shape turns to watch him run away—and sees a woman with a flashlight walking behind her house toward a dark utility shed. A moment later, an overhead light switches on. Wearing a red robe, her hair in curlers, she lifts the lid of a freezer and removes a frozen chicken. With the flashlight in one hand and the chicken in the other, she leaves the shed light on, walks out of the shed, and tries to close the door with her foot. On stiff hinges, the door stops short.

As she returns to her home through the back door, The Shape walks toward the light spilling from the open shed door. Unhurried, breathing steady…

Inside, on the floor, The Shape notices a red gasoline storage container next to a propane tank and hedge trimmers. On a cluttered work bench, several padlocks, a bunch of loose nails, a paintbrush, and—

—a wood-handled claw hammer.

A powerful hand closes over the handle, hefts the hammer, testing its weight.

Leaving the light on and the door ajar, The Shape crosses from the shed to the back of the house, taking the same path as the woman, slipping quietly through the rear door.

Inside the house, The Shape notices the glow of a television, the volume turned low and the sounds of activity in the kitchen…

* * *

Mentally kicking herself for getting such a late start, Gina Panchella placed the frozen chicken in a plastic container in her kitchen sink, turning on the faucet to defrost it with a cold-water bath. If she’d been thinking clearly, she would have taken it from the freezer and placed it in the refrigerator the day before, soon as she got home. But she’d been a bit scatterbrained lately. She’d write herself lists and place sticky notes on the counter or fridge, but half the time she’d forget to read her own notes. Now she worried she wouldn’t have time to thaw and cook the chicken before Ralph got home from his swing shift.

The combination of watching Kate’s baby girl and dealing with trick-or-treaters until she’d finally run out of candy and turned off her porch light to signal to kids the candy well had run dry, meant she hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch. She couldn’t wait for the chicken to thaw to grab a bite with Ralph, so she decided to make herself a sandwich. Placing a baked ham on the cutting board next to a plate with two slices of white bread, she went to the fridge for a jar of pickles and mayonnaise. After setting them on the counter, she sliced several pieces of ham with a large black-handled chef’s knife, placing them one at a time on the bread. Normally, she’d use two slices, but her stomach was rumbling, so she sliced a third. Then she realized she’d left the Swiss cheese in the crisper drawer. Couldn’t eat her ham sandwich without a slice of Swiss on top.

Leaving the knife on the counter, Gina returned to the fridge, opened the door and flipped through the bagged cold cuts until she located the Swiss cheese. Back at the counter, she peeled off a slice of cheese and added it to the sandwich. After adding a pickle and some mayo, she carried the plate to the kitchen table and set it on the blue-and-white checkered tablecloth. A simple meal for one.

In the sink, the cold water overflowed the plastic container and made a gurgling sound as it splashed down the drain. After she turned off the faucet, Gina made a mental note to refresh the water in thirty minutes. Then reminded herself a mental note wasn’t worth the paper it was written on. Of course, the paper notes hadn’t helped much either, so she had to trust herself to remember. With her stomach continuing to growl, she sat at the table to take a bite of her sandwich—and remembered she’d left out the condiments and cheese.

Forget it, she told herself. I’ll clean up later. Then she had a sudden craving for some chips to pair with her sandwich. Raiding the pantry would only take a few seconds. So, she slid back her chair and tried to stand. Something pushed back against the chair and she lost her balance. As she caught the edge of the table with her hand, she saw a man in dark coveralls standing over her, face hidden by a pale mask.

She opened her mouth to scream—

—as he swung a hammer down and smashed it against the crown of her head, shattering her plastic curlers, which cushioned the blow slightly but lacerated her scalp.

Terrified, she screamed, but the sound came out more as a raw gasp.

And a second blow crunched against her skull.

Her legs buckled, and she fell back against her chair. Blood poured down her forehead, spilling over the bridge of her nose.

She tried to raise her hands to ward off the blows, but her limbs felt as if they were encased in cement. Even as the light dimmed around the edges of her vision, she saw him turn the handle in his hand, twisting the clawed end of the hammer around to face her. His arm rose again. Then the biting edge of the metal claws came at her in a blur of motion. The last thing she felt was a jarring impact, followed by tremendous pressure and the sensation of her skull bursting open, the bones of her face twisting, fracturing and—

* * *

The Shape watches the woman collapse into her chair, her open eyes vacant as her head falls forward to strike the tablecloth.

Dropping the bloody hammer to the tiled floor, The Shape walks to the counter, reaches past the cutting board and picks up the black-handled knife.

The Shape turns the sturdy knife back and forth to catch the gleam of light on the sharp blade. Satisfying.

Without glancing at the dead woman again, The Shape crosses the kitchen and the dining room beyond, into the living room. A baby’s crib sits by the front window, bathed in the glow of the television. Inside the crib, swaddled in blankets, the baby cries.

Unaffected by the infant’s distress, The Shape walks out the front door, down the porch stairs and continues to the sidewalk.

A few trick-or-treaters pass, veering around The Shape without comment or reaction. Ahead, The Shape sees a man and a woman hurrying to their car, a doctor and a nurse—costumes not professional attire based upon how much of the woman’s skin is exposed. They open the car doors, get inside, husband in the driver’s seat.

“Oh, hell,” the man—husband—says, “I can’t find my keys.”

“We’re going to be late,” the woman—wife—tells him.

The husband hurries back into the house.

The Shape stops, watches the wife—alone in the car—sitting impatiently in the passenger seat. Vulnerable. The Shape’s fingers flex around the handle of the blade, pressed against The Shape’s side. Hidden, for now.

In the silence, crickets chirp.

The Shape considers.

“Hello?” the woman says, staring at The Shape.

The Shape’s hand tightens around the handle.

“Come on, baby,” the husband says as he crosses in front of The Shape to return to the driver’s seat with his car keys. “Let’s go.”

The Shape steps away from the curb as the car pulls away.

Once the car is gone, The Shape looks up to the next house.

Through the front window, The Shape sees a woman moving around inside…

* * *

For possibly the hundredth time that evening, the doorbell rang.

Andrea Wagner veered toward the door, scooping up the wooden serving bowl of Halloween candy she’d placed on the small table by the front door. A few hours ago the bowl had been overflowing with miniature chocolate bars and bags of hard candy. Now… not so much. Only a few lonely items remained. She’d checked the cupboard earlier to confirm she’d emptied every bag she’d stockpiled in the last month or so. This was her last candy hurrah of the evening.

She opened the door with a wide smile on her face.

A chorus of young voices greeted her with, “Trick or treat!”

Three children stood on her stoop, a number that, fortunately, matched the number of items left in her candy bowl. Two girls and a boy, ages ranging from about eight to twelve. Of course, she thought, the McClaren kids. Shane, Payton, and…

Unfortunately, she drew a blank on the younger girl’s name.

“Wow! Look at you, all dressed up,” she said, a phrase she’d repeated throughout the evening. “So, what do we have here?”

Andrea always enjoyed seeing the kids in their costumes. And the littlest ones were so cute. They reminded her of Emma, when she was so small she’d hold her mom’s hand as they walked door to door. Of course, now that her daughter was well into her teens she kept her mother at a socially acceptable distance, basically an adolescent restraining order. Just a phase, Andrea told herself. I was the same way with my parents.

“Let’s see,” Andrea said. “A pretty princess… and a rainbow unicorn, right?” Both girls nodded. “Ooh, and an alien. That’s spooky!”

All three McClaren kids held out their candy bags.

“You guys are my last customers for the night,” she said as she dropped a treat into each bag. “Happy Halloween!”

Mumbling their thanks, the kids rushed off, probably trying to make up for a late start. Only a few costumed stragglers roamed the street. And judging by the number of extinguished porch lights, the flow of candy had cut off at many homes. With a sigh, Andrea closed her door and turned off her own porch light. It was all over so soon.

As she crossed her living room her cellphone rang. Nobody bothered with the landline anymore—other than robo-callers. Not for the first time, she wondered why she still paid for the damn thing.

She stopped in the middle of the living room, pulled her phone out of her jeans pocket and answered the call, immediately recognizing Sally’s voice. “Hey, Sally,” she said. “No, just me. I know. I volunteered as a parent chaperone, but Emma vetoed that idea. Said I’d embarrass her in front of her friends. Well, I hope she’s enjoying the dance. What’s up?” Glancing through the window as she listened, she noticed movement outside, a dark shape, but also something pale—a face or a mask. Another straggler, she thought absently. Tall. Probably a teen making the rounds one last year before—

“Really? Where did you hear that? That’s awful…”

Feeling a chill race down her spine, Andrea suddenly felt exposed.

She hurried to the window, grasped the cord for the horizontal blinds and yanked it to the left to lower them. As the slats dropped, she caught a momentary glimpse of her reflection in the window glass—and she wasn’t alone!

Whirling around, she dropped her phone and screamed.

The dark shape with the pale face stood before her.

Wielding a long chef’s knife, a hand blurred in front of her, slicing left to right below her jawline.

For an excruciating moment, she felt an intense burning pain in her throat—then her world collapsed into darkness…

* * *

The Shape watches the middle-aged woman crumple to the floor, blood gushing from the deep neck wound. The blood pools around her tilted head, coating her splayed hair as her empty eyes stare into space.

Turning, The Shape walks out the open front door, knife held low. Drops of blood fall from the tip of the blade, splattering the carpet in his wake…

* * *

Dr Ranbir Sartain sat up with a gasp in his hospital bed, covered in sweat. Disoriented, he glanced around the dark room, breathing heavily. The only light came from medical equipment beside his bed and a sliver of light from the hallway outside his room. He was in a hospital now, but he remembered he’d been shot… by the boy who discovered him… on the prison transport bus…

The memory triggered earlier impressions from that evening. Images flashed through his mind; a jumble of violence, like a jigsaw puzzle tossed in the air—accusing faces, staring at him in their final moments—

—a prison guard, Kuneman, bleeds from his neck—

—the bus driver looks up at him, in horror and surprise, involuntarily spinning the wheel as his throat is slit—

—the bus rocks wildly on its suspension as it swerves off the road and down a steep embankment—

—through it all, the Smith’s Grove patients rattle the mesh barrier separating them from the guards, screaming as blood spatters their faces, like a feeding frenzy or a descent into madness—

—a second guard, Haskell, screams, his bleeding face smashed against the mesh-covered window until a gunshot blasts through his skull—

Trembling, Sartain reclined in the hospital bed, focusing on the dull pain in his shoulder to anchor himself. He slowed his breathing to lower his heart rate, watching the display on the monitors as a type of biometric feedback. Though he was alone in the hospital room his recollection of the memories had been so vivid it seemed as if they were on public display.

But the only one who mattered had been there with him.

A witness to the moment.

22

Even from outside Haddonfield High School Allyson, Cameron, and Oscar could hear the thumping bass of the music seeping through the walls and windows of the gymnasium. Other than a few strategic spotlights shining on doorways and one angled up the flagpole, the exterior of the high school looked appropriately dark and moody. Even though they were running a bit late, they stopped at the twin brick columns of the entrance gate to take themed photos. Members of the dance committee had mounted painted plywood gargoyles atop each column. The style of the artwork was reminiscent of two-dimensional television animation rather than an attempt at photorealism. Looking more realistic than the gargoyles were the two plastic skeletons attached with fishing line to the columns.

The Exquisite Corpse Dance had officially begun about thirty minutes before she arrived with Cameron and, naturally, Oscar, who had tagged along with the pair. A few of their costumed classmates lingered by the main door. Everyone else had already gone inside.

They had arrived late due to Oscar’s eleventh-hour costume change. He’d planned to go as a vampire in sunglasses, but after tripping a couple times, he reconsidered that plan. Keeping the black cape with its wide red collar and red interior over a black novelty t-shirt designed to look like a tux, he pocketed the plastic fangs and sunglasses and put on a pair of curved devil horns. “Rather be a horny devil than a blind bloodsucker,” he explained.

“Either way’s fine with us,” Cameron said, urging him along.

“What about Mephistopheles,” Oscar said, snapping his fingers. They’d recently read Goethe’s Faust. “Anybody asks, I could say, ‘Don’t Meph with me, bro!’”

With a weary shake of his head, Cameron said, “Please don’t say that.”

“Okay, horny devil it is,” Oscar said.

“Truth in advertising,” Cameron said.

Allyson chuckled.

“Oh, don’t laugh,” Oscar said, raising his cape with both hands more in the manner of a cinematic vampire about to transform into a bat than any movie devil she’d ever seen. “Chicks dig a guy in a cape.”

“I have literally never heard that,” Allyson said.

“After tonight,” Oscar said, “you’ll know it for a fact.”

Cameron laughed. “Dream on, Casanova.”

Allyson and Cameron stuck to their original plan to go to the dance as Bonnie and Clyde. And Cameron had embraced his role as the effortlessly glamorous gun moll, wearing a tan knit beret at a jaunty angle, a brown-patterned scarf low over a mustard-yellow short-sleeved cardigan, and a brown plaid-patterned pencil skirt, along with brown socks and black loafers. He’d abandoned the blond bob wig in favor of his own shoulder-length loose curls, and his commitment to character ended short of shaving his exposed legs, though that choice was more a nod to the comedy of the moment.

“You make a fetching Bonnie,” Allyson said.

She leaned in and they kissed.

“And you—”

Stepping forward, Oscar wrapped his cape around Cameron, pulling them apart. “How dare you insult my bro,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “I’m here for you, Cam. Skirt or no skirt.”

“She didn’t insult—”

“Called you a dog, Cam,” Oscar said. “Like, ‘Fetch, Bonnie, fetch.’”

“Dude, you’re acting out again,” Cameron said, laughing. “Get over it.”

“Although he does have the luscious locks of an Afghan hound,” Oscar added, grinning as he attempted to pat Cameron’s hair.

Dipping away from Oscar, Cameron approached Allyson again. When he took her hand, Allyson beamed. “Bonnie and Clyde are inseparable,” she said with a pointed glance at Oscar, who bowed his head.

Less daring—and less gender-flipping—Allyson’s Clyde costume consisted of a pale straw fedora, a double-breasted, waist-length suit jacket with matching pleated slacks in a brown checked pattern, a long-sleeve dress shirt with suspenders and a necktie. High pant cuffs exposed her black socks with brown dress shoes, but little of her calves. She’d pinned her long hair up under the hat. And for her own jaunty look, she tucked a wooden match in the corner of her mouth, a fake cigarette.

“As I was about to say, before Oscar Mephed it up—”

“Dude!” Oscar exclaimed. “You do love me.”

“—you are one stylish Clyde,” Cameron continued, ignoring Oscar’s joyful outburst.

They kissed again, a gentle brushing of lips—

“Yield to Death,” a voice boomed behind them.

Startled, the trio turned as a tall student in a hooded black cloak wearing a rubber skull mask strode toward the gate, holding a scythe before him. As he neared, Allyson noted the scythe consisted of a broom handle with a cardboard blade covered in aluminum foil.

He stopped between them and said, “I am—the Grim Reaper.”

“Really?” Cameron said, smiling. “I had no clue.”

Oscar shrugged, playing along. “I’m shocked.”

“Allyson?” Cameron asked.

“Speechless,” she said, deadpan.

“Someone at this school has an appointment with Death,” the Grim Reaper proclaimed in his best sepulchral tone. Turning in a slow circle, he lowered the tip of his aluminum-foil scythe blade toward Cameron, Allyson, and, finally, Oscar. “You three may pass.”

“After you, Mr Reaper,” Oscar said, gesturing toward the entrance with a sweep of his cape.

They waited silently until the Grim Reaper entered the school. Then they all burst out laughing.

“What was that?” Allyson said.

“Didn’t you hear?” Oscar said, adding in a deep voice, “Death!”

They laughed again.

“Hardcore cosplayer,” Cameron said.

“Not so hardcore after they confiscate his broom scythe,” Oscar said.

“That has to be Arlo,” Allyson said, picturing the tall, skinny senior. “Arlo Riddock, right?”

“Bet it is,” Cameron said, nodding. “Heard he’s a larper.”

“Don’t be racist,” Oscar said.

“Live action role play,” Cameron said.

“Never pictured him coming to a school dance,” Allyson said, reminding herself that Vicky had to figuratively twist her arm for her to come.

“It’s not a dance,” Cameron said. “As far as he’s concerned, it’s a costume party.”

“It’s a dance—with Death,” Oscar sang, raising his cape and spinning in a circle.

“He’s enjoying that cape a little too much,” Cameron said to Allyson.

“Enough stalling,” Allyson said, as much to herself as them. “Photo time.”

“Followed by music, punch—spiked if we’re lucky—” Cameron began.

“Don’t sweat the punch,” Oscar interrupted mysteriously.

“—snacks—” Cameron continued, ticking points off on his fingers.

“And maybe a little dancing?” Allyson said.

“Sure,” Cameron shrugged. “If there’s time.”

“We’ll make time,” Allyson said. “I can’t go to a dance and not dance.”

“I see who wears the pants in your relationship,” Oscar snarked.

“Har har,” Allyson said. “Do you have your cellphone, or do you need to borrow mine?”

“Yeah, dude,” Cameron said. “Make like paparazzi already.”

“Fine, fine,” Oscar grumbled, but took out an old-fashioned flash camera rather than a cellphone. “Special occasion, so I brought my old-school camera. Now, vogue for me, bitches!”

Because even prop guns were banned from school grounds, she and Cameron stood back to back, posing with finger guns held up to their faces in profile while Oscar snapped photos with his camera. Oscar took shots of them with their arms around each other’s shoulders, fake dancing between the skeletons, then fake dancing with the skeletons, as if the skeletons had asked to cut in, along with a few solo shots. Allyson stood with her legs shoulder-width apart, arms akimbo, head turned to the side in what she hoped was a manly pose. Cameron turned sideways, lifted the hem of the pencil skirt above his knee—exposing even more hairy leg—and gave the camera a sultry look. When he tried to twirl in the skirt, he stumbled and almost fell. Allyson and Oscar laughed as Cameron pretended to tap dance in his black-buckled loafers. Allyson moved beside him, hands on her hips, and attempted to do an Irish step dance, but it had been a while since she’d seen Riverdance. Probably looked as lame as it felt, but she laughed at herself even though both guys struggled to maintain a straight face while egging her on.

Allyson switched places with Oscar, taking photos of him and Cameron with her cellphone. Cameron stood behind Oscar, putting an index finger on each of Oscar’s curved horns, as if completing an electrical circuit, and pretended to have a seizure. Whether alone or with Cameron, Oscar couldn’t help vamping with his cape, holding it open with both arms, raising one cape-wrapped forearm in front of his face so only his eyes showed. He also twirled, with more success than Cameron.

“Did you forget about your horns?” Cameron asked. “You’re a devil. Not a vampire.”

“Cape keeps throwing me off,” Oscar said. “I need a… a pitchfork or something. Cloven hooves… or a barbed tail.”

“Settle for the barbed tongue and let’s get on with it,” Cameron said.

“Okay, serious,” Oscar said. “One last shot of you two together. No goofing.”

Cameron looked at Allyson.

“Sure,” she said, smiling. “One for my mother to frame and hang on the wall.”

They stood together, side by side, as Oscar lined up the shot with his camera. “You guys!” Oscar said. “Daaayum, you look good. Okay, now on ‘three.’ Ready?”

They nodded, stood up straight. Allyson reached out, interlaced her fingers with Cameron’s.

“One… two…” Oscar began.

Allyson smiled, happy in the moment.

“Three!”

The flash flared—but not before Cameron leaned forward and stuck out his tongue.

“Cameron!” she yelled, jabbing him with her elbow. “You’re such a jerk!”

“Ow,” Cameron laughed, flinching away from her. “It was just a goof! C’mon, do over.”

“Forget it,” Allyson said. “Let’s just go inside before we miss everything.”

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Cameron said, reaching out to catch her arm before she slipped away. “I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

“Let’s go,” Oscar said. “Time to make my grand entrance and watch the ladies swoon.”

“Barf, you mean,” Cameron said, taking a swipe at Oscar’s horns. “I forgot. Are you supposed to be a devil—or a horndog?”

“Why not both?” Oscar said. “Hey, I got a six pack of beer stashed by the bleachers and gin in this flask. Who wants to party with Oscar?”

Oscar slipped Cameron a metal flask. Cameron nodded, impressed, and tucked the flask into the front pocket of his pencil skirt, then smoothed out the material.

Cameron laughed, wrapping an arm around each of their shoulders. “We’re gonna have a good time, right?”

Determined to enjoy herself, even without her best friend around, Allyson suppressed any misgivings she had, chalking the worrisome feelings up to nerves, and smiled up at Cameron. They handed over their tickets at the folding table at the gymnasium entrance and joined the crowd.

Allyson stopped, trying to take everything in before the loud music, roving lights, spooky decorations and the large crowd overwhelmed her. And before the smile on her face could falter, Oscar grabbed Cameron by the arm and tugged him away from her. As they were swallowed by the mass of moving bodies, Allyson heard Oscar say something about taking Cameron to his stash.

23

Allyson had been inside the decorated gymnasium for a grand total of ten seconds before wishing Vicky had ditched her babysitting commitment to come to the dance. Oscar had wasted no time dragging Cameron off to provide a distraction while Oscar retrieved his stashed beer. Instead of enjoying the school dance with her boyfriend—if she could even call him that yet—she felt as self-conscious as if she’d wandered in off the street, certain everyone was staring at her while making unflattering or pitying comments. Hard to live in the moment, she thought, when the current moment sucks.

To take her mind off her temporary solitary status, she decided to take in her surroundings and hope Cameron returned sooner rather than later. She wasn’t sure how long she wanted to gut it out alone. Avoiding the dancers in the center of the gymnasium, gyrating over a large pentagram decal applied to the hardwood floor, she made a circuit of the perimeter, bobbing her head in time with the loud music.

They’d entered the gym under an archway made of black and orange balloons. Strings of alternating blue and yellow balloons—their school colors—rose from the floor to crisscross the ceiling before coming down on the other side, giving the effect of giant spider legs. As if immune to the laws of gravity, no less than five skeletons hung suspended from the ceiling in various vertigo-inducing poses.

In the corner to the right of the balloon archway stood another skeleton, strung with orange lights bordered by bales of hay, also strung with lights and covered in fake cobwebs. A spotlight shone down on the skeleton, which was also the focus of a floor strobe light.

As Allyson reached the midpoint of the gym, several cheerleaders rushed onto the dance floor and performed a choreographed cheer routine before the DJ stage at the far end of the gym. Roving spotlights, strobe lights and large speakers hung from a light truss framework over the DJ’s two-tiered stage. An oversized Frankenstein’s monster made of papier mâché lay prone on a table before the DJ, several candles burning next to the head. Headphones draped around his neck, the DJ wore a rubber mask, a ghoulishly wrinkled face framed by wild white hair, which reminded Allyson of no Dr Frankenstein she’d ever seen. Behind the DJ and his equipment, he’d set up a fake horror movie electrical panel and two glowing towers designed to look as if they would produce a Jacob’s ladder electrical effect. Beside the DJ, two girls danced, one costumed as a belly dancer, complete with pink lei around her neck, the other in a skimpy red latex outfit, possibly one of the many variations of the sexy devil costume.

As the cheerleaders departed the dance floor together, Allyson checked out some of the costumes her classmates wore. She spotted a few in black with skeleton masks, a pirate, one girl dressed as a Kabuki dancer, a wizard hanging around with a magician who, like Oscar, wore a cape, but with a string tie closure. Someone had dressed as a rapper with what she imagined was costume jewelry as his bling. A guy wearing the black-and-white stripes of a referee talked with another guy wearing snorkel gear over an orange life jacket. A cowgirl danced with a rodeo clown. Someone wearing a rubber wolfman mask stood near Kim, the girl Allyson remembered giving her a strange look when Cameron broke the news to Oscar that he’d opted out of their Tango and Cash plans. Kim had come to the dance as a tigress, wearing cat ears and what looked like a black leather bustier over a black chiffon skirt, showing an awful lot of skin. Orange body paint with black painted horizontal stripes covered her throat, cleavage, arms, and legs.

Allyson grudgingly admired the girl’s confidence but wouldn’t want to change places with her. And yet she wondered if her own choice had been timid. Cameron had gone bold, costumed in drag. Without him standing next to her to complete the joke, she just looked like a girl who’d dressed as a dude.

Allyson walked toward the far end of the gym and looked over the refreshment pass-through counter, laid out between red velvet curtains with a poster-sized tarot card affixed to each curtain and decorated with a matching red table skirt. Large glass bowls held potato and tortilla chips, with a separate bowl for nacho cheese dip, and cheese puffs. Next to a stack of napkins and paper plates, ceramic monster-head containers held pretzels beside smaller jars with assorted candies. The back edge of the table was lined with tall black candles.

Adjacent to the snack counter, another table held a punch bowl and stacks of orange plastic cups. Next to the cups, someone had laid out trays of homemade cupcakes decorated as jack-o’-lanterns and eyeballs, along with chocolate-chip and orange-frosted sugar cookies. Allyson thought about sampling a chocolate-chip cookie, but she’d hardly worked up an appetite walking from one side of the gym to the other.

She didn’t check to see if anyone had spiked the punch. But a moment later, she saw that Cameron and Oscar had taken matters into their own hands. Both seemed a little looser and louder than they had before they snuck off in pursuit of Oscar’s contraband.

Cameron sidled up to her, placing an arm around her shoulder. “Miss me, Clyde?”

“Hardly knew you were gone, Bonnie,” Allyson replied.

“Should I leave again?” Cameron asked.

She grabbed his forearm. “Better not, bub.”

“Bub?” he asked, pointing at his chest.

“Short for bubbly,” Allyson said, smiling.

“I am that,” Cameron said, “although I doubt Oscar smuggled in any champagne.”

“You owe me a dance,” Allyson said.

“Yes, it is time,” Oscar said. He reached into his pocket and donned his red-framed sunglasses. Next, he shoved the plastic vampire teeth in his mouth. “Time to perform the dance of nocturnal seduction.”

“Yeah,” Allyson said flatly. “Good luck with that.”

Cameron laughed.

Undaunted, Oscar raised one side of his cape with his free hand and danced in half-circle swooping motions, spiraling out toward the dance floor. After he stumbled into one pair of slow dancers, others gave him a wide berth.

“So, he’s no longer a devil?” Allyson asked Cameron.

“Can’t stop with the vampire gestures,” Cameron said. “He’s confusing everyone, including himself. Just go with it.”

“I was about to tell you the same thing,” Allyson said, grabbing both of his hands in hers and pulling him toward the dance floor.

After a couple dances, including a slow number, Allyson removed her double-breasted jacket and realized she’d been smiling for almost ten minutes straight. After her initial disappointment at Cameron running off with Oscar, her mood had turned around completely. Feeling a bit giddy, she exchanged pleasantries with her classmates on the dance floor, other couples and groups of girls dancing with each other in small circles. Some of them she knew from various classes, recognizing them in costume, but others seemed mysteriously anonymous, wearing masks or elaborate makeup or zombie facial appliances that disguised their identity. They had the dance and the music in common, as well as the sense of freedom that came from letting down the guard of one’s daily identity. With so many people dancing in the confined area, under a barrage of hot spotlights, Allyson could feel her face flush. But she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had so much fun.

Oscar, riding a mild buzz, darted around the dancers with his flowing cape, snapping pictures, telling each subject he’d captured their soul, punctuating the statement with a theatrically evil laugh. More importantly, Oscar’s antics gave Allyson some quality alone time with Cameron. After a while, they decided to take a breather and returned to the refreshment area.

As Cameron turned his back to the dancers and took a sip from the metal flask, Allyson felt her cellphone buzz. She checked the display: Vicky. Checking in, Allyson thought. Making sure I’m not miserable.

There was zero chance she’d hear a word Vicky said with the music blasting from the ginormous speakers, so she’d have to step out to take the call.

Cameron noticed the phone in her hand and gave her a look.

She held up an index finger to indicate she’d be back in a minute, then hurried out to the gym.

* * *

Even in the hallway Allyson had a hard time hearing Vicky, but she refused to put the call on speaker. Some girls stood nearby, making minor adjustments to their costumes and checking how each other’s makeup was holding up. She tried to tune them out, pressing the phone against her right ear and her palm over her left.

“I’m sad you’re not here,” Allyson said. “It’s ridiculous. It’s actually a lot easier for me to talk to people in costume. Better when I can’t tell who they are.”

“See,” Vicky said, excited for her. “I told you. How’s Cameron? Looking hot in my skirt?”

Allyson laughed. “We’re having a really good time. I think he’s really sweet,” she added, feeling one lingering reservation about him fading away. “It’s like my dad has plagued my subconscious about his family.”

Some of the girls decided to touch up their makeup after all and drifted by her toward the restrooms. Allyson turned away, about to say more to Vicky, but as she faced the doorway into the gymnasium, Oscar pushed through the doors, saw her and made his swooping cape maneuver, camera extended in his free hand. At first, she wondered if Cameron had sent him to eavesdrop on her conversation, but figured the simpler explanation was that he needed a restroom break himself.

As he neared her, he mimed holding her face between his hands and flicked his tongue up and down while grinding his pelvis toward her. The disgusted face she flashed him proved insufficient as a deterrent because he moved even closer, on the verge of turning a mock sexual assault into the real thing.

Jeez, how much has he had to drink? she wondered, quick to shove him away before he did something he’d regret and for which she might press charges. She mouthed the word “gross” and held out her hand to keep him at a distance.

“Allyson?” Vicky said over the tinny speaker. “You there?”

Keeping her eyes on Oscar, she said, “Yeah. Just a sec.”

With a comical pout and an exaggerated shrug, he took a wide berth around her to complete his journey to the restroom. She waited, worried he might circle back and surprise her, when she felt her phone vibrate.

Glancing down, she checked the call waiting—Grandmother—and sent it to voicemail.

24

Cellphone to her left ear, Vicky ditched her red tennis shoes and sat with her legs curled up under her on the Morriseys’ wing chair, nibbling on the popcorn she’d made for nine-year-old Julian and set on the coffee table in a metal colander. He would have been happy stuffing himself with Halloween candy, but his mother had instructed Vicky to let him pick three snack-sized items and save the rest for later. Overall, Julian was a good kid, so babysitting him provided Vicky with a stress-free evening.

There was no way she wasn’t more comfortable in her white raglan shirt with yellow sleeves and navy jeans than practically anyone in costume at the school dance. One upside of choosing the babysitting gig over an after-school social life. In addition to her sweet thrice rate.

While Vicky talked to Allyson on the phone, Julian sat on the far corner of the adjacent pale-blue sofa watching Repo Man on the flat-screen TV. Barefoot, Julian was equally comfortable in his volcano t-shirt and T-Rex pajama pants. More importantly, he was dressed for bed. Once the little guy nodded off and Dave arrived, Vicky expected her evening to get interesting.

She raised her glass of cider and took a sip. “You guys should come over here when it’s done,” she said to Allyson. Listening to the muffled dance music in the background, Vicky felt a twinge of regret for missing out on the party atmosphere. She lowered her voice and cupped her hand over her mouth, because tiny ears could have big mouths. “Dave’s on his way. He’s bringing some ‘Alakazam.’ Julian’s parents aren’t gonna be home till super late. Catch my drift, Clyde.”

The pause before Allyson’s reply was telling. “School night though.”

Like the girl was genetically incapable of having fun, of letting go and saying, for once in her life, ‘What the hell? Why not?’ Vicky had to practically twist her arm to get her to go to the dance. And she’d almost bailed when Vicky backed out to watch Julian.

“Listen here, young lady,” Vicky said. “Am I or am I not your life coach?”

“Life coach? I wouldn’t go that f—”

“Too much?” Vicky asked. “Okay, then, who is your social specialist? Guy guru? Party pundit?”

“You, Vicky,” Allyson said, laughing. “You are all those things—and so much more.”

“You bet I am,” Vicky said, “but… we do need to nip the girl crush in the bud.”

“That was a—”

“I know, babe,” Vicky interrupted, smiling. “I’m simply irresistible.”

“That’s not what I m—”

“Sorry, Al, just jerking your chain,” Vicky said. “So, you’ll do what I say?”

“Within reason.”

“No hedging,” Vicky said. “This is for your own good.”

“Fine,” Allyson said. “So…?”

“Listen,” Vicky said, and couldn’t help noticing Julian giving her a bit of side-eye when he should’ve been focused on the movie. “I gotta tuck this cute little critter in to bed. Stop being a needy bitch and get over here.”

Allyson laughed. “Sounds good,” she said. “See ya in a bit.”

“Knew there was a party animal inside you waiting to get out.”

“Hey, I’m not—!”

“Better not leave me hanging!”

Before Allyson could change her mind, Vicky hung up.

Julian stared at her.

“What?” Vicky said. “I’m allowed to make personal calls. Besides, I’ve seen this movie before.”

“I heard you telling your friends to come over here and you’re gonna smoke some weed and drinkin’ that stuff. That’s against the rules.” He sat up straight. “I’m telling my mom.”

Little narc, Vicky thought. And after I made him all those snacks—and let him stay up past his bedtime—and watch some questionable movies. Well, two can play the narc game, kiddo.

Vicky crossed to the sofa and sat next to him, the better to look him in the eyes. “They teach you about MAD in school?”

“Getting angry?”

“In a way,” Vicky said. “But this MAD stands for mutually assured destruction. M. A. D. Understand?”

Julian shook his head, confused.

“Well, I’ve seen your browser history, Julian,” Vicky said with a slow, disapproving shake of her head. “Wouldn’t want me telling your folks about that, would you?”

Panicked, Julian shook his head “no” several times.

“That’s what I thought,” Vicky said, adding, “And up late watching scary Alex Cox movies is not what you’re supposed to be doing either.” Actually, she’d catch the heat for that infraction. But he didn’t need to know that.

She patted him on the head and smiled. “Get to bed, you little monster.”

“Now?”

“You bet your little butt now, young man!” she said. “Race you upstairs?”

With a delighted squeal, Julian jumped off the sofa and sprinted for the steps. Urging him on, she pretended to run full tilt, but stayed a few feet back. Of course, in bare feet, he had better traction on the hardwood floors than she did in her socks. But it wouldn’t have mattered. The unwritten rules of babysitting told her to let him end the night with the satisfaction of a clear victory. The faster to bed, she hoped, the faster to sleep. And then she could relax for the rest of the night.

“Okay, you beat me,” Vicky said as she walked through his open bedroom door. “You got some mad skills, little dude. Never saw anyone run up… stairs that fast.”

She looked around his room.

“Julian?” she called. “This was a race. Not hide-and-seek. C’mon, man, it’s already past your bedtime.”

Julian had an enviable corner bedroom for a kid his age, with two windows on either side of his wood-framed youth bed with a matching end table and two more windows on either side of a twenty-gallon fish tank, which glowed white and blue like the world’s biggest night light. His parents had decorated the walls with muted green wallpaper with pale silhouettes of animals—elephants, giraffes, kangaroos, ducks, and roosters in a repeating pattern. Above his bed, fixed to the wall, stuffed, quilted letters in bold patterns spelled out his name in all caps.

She’d seen him enter the bedroom, which limited his hiding options. Julian should have been lying in bed, right beneath the stuffed letters, but had decided to prolong his evening. The bed rested on a large striped throw rug to protect the hardwood floor, with enough clearance under the bed to hide a mischievous nine-year-old. On the far side of the long dresser to her left, a small red rocking chair with a stuffed alligator on the seat occupied that corner of the room. She leaned to the right and peered around the corner of the dresser. No Julian.

“Julian…?” she called. “You need to brush your teeth and use the little boys’ room before you conk out.”

He wouldn’t fit in the closed wooden stand under the fish tank, so no options on that side of the room. To her right stood a youth desk and chair beside a short wooden bookcase with a few sports trophies atop it. Above the desk were twin-framed illustrations, portraits of a polar bear on the left and a panda on the right, with Julian’s own artwork pinned to the wall under these. She leaned over to the right and checked the kneehole of the desk. Again, no Julian. That left the closet and under the bed—unless the kid has a secret passage to Narnia hidden somewhere in here.

“Time’s up, Julian,” she said. “I’m opening the closet.” She stomped her feet for effect, but without her shoes on the soft thumps lacked any intimidation factor. She took two steps around the desk, toward the closet and—

“Boo!” Julian shouted, jumping up from behind the far side of his bed.

Startled despite herself, Vicky swayed back and bumped into the desk chair.

“Did I scare you?”

“Sure did, buddy,” Vicky said. “You got me.”

Julian grabbed the small wooden biplane model from his end table and walked to the left of the aquarium to his craft table, which held wooden train-set pieces and plastic bottles of paint.

No way is he staying up to paint that plane, she thought. Don’t even ask, kid!

Instead, Julian performed loops and dives with the plane in his hand, making engine sounds, and asked a different question. “Would you jump out of a plane?”

“With or without a parachute?”

He laughed.

“It’s an important detail!” she joked. “One is all ‘Ooh—ahh!’ and the other is ‘Ahhhhhhhh—SPLAT!’”

“With, obviously,” he said.

“Might try it someday,” she said. “But you know what I really need to do first?”

“What?”

“Get you to brush your teeth and go to bed.”

“All right,” he said, dragging out the words as he reluctantly set down the plane.

* * *

After Julian finished his nighttime routine, he climbed into bed and pulled up his plaid covers, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

“A-ha!” Vicky said, standing at his bedside. “Knew you were tired. Now stop that or you’ll make me yawn.”

“I’m not—” Another yawn. “—tired.”

“No?” She raised her eyebrows. “You’re not even fooling yourself.” She kissed her hand and touched it to his forehead. “Now close your eyes and go… to… sleep.”

Julian nodded.

Vicky switched off the fish tank light and walked to the doorway.

“Will you leave the door open? Just a crack?”

“Okay,” Vicky said, leaving the door open wide enough to let a shaft of light from the hallway spill across the floor of his room. “Before I forget,” she said. “Command, shift, N—next time. Incognito mode.”

25

With Julian tucked in and, she hoped, already asleep after those impressive yawns, Vicky padded down to the kitchen to wash dishes. She rinsed off plates, glasses, and flatware and loaded them in the dishwasher. Letting the hot water run, she hand-washed some pots and pans, making more noise than she intended but hoping not enough to wake Julian. She anticipated a fun and eventful evening ahead, so the last thing she wanted was a tired, cranky child ruining the mood.

Movement outside the window above the sink caught her eye. As she set the last pot on the draining board, she leaned forward to peer outside. She had to press her face close to the window to see past her own reflection to ghostlike shapes fluttering outside. Too late for trick-or-treaters, so—

Two white bed sheets, hanging on the clothesline, rose and fell with the breeze.

She wasn’t superstitious about Halloween, but being alone—relatively alone—in an unfamiliar—relatively unfamiliar—house at night could put anyone’s nerves a little on edge. So, she tried to lose herself in mundane tasks. When she returned the dish detergent to the cabinet under the sink, she noticed the small trash can was overflowing. Tugging the plastic bag out of the container, she knotted the drawstring closure, put in a fresh plastic bag and took the full one to the back door. For a moment, she considered going back for her tennis shoes, but she wouldn’t need to cross the yard, so she decided to forgo shoes for the sake of expediency.

Outside in the dark toting a load of trash, she shivered, her raglan shirt insufficient against the fall chill in the air.

She walked along the paved walkway around the house toward the large trash bin. Dried leaves skittered across the cement with intermittent scraping sounds. A couple crackled underfoot as she stepped on them. When she lifted the hinged lid on the large trash can, she looked up at the night sky and saw wispy clouds slide across the face of the waning moon. She dropped her bag on top of the other aromatic offerings that had accumulated since the last trash day. Wrinkling her nose, she mumbled, “Ew, that’s ripe!”

She rubbed her arms for warmth, then turned to hurry back inside and—

“Hey, there you are.”

Vicky shrieked. An involuntary impulse before her brain processed Dave’s familiar features. “Jesus, Dave!” she exclaimed, breathless. “You scared the shit out of me.”

He’d come to the Morriseys’ in costume as a farmhand, wearing a frayed-edge straw hat, a red plaid shirt and overalls. Under one arm he carried a child’s stick horse and in the other a jack-o’-lantern with carved hearts for eyes, what looked like an upside-down heart for a nose, and a smiling mouth. Not scary in the least, but he’d showed up out of nowhere in the middle of the night when she was already a bit spooked.

“Sorry,” Dave said. “I’ve been knocking on the front door for, like, five minutes. I didn’t wanna ring the bell and wake the kid.” She’d been washing dishes, but he must have knocked softly for her not to hear.

“Check it out,” he said, holding up the jack-o’-lantern. “Fresh from my patch.”

“Cute,” she said, laughing as her nerves calmed.

“He hearts you,” Dave said, dipping the eyes toward her.

“Well, you know what they say…”

“What’s that?”

“The eyes are the windows to a pumpkin’s gutted interior.”

“That’s awful,” Dave said, hugging the jack-o’-lantern as if it were a frightened child. “Why would they say that? Why?”

“I’m freezing,” Vicky said. “Come inside.”

He followed her through the open back door into the kitchen. “Are we alone?”

“Julian just went to bed,” she replied. “Should be in dreamland by now.”

“So, we have the house to ourselves?”

“Allyson and Cameron are gonna head over in a few.”

Setting his jack-o’-lantern on the kitchen table with the horse stick leaning against a chair, Dave said, “Should we make popcorn? Wanna watch TV?”

He looked up at her and she stared back, trying without much success to suppress an incipient smile. “No.”

When Dave smiled back at her, she leaned in for a light kiss on the lips. But after a moment, Dave pulled away. “Hold on a sec.”

“Okay,” she said, not sure where he was going. If anything, she’d expected impatience, maybe even exuberance, not stalling tactics. “What’s up?”

Instead of replying, he unfastened the top three buttons of his shirt, then tugged down the right side, pulling it under the overall strap to expose his right shoulder. “Check this out,” he said. “I did this for you.”

A fresh tattoo, black ink with specks of dried blood. No picture. Just a date: 10-31-18.

She looked from the tattoo up to his face.

“Because tonight is the night,” he explained. “And this is tonight’s date, which is Halloween.”

Her hesitant smile blossomed, spreading across her face. “Oh fuck yeah, Dave.”

She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the family room.

* * *

“Restless” did not begin to describe what Laurie Strode felt as she drove through the streets of Haddonfield in her pickup truck, listening to the police scanner as if her life—and the lives of her family—depended on it. Instead, she experienced a gut-wrenching combination of dread and relief.

He had escaped. As she had long predicted he would. No denying it. She had expected and prepared for this night for forty years. Now, finally, the waiting was over. He was out—and he would come for her. She had no delusions about that. But knowing tonight would provide the chance to end him once and for all also gave her a sense of peace. He’d been out of reach for so long, untouchable, and yet a threat to her life so profound she’d been unable to live a normal life. She could never predict the day he would return, only that that day was inevitable. She’d had no choice but to prepare, to be ready when the moment came to reclaim her life—by ending his.

And now that the moment was hours, perhaps minutes away, she sensed the gears of fate turning, all too aware that any slight miscalculation could be fatal, for her and for her family. Since they refused to believe in the threat, chalking up her warnings as the ravings of a paranoid madwoman, the responsibility of ending him rested solely on her. Even though she had tried, unsuccessfully, to prepare Karen to fight the battle with her, deep inside, Laurie always expected the final confrontation to come down to the two of them alone.

She would stand between him and her family. Protect them long enough to kill him. After that, she didn’t care what happened to her. Dr Loomis had deemed Michael the embodiment of evil and wanted him dead from the start. Laurie had never questioned his assessment. Now she planned to carry out that sentence.

“You can’t kill the Boogeyman.”

“Shut up,” she said. “I will kill the bastard. If it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll kill him.”

Not that she had to wait for him to come to her. Now that he’d had a taste of killing again, nobody in Haddonfield was safe. Eventually his killing spree would lead him to her, but not if she struck first. He wouldn’t expect her to come after him. As soon as she heard a report on the police scanner consistent with his attacks, she would strike preemptively. The element of surprise was her best weapon.

“You don’t know it, Michael,” she whispered intently, “but I’m coming for you.”

She reached over to the passenger seat and patted the cool barrel of her Smith & Wesson revolver.

Continuing to drive at school zone speeds through the neighborhood, she looked left and right, peering into the darkness for any sign of him in his dark coveralls, wearing that pale, lifeless mask. A few last groups of trick-or-treaters roamed the streets, either searching for final candy stops or headed home with their sugary bounty. Most houses had extinguished porch lights, which left the few kids out past curfew with slim pickings. But she had to respect their never-say-die attitude.

“No quitters in the bunch,” she said. Then, “Be careful out there, kids.”

The Boogeyman is back.

* * *

After Vicky dragged a more than willing Dave into the family room, she spun him around, his back to the sofa, grabbed his face between her hands and planted a quick but passionate kiss on his lips. Then she delivered a playful shove to drop him to the sofa. With him sprawled in a half-sitting position, she placed one knee between his spread legs and pushed his shoulders back, following his lips with hers until they were both horizontal, her weight on top of him. Judging by his reaction, he didn’t seem to mind.

Soon their kissing mouths parted, and she felt the light brush of his tongue against hers. Their breathing deepened, finding a rhythm between them. When her long blond hair fell across his face, his caressing hand tucked it behind her ear. Arching her back, she closed her eyes and pressed her pelvis into his hardness. His left hand unbuttoned her jeans and tugged on the zipper, while his right hand slipped under her raglan top, skimmed across her midriff and cupped her left breast over the bra.

Breathing deeply, a pleased smile on her face, she reached back and unfastened her bra, felt it loosen enough that his questing hand easily slipped under the left cup and palmed her breast, squeezing her erect nipple between his index and middle fingers.

Her excitement battled her impatience. She wanted to whip off her top and the bra—or have Dave remove them for her, but he was still bundled up in his farmer overalls. They’d waited a long time for this night. She was ready—so ready!

Dave tried to work his left hand inside the top of her jeans, slipping his fingers under her panties, caressing her sensitive skin with his fingertips, but the angle was awkward and even more constricted when she leaned forward to unhook the straps of his overalls. In the middle of their combined effort to get each other naked, Vicky tensed. She’d heard—something.

“What?” Dave asked, freezing. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Shhh… stop,” she whispered. “Dave. What was that?”

If she hadn’t been alarmed, the situation would have been comical. Dave paused to look around, one hand over her bare breast, the other warm and curled up inside the waistband of her underwear. “What?” he asked. “What was it?”

“I don’t know. I heard something.”

Dave listened for a few seconds and shook his head. “It’s nothing,” he said. “It’s Julian taking a dump or somethin’. C’mon…”

His curled hand flattened against her lower abdomen and moved lower.

Upstairs, a door closed.

Vicky grabbed Dave’s left hand and brought it back out in the open. “I’m serious,” she said. “Go see.”

“Go see him take a shit?”

Frustrated, he pulled his other hand out from under her shirt.

Vicky climbed to her feet, standing beside the sofa as she refastened her bra and buttoned her jeans. Unmoving, Dave sat on the sofa, staring at her.

“Don’t just sit there,” she urged. “Go!”

Raising his hands in surrender, he stood and composed himself, hand-brushing his hair as he backed away from her toward the stairs, a look of regret in his eyes, as if to say, “Really?”

Probably wondering if he jumped the gun on that tattoo, she thought. But it wasn’t a missed opportunity, just an opportunity postponed. Halloween wasn’t over.

With a dramatic sigh, Dave turned toward the stairs.

Julian stood on the top step, staring down.

“Oh, fuckme!” Dave exclaimed, flinching.

Vicky laughed in relief. “Julian?”

Julian hurried down the stairs, his small hand skimming across the top of the bannister.

Vicky slipped by Dave and kneeled beside Julian.

“What are you doing up?”

“I saw someone in the hallway,” he said, “standing outside my door.”

Dave tossed his hands up in the air in disbelief. “Aww, bro! Ghosts and goblins?” Turning away, Dave walked back into the family room.

“Shut up, Dave!” Julian said, following him. “I heard him breathin’, then I saw him. He was nasty. There was a fucked-up face watching me from the dark!” He looked back, his frightened gaze directed at Vicky. “He’s in here,” Julian warned her. “Boogeyman’s in this house.”

26

Julian’s frightened words echoed in her ears.

Vicky could tell Julian wasn’t lying. He believed it. But he’d had nightmares before. And nightmares often seemed real to kids, even after they woke up. Sometimes they were afraid to go back to sleep because the nightmare might be waiting for them.

Of one thing she was certain. Unless she calmed Julian down and got him back to sleep, her evening with Dave would take a permanent turn toward the platonic. And she was determined not to let that happen. She hadn’t minded missing the dance too much because she’d anticipated a sweet end to the night.

She considered the interruption a minor setback, covered in full by the unofficial basics of babysitting. She’d have a calmed Julian under his covers in ten minutes—thirty tops, if he was really freaked out. “Come on,” she said in her best reassuring tone. “Let’s go see this creature, then get you back to bed.”

Taking Julian’s hand, she led him back toward the stairs.

A quick glance back revealed Dave shaking his head. She mouthed, “Ten minutes,” and gave him a hopeful smile.

* * *

Watching Vicky escort Julian back upstairs, Dave heaved a sigh.

If he’d read Vicky’s lips correctly, she needed only ten minutes to get their evening back on track. Wishful thinking on her part, he decided bitterly. The kid was spooked. And Dave had gotten him more riled up, sparking that f-bomb-littered rant. Might as well hand the kid an energy drink or a shot of espresso. He’d beg Vicky to hold his hand until his parents came home. And even if she somehow managed to get the little tyke back to sleep, Allyson and Cameron were due to show up soon on the Morriseys’ doorstep. He predicted the night would turn into a movie and popcorn event after all.

Absently, his fingers reached up and touched the sensitive skin around his fresh tattoo. Should’ve had a question mark added after the date.

Wallowing in a bit of self-pity, he pulled a joint from his pocket and made his way back to the kitchen, intending to step out back to smoke it. But then he noticed light emanating from the front of the house. The kitchen had windows that faced both front and back. A breakfast nook beside a bay window overlooked the front lawn and driveway. Stepping around the table to peer out the extended, angled window, Dave could see one of the two garage doors was open. Light from inside the garage spilled onto the driveway.

Maybe a power surge caused the automatic door opener to trip and the rumbling sound woke the kid.

Neither Dave nor Vicky had heard a thing, but they were preoccupied with each other at the time. A little rumbling could have been a distant car, the furnace firing up, a dishwasher or washing-machine cycle. Short of a firecracker exploding in the kitchen, Dave doubted he would have noticed any odd sound in those few, fleeting minutes. Of course, Vicky had noticed Julian, but he had to cut her some slack. Her internal babysitting sensors would have been on high alert, especially for anything involving Julian waking up or spying on them. Dave, meanwhile, had been hopelessly lost in a raging hormone stupor. “One-track mind,” he mumbled to himself.

Rather than go out the front door and walk over to the garage, he opened the interior kitchen door and stepped through the doorway, down two steps into the garage, closing the door behind him. As good a place as any to light up without stinking up the house and getting Vicky in trouble with the Morriseys.

* * *

Vicky stood at the top of the stairs with Julian, staring down the dark hallway toward his corner room. She’d left the light on when she put him to bed and didn’t remember turning it off. Could have been an absent-minded flick of the switch between then and when she’d washed the dishes, but Vicky wasn’t sure. They stood next to a wall clock with a huge face, the house so quiet she could hear each second tick by.

“He was standing in the door right there,” Julian said, pointing toward his room. “I closed my eyes. When I opened them, he was gone.”

She flicked on the hall light.

Julian’s bedroom door was open. No reason he would have closed it before running downstairs. Scary dream, jumps out of bed, opens his door, walks down the hallway, she imagined. Perfectly natural. Would have been stranger if he’d closed the door behind him.

“That’s the last time I let you watch a horror movie,” she said.

Vicky decided she needed to break the tension, to get the kid to relax before he freaked out even more. Leaving him at the top of the stairs, she slid down the hardwood floor hallway, sock-skating all the way to his door. There, she pivoted and slid her way into his dark room.

She palmed the wall switch, flooding his room with light. Scanning the room, which was empty, of course, she crossed to the fish tank and turned on that light as well. If it will make him feel better, let him have a jumbo night light.

“Vicky?” came Julian’s frightened voice.

Oops! Left him hanging. “All clear, little dude,” she called, hurrying to poke her head out the doorway. “Nothing to be afraid of.”

* * *

Dave took a hit off his joint and scanned the garage. Not too much clutter. Odds and ends on racks of shelves, hammers and other tools mounted to a section of plywood nailed to the wall the garage shared with the kitchen. Couple of bikes on the floor, one up on a tall bike rack. But he smiled when he looked over to the second bay and saw a vision.

“Sick bike,” he said with awe.

It was a black-and-silver vintage Harley Davidson motorcycle, sadly collecting dust.

Dave approached the Harley reverently, wondering if it would still run. If it’s been sitting long enough to collect this much dust, he thought, definitely needs a tune up.

He walked around it in a slow circle, fingertips caressing the smooth body, leaving clear trails in the coating of dust, evidence of his envy.

Dave swung his left leg over the seat and sat on the Harley, joint dangling from the corner of his mouth as he gripped the handlebars and gazed down the driveway, picturing an open highway in front of him. “And the only speed limit,” he said in a deep voice, “is your own fear.”

Why had it languished in the garage?

Dave imagined a scenario. Whenever Mr Morrisey rode the bike, Mrs Morrisey thought he looked cool. Maybe seeing him on the bike is what attracted her to him in the first place. Then, of course, she gives birth to Julian and she no longer sees a motorcycle. She sees a donor-cycle. So, she tells her husband his bike-riding days are over. He’s a father now and she won’t have her son grow up without ever knowing him. And so, the Harley sits idle in the garage. Years go by and Mr Morrisey rarely thinks about the wild and carefree days on the open road, the feeling of the powerful motor rumbling beneath him.

Or maybe Dave had it all backward. Maybe Mrs Morrisey rode the Harley and Mr Morrisey grew fascinated with the hot biker chick in town. They fall in love and ride all over town and the countryside together. Then she becomes pregnant and decides to give it up, no longer willing to risk her life or the new life growing inside her.

Either way, sucked for the Harley.

* * *

Julian sat on his bed, back against the headboard, arms around his knees, not quite ready to get under the covers but getting there, bit by bit. Vicky sat on the edge of the bed, hoping her proximity would chase away any lingering frights.

Dave was probably pissed, but she hadn’t been away that long yet, and if Julian settled down and let her leave, she saw no reason the two of them, alone downstairs, couldn’t rekindle the mood. Weeks from now, they would laugh about the little interruption to their raging libidos.

Vicky leaned over to the end table and switched off Julian’s bedside lamp.

The aquarium light bathed them in blue, the equivalent of twenty nightlights. With the glow from the aquarium and the soft bubbling of the filter, she seemed to have all the ingredients to put a tired boy to sleep.

“We good?” she asked.

But Julian had one more request.

“Will you turn on the closet light?”

She glanced at the closet door then back at the nine-year-old boy and thought, Seriously, kid? You’ll need sunglasses to fall asleep. But then she remembered Dave waiting—patiently, she hoped—for her downstairs. Or toking up on the front lawn. She thought she saw him reaching for a joint before she escorted Julian upstairs.

“Then you go to sleep for real,” she said, making it a statement, but careful not to let her own impatience surface in the tone of her voice. No more bargaining, she thought. Time for you to count sheep, young man.

After a moment, he nodded. She scooted down, lifted his covers so he could get under them, then she tucked him in. Standing, she straightened the legs of her jeans and walked to the closet. As she turned the doorknob and pulled the door open, she glanced back at him and said, “Remember, I’ll be right downstairs until your folks get home. Okay?”

Again, he nodded. She returned his nod as she reached for the closet light switch and flipped it up. Light from the bare closet bulb flooded the bedroom.

“Oh, shit!” Julian exclaimed.

Vicky whirled toward the closet to see—

Standing before her, the dark shape of a man in coveralls with a pale, lifeless face staring back at her with dead eyes. Not a face—a mask of a face.

Before she could react—or utter a sound—he grabbed her throat in his left hand, while his right arm rose, his hand gripping a large kitchen knife. He swung the blade down, its tip slicing into her left shoulder then across her right forearm as she tried to break free.

In an instant, she felt as if her skin had caught fire, the sudden burst of pain momentarily incapacitating her. But she knew immediately she was in a fight for her life. Stumbling back out of his grip, she picked up the desk chair and hurled it at him. But he batted it away.

Casting about for any weapon, she grabbed a basketball trophy off the bookcase and swung it like a club at his masked head. His raised forearm deflected the blow and the trophy snapped free of its weighted base.

Screaming, Julian kicked his blankets aside and scrambled out of the bed, running toward the door.

The Shape of a man turned…

* * *

Tired of waiting for Vicky while pretending to ride the lonely highways—and a little buzzed—Dave had decided to give the old Harley the benefit of the doubt and fire it up. The engine had roared to life, especially loud in the confines of the double garage, even with the doors open. He revved the motor several times, admiring the full-throated power—and edging closer to realizing his biker fantasy. But that was as far as he could take it. No matter how long Vicky took to get Julian back to sleep, there was no way in hell he’d take off down the driveway. Maybe he could cozy up to Mr Morrisey, ask to borrow the bike sometime, but—

What the hell was that?

He thought he heard screaming. He turned off the bike and listened…

Nothing.

Nevertheless, he’d heard something and decided he’d better check it out. In his haste, he climbed off the Harley without setting the kickstand and the damn bike fell over with a loud crash.

“Aww. Idiot,” he yelped.

Reaching down, he grabbed the handlebars and struggled to get the damn thing upright again…

* * *

Julian had darted out of his room, Vicky right on his heels. Soon as she passed through the doorway, she saw him racing down the stairs. But in her socks, she had little traction on the hardwood floor and her feet slipped out from under her. She fell hard, knocking the wind out of her. The pressure in her chest felt like a vise had clamped down on her ribs, as though her body had suddenly forgotten how to breathe.

Lying there, she saw Julian climb back up the stairs, his eyes unnaturally wide with fright. Then, towering over her, the dark shape appeared in the doorway. Twisting to glance back, she saw the light gleaming on his long knife, the trickle of blood—her blood—pooling near the hilt and dripping to the floor.

When Julian spotted the intruder standing over Vicky with the knife, he shook his head violently and said, “Nope.” As quickly as he had returned, he rushed back down the stairs.

With Julian out of sight, the intruder turned his attention to Vicky.

She rolled over, to keep him in sight. As she tried to kick him, his free hand caught her left foot by the heel and started to drag her back toward the bedroom.

Instantly, she changed her strategy, flipping over again and clawing at the floor. With the full body flip, she broke free of his grasp and scrambled across the hallway, trying to rise and slipping again, maybe in her own blood. She couldn’t be sure how bad her shoulder was bleeding, but she could see the blood running from the gashes in her forearm, down to her wrist, trickling between her fingers to coat her palm. He caught her foot a second time and tugged, but she grabbed one of the railing’s balusters and held on as tight as she could.

For a few precious seconds, she resisted his grip. But he was strong, and her shoulder had grown weak, almost numb from blood loss. Her hands slipped, her grip faltering, betrayed by her own bleeding wounds. With a sudden jerk, he yanked her away from the baluster and across the floor, slippery with her sweat and blood.

He pulled her back into the bedroom, and this time she couldn’t stop him. All she could do was shout a final warning to Julian, to make sure he was safe. She screamed so loud, she felt her voice shatter with terror. “RUNNN!”

* * *

The second Dave opened the garage door and stepped into the kitchen, Julian slammed into him, screaming incoherently. Dave caught his shoulders, trying to track the kid’s wild eyes.

“Dude! Chill,” Dave said, loud enough for Julian to pay attention. “Why are you screechin’?”

“That man up there,” Julian said. “Uh-uh!”

“There’s no man up there,” Dave said, trying to calm him. As a babysitter, Vicky might be accustomed to dealing with irrational-kid drama, but it was foreign territory to him. If he tried to ask himself, what would Vicky do in this situation, he didn’t have the first clue. “Calm down.”

“You go up there,” Julian said breathlessly, looking past Dave’s left shoulder at the back door, “you’re gonna get killed, Dave!”

As Dave looked toward the family room, Julian broke free of his grasp and rushed out the door. Dave debated following the kid, who’d probably hide inside the massive wooden playset Dave had noticed out back until his parents came home, but decided Vicky was the pro. Let her deal with Julian. The whole twitchy-kid thing was getting old fast. After opening a few kitchen drawers, Dave found what he was looking for. Smiling, he tossed the large kitchen knife from right hand to left and back again. He adjusted his straw hat like a major-league pitcher tugging on the bill of his cap, about to deliver some serious heat.

Time to show the kid there was nothing to be afraid of except his overactive imagination.

27

While Cameron sat out a few songs, Allyson stayed on the dance floor with several of her girlfriends, none as close as Vicky, but most of them she’d known for years—dating back to grade school—through various shared classes and group projects. As such, they were mainly school friends, not girls she hung out with after school. Yet, with Vicky absent, she thought maybe she needed to expand her list of unconditional friends. Too often Vicky was not just her bestie, but her only real friend.

Robin Barnes had come to the dance as a bloody nun. Rolling with the Exquisite Corpse theme, Emma Wagner had come as a reanimated corpse, reassembled from severed limbs, sporting rough stitches to indicate her head, arms, and hands had been reattached from one or more corpses. Of course, for maximum effect, most of the stitches leaked fake blood. With gruesome facial makeup designed to look as if the flesh had been removed from one side of her jaw, Barbara Decosta had come as a zombie cheerleader, wearing a tattered uniform and bloodstained pompoms. Finally, Kacey Dayton had come as a lady pirate, wearing a tricorn hat with a red feather, an eyepatch, black leather vest with a tattered skirt, and carrying a cutlass made from cardboard and tinfoil, which she kept misplacing throughout the night. She blamed her absentmindedness on lack of depth perception from the eyepatch.

“Okay—what is Oscar doing?” Barb asked.

Allyson followed her gaze to a refreshment table, where Oscar, looking dazed and confused in his red-framed sunglasses, attempted to eat a giant dill pickle while still wearing his plastic vampire fangs. Without much luck, it seemed. The pickle dripped juice on the floor along with chewed bits he hadn’t managed to keep inside his mouth, some of which he’d caught with his free hand.

“Who knows?” Allyson said. “Something lewd, I’m guessing.”

“Gross, you mean,” Robin said. “You came with him?”

“Oh, no,” Allyson said, sounding more defensive than she intended, but feeling embarrassment by association. “I’m with Cameron. Oscar tagged along with us.”

Allyson was surprised Oscar stood alone. Without her monopolizing Cameron’s time, she expected Oscar to glue himself to his friend’s elbow or at least try his luck again with the Haddonfield High cheerleaders.

“Cameron?” Kacey asked. “Would that be the same Cameron over there chatting up Tigress Kim?”

Allyson turned, looking for Cameron in the direction Kacey had indicated. Dressed as Bonnie Parker, Cameron stood out in the crowd, but Kim could have come with her own spotlight and it wouldn’t have made her more prominent. With her black leather bustier flaunting impressive cleavage and a whole lot of exposed, orange-painted, black-striped skin, Kim popped wherever she stood. All eyes seemed to follow her no matter where she went. Compared to her, even the cheerleading squad blended into the background.

At that moment, she stood right next to Cameron, easily recognizable even though his back was to Allyson. She’d been smiling through the dance number and small talk, but as soon as she saw Cameron beside Kim, her smile wilted, overwhelmed by a sudden pang of jealousy.

Wearing the slanted beret and Vicky’s pencil skirt, Cameron couldn’t be accused of sneaking around. He had to have known Allyson would notice the company he kept. Fighting off a panicked sense of embarrassment, she tried to reason that their proximity to each other was totally innocent. Maybe they had a class together and were poking fun at their oddball teacher. Before she could halfway convince herself of such a mitigating scenario, Kim took Cameron’s hand, leaned close to him and kissed his neck.

Jaw hanging as she stood motionless on the dance floor, hardly aware of her friends behind her, Allyson stared as if paralyzed by Cameron’s betrayal. At that moment, she wanted to run out of the gymnasium and straight home. She always tried to live in the moment, but in that moment she thought she might die of embarrassment. She’d grown gradually more comfortable in her skin all evening, but now she felt like an immature fool.

Cameron and Kim turned around. Unlike Allyson, Cameron was smiling. Until he noticed Allyson staring at the two of them. Then he pulled away from Kim and called, “Allyson. Come here!”

Allyson shook her head, a definitive “no.”

Cameron nodded.

Again, Allyson shook her head.

Turning sideways for a moment, he pulled the metal flask from his pocket and took a quick sip before hiding it again. He whispered something to Kim, whereupon Allyson’s imagination ran wild, wondering what he’d said to her. Unflattering possibilities raced through her mind. “Wait here while I ditch Miss Buzzkill.” “Let’s continue this later.” “Meet you behind the fieldhouse.” And so on…

With Cameron crossing the dance floor toward her, Allyson shook off the belittling voice in her head. When he stood close enough that she wouldn’t have to shout and further embarrass herself, she said, “What are you doing? What was that?”

Eyes glazed, he was clearly buzzed. And for some reason, that made her more incensed.

“I just need a kiss from you,” he said.

“Looks like you just got one from Kim,” Allyson said bitterly.

From behind her, with a rustling of pompoms, zombie cheerleader Barb said, “She shoots, she scores.”

Allyson glanced back over her shoulder. “Please,” she said. “This is private.”

“No worries,” Robin said, palms raised as she backed away.

“Be strong,” Kacey said, patting Allyson’s upper arm.

Allyson waited a moment as her friends wandered out of hearing range, then turned back to Cameron, seething.

“That was nothing,” Cameron said, smiling in a lame attempt to defuse her anger. “It was nothing.” He glanced around. “Can we not do this in the middle of the dance floor?”

Allyson looked around, realizing that more than a few of the nearby dancers had started to dance less and stare more. Allyson nodded curtly and followed him toward the refreshment area. Oscar and his big pickle were no longer in the area to attract more unwanted attention.

“You were saying?” Allyson asked, hands on her hips.

“That it—that kiss—was nothing,” he repeated. “Seriously.”

“Really?”

From the frown on his face, she could tell the nonchalant attitude had reached its limit with Cameron. She began to realize it wasn’t in his nature to defend his behavior. Maybe because of his unusual family situation or because of the way he was raised. Whatever it was, he wasn’t comfortable when forced to meet the expectations of others.

“Yeah,” he said flatly. “Every time I turn around you’re buried in your phone. Looking at it, texting with people, talking with people. It sucks. And I didn’t do anything with Kim. She came up to me. Don’t cry about it.”

“Blame me,” Allyson said. “Blame Kim. Everyone but Cameron.”

“Whatever.”

“You’re drunk,” she said angrily. “Oscar got you fucked up.”

“Exactly,” Cameron said, smiling. “See? Not my fault.”

“You’ve been drinking from that flask all night,” she said. “You. Not Oscar.”

Cameron arched his eyebrows. “Who do you think gives me free refills?”

“Not funny.”

“Come ’ere,” he said, voice slurring as he smiled in a mushed-mouth sort of way that irritated her. “Come on. Stop.”

She tried to back away, but he grabbed her arm to pull her close to him.

“Don’t,” Allyson warned.

Her phone vibrated. Distracted, she removed it from her pocket to check the screen display: Mom.

Cameron practically rolled his eyes in disgust. “See!” he bellowed. “This piece of shit.”

He snatched the phone out of her hand before she could answer the call—before she could even decide if she wanted to answer the call—and tossed it toward the serving table, right into the massive plastic bowl filled with nacho cheese.

Allyson thought she might burst a blood vessel in her head as she glared at him in disbelief. “What the fuck?”

* * *

Dave ran up the stairs with the kitchen knife in his hand.

Where the hell is Vicky?

He should have seen her by now. As a responsible babysitter she should have been in pursuit of the wild-eyed child the Morriseys had left in her care. And yet he hadn’t heard a peep from her.

Pausing at the top of the stairs, he called out, “Vicky?”

He cocked his head, belatedly alert. Something was off… Slowly, he walked toward the open bedroom door at the end of the hall.

“Vicky, you really need to calm that kid down before he hurts himself,” Dave said. “He ran right out the back door.” Only a few feet from the doorway. “Like a bat out of hell.”

Nothing.

“Really think that kid needs therapy,” Dave added, his voice sounding gradually more nervous to his own ears. “Vicky?”

What if the kid’s right?

Glancing down, Dave stared at the hardwood floor right outside the bedroom, at a thin streak of red, like smeared paint—

Blood!

To his left—a moment’s distraction—he noticed more blood smeared on the bottom of a couple balusters, as if hands had gripped—before—

The screaming he thought he’d heard from the garage—Julian’s panic—

“Vicky! What’s—?”

As his gaze flicked toward the dark doorway, a shape rushed into the light—

Oh, fuck!

A powerful hand clamped around his throat, lifting him off his feet. Dave had only a moment to glimpse the pale, dead face of his attacker, the shock of hair. Only as he tried to swing his knife down toward that face did he see it for what it was—a mask. But the blow was obstructed by the man’s arm as he swung Dave around to slam him into the wall. The jarring impact left Dave’s arm numb, and the knife fell from his senseless fingers.

The man released him while trying to stab Dave with a knife of his own and, had Dave’s legs not crumpled beneath him, the bloodstained knife might have impaled his chest. Instead, the point of the blade scarred the wallpaper, digging a furrow in the drywall underneath. Dave scrambled across the floor, trying to scoop up his own weapon. His numb hand collided with the handle and sent it spinning toward the top of the stairs.

The knife stopped beneath the large wall clock.

When Dave tried to stand, a boot-clad foot shoved him in the small of the back and he fell face first again. Momentum carried him closer to his knife, but his attacker closed the distance between them. Diving, Dave grabbed the knife and climbed to his feet, the staircase at his back. When his attacker came close enough, Dave swung the blade again, another overhand blow. Instantly, he realized his mistake. The man in the deathly white mask snagged Dave’s wrist in his left hand and shoved him.

Unbalanced, Dave fell backward, down the steps, colliding with the railing and the wall, trying to hold onto the knife after each impact, yet worried the blade would end up six inches deep in his abdomen before he hit bottom. At some point, his head struck the wall with enough force to daze him. For a second everything went dark…

When he regained his senses, he found himself on his back, the knife no longer in his possession. Groggy, he tried to rise and felt a spike of pain shoot up from the base of his neck to the center of his skull, his vision blurred. The figure in dark coveralls with the white smear of a face descended the stairs in stereo: two of them, side by side, eerily calm, almost unhurried, as if they knew Dave wouldn’t escape.

By squinting, Dave cured his double vision, but his head pounded more. One murderous attacker was still one too many. On elbows and heels, he pushed himself away from the base of the stairs, unable to take his eyes off the dark shape looming closer with each passing second.

The man had reached the bottom of the stairs.

Dave’s palm brushed the handle of his knife and he gasped with relief, fingers closing around it. No longer defenseless, he scrambled to his feet. The sudden motion triggered a bout of dizziness. He swayed and staggered, fighting to regain his balance.

The stranger’s hand clamped over Dave’s right wrist, twisted his body completely around, and jerked his arm behind him, pulling up so hard Dave thought he’d dislocate his shoulder. He could feel the edge of his own knife pressing against his back. Fearing his attacker wanted to disarm him, Dave clutched the handle, gritting his teeth against the escalating pain in his upper arm and shoulder. But a moment later, his attacker dropped his own knife. Dave fought against the painful grip, shoving his left elbow back, trying to strike an effective blow—but failing miserably.

Dave’s struggles grew feeble as nausea surged and he broke out in a damp sweat. The man’s other hand clamped under the base of Dave’s head and, again, lifted him off his feet.

Only when his attacker slammed him against a wall did Dave notice they had crossed into the living room. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the reflected glow of the TV on the street-facing wall, the broadcast voices too faint to discern any meaning. Then the hand that had such a ferocious grip on his wrist edged toward his palm, prying Dave’s fingers open to seize control of the kitchen knife.

Once he had the knife, the man released Dave’s agonized arm, which sagged, trembling, to his side, but he still held Dave pinned against the wall by the one-handed grip at the base of his skull. Dave’s feet dangled inches off the ground.

He hadn’t heard his knife fall.

For a terrified moment, Dave wondered what—

28

Laurie continued to patrol the streets of Haddonfield in her Nissan pickup, gazing left and right while listening to her police scanner. With fewer trick-or-treaters on the sidewalks or crossing the street, a solitary figure would stand out. His coveralls would blend into the shadows, but that mask, that ghoulishly pale mask, would expose him. Each time she saw someone in front of her, crossing the street or walking on the sidewalk, she flicked on the high beams to dispel the darkness and reveal them.

Though she had the Smith & Wesson revolver on the passenger seat, if she spotted him in the road, she would have to resist the urge to run him down with the pickup. After a moment’s consideration, she dismissed the idea. Why suppress that particular urge when Haddonfield had several good auto body shops?

Take him down, she thought, then take him out. A hit and shoot.

Since she’d learned of his escape from the transport bus, the day had acquired the oppressive feeling of a summer storm brewing, as if dark thunderheads had rolled in and it was only a matter of time before the damaging winds, hail, and lightning wreaked havoc on the town. Except this storm felt personal. Everyone else chose to ignore it or hope it went away.

She wouldn’t rely on the police this time. She wouldn’t even rely on her family. She would protect them with or without their help. She had resigned herself to her mission a long time ago. She had never lost the way.

The police scanner squawked, catching her attention.

“Base 100 all units. Intrusion in progress at 385 Meridian Avenue.”

“601 copy,” a familiar voice responded. Hawkins.

“This is it,” Laurie said to herself.

She checked the closest street sign, then pressed the accelerator.

* * *

Officer Frank Hawkins arrived first at 385 Meridian, parked his blue-and-white police cruiser at the curb, and circled to the back of the house, gun drawn, flashlight held beside it. Many of the interior lights burned bright, as if the residents hoped the display would scare away the intruder. As he turned the corner of the house and peered across the backyard, a flutter of movement caught his attention. He froze, gun aimed, finger tensing on the trigger—until his flashlight revealed he’d been about to drill a 9mm hole in a solitary bedsheet flapping in the breeze.

He paused, listening for anything unusual.

Behind the bedsheet and the clothesline, he saw an elaborate wooden playset, an expensive amalgamation of a fort and a jungle gym. No reason for a suburban kid to visit a playground when his own backyard had better equipment. Since the damn thing was big enough to hide a boy scout troop, he made a quick pass around it, checking and clearing any hidden recesses.

Once he came around the far side, he noticed somebody had left the back door open. Stepping through the door into a dark kitchen, he swept the room with his flashlight, finding no one. Silence.

“Warren County Sheriff’s Department,” he called, projecting his voice so anyone in the house would hear him. “Responding to a domestic disturbance!”

Cautiously, he stepped forward.

“I repeat! This is Office Hawkins. Please respond!”

The open door was the first sign at the scene that something was wrong. At this point, he had a tricky situation on his hands. The homeowner might be hiding, too scared to respond and possibly armed, possibly trigger-happy. And an intruder might be present, also hiding, possibly armed. Despite the open back door, he couldn’t assume the perp or the homeowner had fled. An intruder might have left the door open upon entering the residence. When you stacked unknown upon unknown, you increased the odds of somebody getting injured or killed, and that included the homeowner or the cop responding to the call. Hawkins kept his finger beside the trigger guard, rather than on the trigger. Less chance he would flinch and accidentally shoot mom, dad, or the kids.

Once he cleared the kitchen, he walked into the hall between the stairs and the living room. He heard indistinct voices from a television. To his right, he noticed scuffing on the wall beside the staircase, a cracked baluster—fresh damage.

As he climbed the stairs, he kept his feet close to the wall to counter any squeaky treads or risers. At the top of the staircase, he paused by the newel post and stared down the hallway, noticing a glow coming from a dark room at the end. Moving quietly, he approached the room, gun raised, tapping the trigger guard nervously with his index finger.

Pausing before the door, he took a deep breath, then pivoted into the doorway. His flashlight beam first caught the eyes of a small jack-o’-lantern with a candle in it on a toy shelf.

Kid’s room, he thought, judging by the toys and animal wallpaper.

The glow in the room emanated from a large aquarium. But someone had dropped a large jack-o’-lantern, carved with heart-shaped eyes and a friendly smile, into the fish tank, where it rested between an arch-shaped piece of white coral and a novelty volcano with orange lighting designed to look like an underwater lava eruption.

To the left of the aquarium sat a figure cloaked in a white sheet—taken from the clothesline?—with eye holes cut out to make a simple ghost costume.

Hawkins stepped forward, gun trained on the ghost.

Some kind of prank?

“Joke’s over, pal,” he said. “Remove the sheet—slowly—and keep your hands where I can see them.”

No movement. Not even a nervous twitch.

Hawkins had a bad feeling.

Keeping his gun aimed at the ghost figure, he reached forward with his other hand and carefully pulled away the sheet.

“Sweet Jesus,” he whispered in horror.

Beneath was a pretty blond teenager in a blood-drenched raglan shirt, dark jeans, and gray socks. No shoes. Possibly lives—lived—here. Another explanation occurred to him. Babysitter. He noted multiple stab wounds. Shoulder wound. Defensive cuts on her forearms. Throat slit open. Didn’t need a coroner’s assessment to know the last one was the cause of death.

Poor girl. Her killer had posed her on the chair, hands on her knees. Then turned her into a gruesome Halloween decoration.

But he’d mourn her loss later.

Her killer might still be inside the house.

* * *

Laurie arrived at the house after Hawkins. At least she assumed the sheriff’s department cruiser at the curb belonged to him. Climbing out of the pickup, her nerves on high alert, Laurie scanned the area, handgun pressed against her thigh.

He could be here. Anywhere.

She peered up and down the block, at the shadows between pools of light cast from street lamps. Jack-o’-lanterns glowed on porches and front steps, candle flames flickering in the breeze, creating a false sense of movement by shifting shadows around them.

POP!

Laurie flinched. Only a firecracker.

Turning toward the sound, she saw the silhouette of a small witch with the traditional pointed hat. The witch lit and tossed more firecrackers—POP! POP!

Two figures joined the witch, a skull head and a pumpkin head.

Kids. Out too late for their own good. Fooling around. No idea how dangerous this night—this block—has become.

“Get away from here!” Laurie yelled. “Go home. Get inside!”

Laughing, the three of them ran in the opposite direction, candy bags swaying behind them.

Laurie turned toward the house, her gaze moving to the upstairs windows. To the left, in a corner window, she saw a cop, Hawkins, gun drawn, tense. Detecting sudden movement to her right, she turned toward the window of the next room and saw The Shape standing there, staring at her, their locked gaze spanning forty years.

After so many years of preparing herself, she thought she’d be ready for this moment, that an icy calm would take hold of her. But she was wrong. Her heart raced in her chest and her breath froze in her throat after she gasped in alarm. Her muscles tensed so much that her whole body trembled.

She fought for control, forcing herself to take a few deep breaths, trying to regain her composure before she lost the moment, the chance to end him. Raising the revolver in her right hand, she braced her hand with her left palm. Her bolt-action rifle would have increased her chances of hitting him, but she’d had plenty of practice with the Smith & Wesson. She had to take her shot, literally.

BAM!

For a moment, she thought she’d scored a direct hit, and the sound of glass shattering seemed to come from the upstairs window breaking. But The Shape—the image of The Shape—split apart in several jagged pieces and fell away. Where he’d stood, she saw only the wooden backing of a full-length dressing mirror.

He was in the house—but she’d shot his reflection.

* * *

Hawkins had checked the closet, finding only bike helmets and toys on the shelves and some clothes on plastic hangers, and then peered under the bed, a less likely hiding space, when he heard the gunshot. If he could trust his ears, somebody outside the house had shot a bullet through a nearby room.

For a moment, he considered the possibility somebody outside had targeted him, so he placed his back to the wall, away from view through any of the windows. But a motion in the hallway caught his attention, a dark shape passing. In a crouch, he hurried out of the room, gun aimed down the hall.

The shape of a man in dark coveralls—identical to those worn by Stallion Service Center employees—descended the stairs, a large knife clutched in his right hand.

Son of a bitch!

“Stop or I’ll fire!”

The Shape continued unabated down the stairs.

Tracking his movement, Hawkins fired two shots at a downward angle.

BLAM! BLAM!

The Shape moved out of sight.

Hawkins hurried along the hallway, rushed down the stairs.

At the bottom he paused, unsure which way the murderer had gone. Then he noticed a trail, drops of blood leading toward the living room and the faint sound of the television. Proceeding with caution, he approached the archway into the living room with his gun raised. From a distance, he had the advantage against someone wielding a knife, but entering a new room with an unknown layout diminished that advantage.

He could see a wing chair and sofa, the windows overlooking the street, but the rest of the room remained out of sight. With a quick motion, he stepped through the archway and spun to his right, ready to counter an ambush with a quick shot or two.

Instead, he took an involuntary step backward, lowering his gun hand as he shook his head in dismay. Oh, Christ, another one.

A male teenager in a red plaid shirt and farmer overalls. But what drew Hawkins’ eyes was the manner of death. The poor kid was pinned to the wall, suspended several inches off the floor, the hilt of a large kitchen knife stuck through his neck. His face, turned to the right, had been smashed against the wall; the right side of his jaw looked broken, his eye bulging from the socket.

Mounted, like a ceremonial slaying.

Hawkins checked his right shoulder. The plaid shirt had been pulled down, exposing the skin and a simple tattoo: 10-31-18. For a fleeting moment, Hawkins had the weird idea the kid had a premonition of his own death and had the date tattooed on himself. Checking the ink, and the stippled blood near it, the tattoo was fresh, possibly done earlier in the day. He doubted the killer had tattooed his victim pre- or post-mortem. So, the victim must have placed some significance on the date.

All he could do was note it on his report.

Right now, he had a killer to apprehend.

* * *

Having missed with her first shot, Laurie crossed the yard, waiting to see if The Shape would emerge from the front door. But then, with a cop inside the house, and shots fired at him from outside, she decided he would most likely exit through the back of the house. Hawkins remained inside, no doubt conducting a search of his own. Laurie would guard the back.

Circling around the garage, she held her gun high, ready to fire at the first sign of him. No hesitation. Just put him down.

As soon as she cleared the corner, she saw him walking in the opposite direction, around the far side of the house. The darkness had nearly cloaked him, but the pale mask flashed the moment he turned. Moving forward hurriedly, she aimed and took a shot before he disappeared around the corner.

BAM!

The Shape staggered, taking a bullet to the back of the left shoulder, and fell from view on the far side of the house.

This is it, she thought, sensing her chance. Got him!

Eyes focused on the corner of the house, Laurie ran in pursuit.

29

Breathless, Laurie turned the far back corner of the house, gun aimed down where he had fallen…

But he was gone. Nothing but grass.

She looked up, toward the street. No trace of him.

“Where is he?” a voice whispered behind her.

Reflexively, Laurie whirled and lashed out with a fist—

—punching Officer Hawkins in the face.

“Fuck!”

The veteran police officer dropped to one knee, hand to his face.

“Jesus, Frank!” Laurie exclaimed, shaking from the adrenaline rush.

“What the fuck?” Frank said, rubbing a bruised jaw. Staggering to his feet, he said, “You were told to go home.”

“He’s here,” Laurie said. “Michael Myers. It was him.”

Hawkins wiggled his jaw side to side. “I know. Took a few shots at him inside the house.”

“I shot—I hit him,” Laurie said, leaning against the side of the house, suddenly exhausted. “He fell right here. I thought… ‘this is it,’ you know. Thought I finally had him.”

“Slippery son of a bitch,” Hawkins said. “Murdered two teenagers in there.”

“He’s not done yet,” Laurie said. “You know that, right?”

Hawkins nodded grimly.

* * *

Shortly after Laurie and Hawkins returned to the front of the house, other police cruisers arrived. Moments before their arrival, Laurie stashed her Smith & Wesson in the glove compartment of her pickup. Open carry was illegal in Illinois, and the last thing she needed was to be booked and detained for waving a handgun around in the middle of the night. Hawkins looked the other way, but the sheriff might see the violation as an easy way to take her out of circulation while they attempted to apprehend the notorious killer. Officers with K-9 units searched the streets branching off from Meridian, trying to catch a scent of the killer. With each passing moment with no news, Laurie’s impatience grew.

Now she was kicking herself. She’d had him in her sights—twice! She’d wounded him. And still he got away.

Standing around while police and the crime-scene unit examined the scene wasn’t getting her closer to finishing her mission. She had no interest in collecting evidence or giving a statement or aiding in his prosecution. As far as she was concerned, there would be no due process for Michael Myers. The system had failed her twice, with his initial Smith’s Grove escape and killing spree in 1978, and now again, forty years later, another escape followed by another killing spree. How long before they realized Dr Loomis was right. Killing Michael was the only solution, the only way to end his evil.

About the time Laurie’s patience reached its limit, the sheriff’s cruiser pulled up to the scene, with an older man in the passenger seat. Sheriff Barker, dressed sharply in a black cowboy hat and a black suit with a gold patterned tie, climbed out of the car and called out, “Hawkins, look who’s up!”

Barker’s passenger, a familiar, graying gentleman with a full mustache, wearing a brown suit with his left arm in a sling, stepped gingerly out of the car. To Laurie, he looked like a professor at a liberal arts college, but he must be connected to the case. Then she remembered where she’d seen him. Boarding the bus at Smith’s Grove. Out of context, she probably wouldn’t have recognized him. She’d been parked too far away from where they loaded the transport bus to distinguish individual faces. She concluded the graying man was either a hospital administrator or a doctor.

He looked around the scene, turning in a slow circle. “Where is he?” he asked, with a clear accent. Indian, maybe?

Hawkins walked up to the other man. “You tell me, Sartain.”

Of course, Sartain was at a loss and clearly confused by Hawkins’ irritation. But the man had not seen the victims and the circumstances of their death. And while Laurie had not been allowed inside the house, Hawkins told her enough while they waited that she had a clear and gruesome picture of the tableau without having seen it in person.

A middle-aged couple from a house on the opposite side of the street approached, a pre-teen black child in pajamas and an oversized coat between them. They walked as far as the sidewalk, where the boy seemed to freeze, his eyes wide. After they signaled for the sheriff’s attention, another officer approached them. Laurie drifted toward the curb to eavesdrop. Apparently, the boy lived in the house Michael had targeted and had run to the couple’s house for help during the attack. He’d been frightened and incoherent and it had taken a while to calm him down and determine that he would not return to his house and that his parents were not home, only a babysitter and her boyfriend. They’d made the 911 call to report the intrusion. The couple agreed to watch the boy until his parents returned home at which time the police could question him, but they weren’t sure he would have much to add.

“Why not?” the cop asked, genuinely curious.

“He keeps repeating the same thing, over and over,” she explained. “‘It was the Boogeyman.’”

Laurie felt a chill, recalling the night forty years ago, when Tommy Doyle had been terrorized by the same Boogeyman and had also survived, but not without scars of his own.

“I wanted to be brave…” the boy lamented.

The cop patted his arm. “You are brave, son,” he said. “Don’t worry anymore. We’ll catch the man that did this.”

As the couple led the boy away, Laurie drifted closer to Hawkins and the others. They stood before the open garage doors, the interior lights flooding the driveway. Someone had knocked over a black-and-silver Harley Davidson. She wondered if Michael had tried to ride the bike at some point during the evening. He drove cars but, as far as she knew, he’d never been on a motorcycle.

Sartain, now in visible pain, winced as he fidgeted with the sling. Apparently, Hawkins and Sheriff Barker were waiting for an explanation from him. After another officer draped a coat over his shoulders to ward off the chill, Sartain spoke and, she wasn’t surprised, sounded like a professor giving a lecture to a freshman class.

“The bus lost control after Michael overtook the first guard, then the driver,” he explained. “He is no longer dormant. I saw him kill with my own eyes. He only knows how to keep moving and to keep killing, and he will kill again unless he is captured.”

Sheriff Barker frowned. “What I want to know is, why didn’t he kill you?”

“I tried to hide,” Sartain said, “but he found me. Chained me to a seat. He looked down at me. I closed my eyes and when I opened them, he walked away.” With a slight nod toward Hawkins, he added, “I was rescued by this officer man.”

“Hawkins,” Sheriff Barker said, “come talk to me for a second. Doctor, please wait here.”

So, Sartain had been Michael’s doctor at Smith’s Grove.

The sheriff and Hawkins walked halfway down the driveway to talk discreetly, where Sartain couldn’t overhear them. Of course, Laurie trailed a bit behind them, close enough to hear, even if the injured doctor could not.

“He’s an asset,” Barker said.

“He’s not an asset,” Hawkins countered. “He’s a liability.”

“You’re going to take him,” the sheriff told him. It was an order, not a suggestion. “He knows Myers better than anyone.”

Hawkins looked flabbergasted by the suggestion. “You want me to take this injured civilian to search for a psychopathic serial killer?”

Barker cleared his throat. “You were right,” he conceded. “I was wrong. We’re clearing the streets. Patrol cars on every corner. I’m going statewide with this. Let’s find this son of a bitch. You hear me?”

Laurie moved into the light flooding the driveway. “Sheriff Barker, Officer Hawkins?”

If Hawkins was on her side, he had his limits. “We don’t need your help right now, Ms Strode,” he said sharply.

As Laurie backed away, Sartain noticed the three of them together and came forward, veering to Laurie, who stopped.

“Excuse me, officers,” Sartain called to the men while looking at Laurie as if she were a long-lost acquaintance, clearly awaiting an introduction.

Barker said, “Laurie Strode, meet Dr Sartain.”

“I’m Michael’s doctor,” the man said. “Ranbir Sartain.”

“You’re the new Loomis,” Laurie said. “I can tell by the classy accent.”

If Sartain sensed an insult, he chose to ignore it. Instead, he seemed invigorated by the introduction. “I’ve read everything about you in his case files.” He raised an index finger for emphasis, another professorial gesture. “Did you know our friend Mr Hawkins here was the responding deputy when Michael was apprehended in 1978?”

Barker gave Sartain a curious look.

Laurie noticed the sheriff’s reaction before returning her attention to Sartain, who displayed more interest in Michael’s violent history than compassion toward the teenaged victims who’d been murdered no more than thirty feet from where they stood. Was that interest professional or monetary? He wouldn’t be the first expert looking to cash in on a notorious killer by writing a true crime book and hitting the interview circuit.

Placing the hand of his good arm on Hawkins’ shoulder, Sartain continued, “He lawfully stood between Dr Loomis’s vindictive tirade and the right to a fair trial.”

“Loomis calling for his execution didn’t persuade you?” Laurie asked Hawkins.

“I used to believe that due process balanced the power of the law of the land,” he replied, almost wistful, as if referring to a simpler time. After more than forty years in law enforcement, had his faith in the system faltered gradually, or just after the events of the past two days?

“And now?” she asked.

“I’m not so sure anymore.”

Apparently disappointed in their shared skepticism—or perhaps simply weary from the discomfort of his injury—Sartain walked to Hawkins’ cruiser and climbed into the passenger seat, taking care not to jostle his left arm in the process.

Ignoring the doctor’s departure, Laurie glared at Hawkins. “I prayed every day that he would escape.”

“What the hell did you do that for?”

“So I could kill him.”

Sheriff Barker shook his head in disbelief, but Hawkins considered her words for a moment. He’d been there at the end, before they’d locked up Michael, but he’d missed most of the horror. At least the first time around. “Well, that was a dumb thing to pray for.”

The words sounded like typical police practicality, but she wondered if he could sympathize with her now. She could be wrong. Maybe it wasn’t enough to see the horror Michael left in his wake. Maybe you had to experience it personally, as a target, and be lucky enough to survive. Perhaps Nietzsche had it right. “When you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.”

If you’d stared into Michael Myers’ eyes, you’d stared into the abyss.

“You can’t reason with him,” Laurie said. “You can’t bargain with him. There is nothing human there. The sooner you realize he is evil—and only evil—the sooner you’ll understand what must be done.”

“Depraved men commit evil deeds,” Hawkins said. “But evil is not a thing itself. Myers is as human as you or me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Hawkins,” Laurie said. As he gave her a dismissive wave of his hand and headed toward his cruiser, she called after him, “Believe in the Boogeyman or don’t believe. He’ll kill you all the same.”

Dr Sartain pushed himself up from the passenger seat to stand within the open door and waved to Laurie. “Ms Strode. Please come with us.”

Standing in the middle of the driveway, Laurie crossed her arms and shook her head. Her impatience with the inflexibility and inactivity of Haddonfield’s police force had reached its limit. “No, Doctor,” she said. “You’re on your own. You need to protect yourself. I need to protect my family.”

Barker overheard her comment and came forward. “We got you covered with personal security, ma’am,” he said, sounding like a man who wanted everyone around him to believe he had an extraordinarily bad situation under control. But she detected a manic note in his voice. She had the impression he’d ignored or vastly underestimated Michael’s capacity for violence. And now he was in catch-up mode.

“You and your family will be safe,” he assured her.

Comforting words. But she doubted that was a promise he could keep.

30

Before Allyson could storm out of the gymnasium, Matt Evans—dressed as a scarecrow and losing bits of straw from his sleeves and pant cuffs with each passing minute—rescued her phone from the oversized bowl of nacho cheese. As she silently fumed, staring at the slow-motion descent of her phone into the sea of cheese, Matt approached with a paper plate of tortilla chips and said drily, “That can’t be good.”

Unfairly, she glared at the gangly scarecrow, “You think?”

“Let me get that,” he said, scooping a triangular chip under the back of the phone and carefully bringing it to the surface. “It’s slipping! Grab it!”

Having already taken several paper napkins from the stack at the end of the table, she reached forward and snatched the phone off the chip before it fell again. “Thanks,” she said, hoping she sounded more civilized than when she’d snapped at him.

“Good luck,” he said. “I don’t think a bag of dried rice is gonna cut it.”

“Definitely not,” she said, pinching the phone between her thumb and index finger and letting excess cheese drip from the phone into a napkin palmed in her other hand. “See you in history,” she called absently as he walked away with his chips and dip.

Before she suffered further embarrassment in front of her classmates, she wiped off as much cheesy goo as possible, tossing the wad of soiled napkins in the trash can, then made her way outside, away from the dance, and away from Cameron, who had turned into a royal jackass right before her eyes.

Allyson exited the gymnasium through the back onto the school’s football field. The home-team bleachers were built over the cinderblock fieldhouse that housed restrooms on either side with a large equipment storage room in the middle. On the sides of the building, large round decals depicted the mascot for the Haddonfield Huskers, a fierce-looking, half-shucked ear of corn, with twin sections of the peeled-back husk forming arms ending with clenched fists.

Standing under the Husker decal beside the ladies’ restroom, Allyson tried without success to get her phone to work. She’d already removed most of the cheese from the front. Peeling off the case, she cleared the back, but some of the cheese had seeped into the open ports. Her battery level was low, and the charging port was a mess. She doubted she could make a good connection if she tried. And she might short out a circuit board in the phone, frying its electronic brain. More cheese had oozed around the buttons of the phone and may have seeped into the narrow gaps around them. The more she examined it, the more convinced she became that someone in a tech support department would have to disassemble the phone to clean it properly. Even then it might not work.

At that moment, Cameron followed her onto the field, jogging up with his knitted beret in his hands. “Allyson!” he called as he approached. “Wait up!”

From his jerky movements, the goofy look on his face, and the lack of focus in his gaze, she could tell he was drunk. And she had literally zero patience in reserve to deal with him right then.

“You just put it in a bag of rice,” he said with a lopsided shrug, like it was no big deal. “It’ll be fine, right?”

“That’s for water damage,” Allyson snapped. “Not goopy cheese!”

“I’ll fix it.”

“How?”

“Figure something out,” he said. “Make it good as new.”

Sure, no problem, she thought. You’ll just magically fix it. “I leave you alone for literally two minutes and you go right into talking to the one girl that stresses me out. Then you break my phone?”

“Listen,” Cameron said, dialing down his buoyant tone. “I’ve had too much gin. I told you. Kim was talking to me. She came up to me. I’m trying to be respectful that she still has feelings. I’m sorry. She already has eating issues and I don’t want to make it worse. What am I supposed to do?”

Tired of the drama, Allyson glanced down at her phone. “It’s ruined,” she said. “It’s totally sticky with fucking melted cheese in it.”

Lowering the phone to her side, she walked along the sideline of the football field, toward the nearest gate in the fence, ready to call it a night. Ready to go home.

“Good!” Cameron exclaimed, running to catch up. “Now we actually have to talk to each other.”

Without a football game in progress, the field seemed like a dark island, isolated from the commotion of the dance—although she could still hear the bass and drumbeat of the music playing in the gymnasium. Across the field, the electronic scoreboard was a dark monolith. Beneath the scoreboard, plywood and vinyl sponsor banners attached to the fence reflected ambient light but their messages were shrouded in darkness. With only the moon overhead, even the white-painted yard lines remained indistinct from their low vantage point. The overall impression Allyson had was of quiet intimacy. And maybe that gave her a little perspective to hear him out.

“Seriously,” Cameron continued. “Let’s have some fun. Please. If we don’t, this is a totally degrading experience. I’m serious.”

Cameron stepped in front of her, walking backward to face her while they talked. Rather, while he talked, and she listened. He looked heartbroken, frustrated. All his flippancy had vanished. Maybe he was coming down from his gin-induced drunkenness enough to express genuine emotion instead of trying to excuse his bad behavior. Maybe Kim’s flirtation had meant nothing to him.

She stopped, smiled despite herself.

Cameron leaned in for a kiss.

A bright light flared, shining in their eyes—a spotlight mounted on one of two patrol cars that had pulled up beside the football field. Both cars parked outside the gate, with two cops emerging from each one, all of them shining flashlights into Allyson’s or Cameron’s eyes.

“What the hell?” Cameron whispered.

The police response seemed way out of proportion to a couple of students leaving a school dance. Allyson wondered if they thought she was buying drugs from Cameron. Or engaging in some other illicit activity.

“Maybe they think we’re planning to rob a bank,” Allyson said, smiling while shielding her eyes with the back of her hand. “We are dressed as Bonnie and Clyde.”

Fortunately, as the cops approached, they lowered the flashlights a bit, and Allyson tried to blink away the afterimages from the bright bulbs. She noted the names under the two badges of the cops closest to them, Ronin and Andrews.

The other two cops waited near their cruiser, ready to lend assistance if needed. Allyson had a hard time envisioning a scenario where she and Cameron would present a problem two seasoned police officers couldn’t handle. Despite their Bonnie and Clyde costumes, they weren’t criminals and were unarmed.

“You guys gotta clear out of here,” Officer Ronin said. “Party’s over! Gotta clear out!”

“Curfew has been put into place,” Officer Andrews added. “It’s not safe! You guys need a ride home?”

Nothing had been announced at the dance, at least not while Allyson had been there. And Cameron hadn’t mentioned anything. “What’s happening?” she asked the police, genuinely curious. “Why aren’t we safe? Why do we need to go?”

“Because I fuckin’ said so,” Ronin replied, apparently not a fan of civilian curiosity. Sometimes people in authority hated having that authority questioned. Not a good trait, as far as Allyson was concerned, for a suburban cop. “It’s not safe to be on the streets. We need you to get home. Now.”

After the cop’s profane response to her innocent question, Allyson shut down. “We were just leaving—”

Cameron interrupted her. “No, we weren’t,” he said defiantly, his judgment impaired by alcohol. Or maybe he always had a problem with authority figures. She hadn’t known him long enough to know his opinion of the police. “Dude. We’re in the middle of a fight and we were at the point of a breakthrough when you shined that goddam flashlight in my face! Why you gotta be dicks?”

“Cameron!” Allyson said. Don’t poke the bear, Cameron!

The two cops exchanged a look, then directed their attention to Allyson.

“You okay, ma’am?” Ronin asked her.

“Who’s your smartass friend? Come here!” Andrews said to Cameron.

Do they think Cameron is harassing me? Assaulting me? That he’s an abusive boyfriend and that I’m in trouble?

“It’s no big deal,” she said quickly, hoping to defuse the situation. “Just an argument. A simple argument.”

As Andrews took a step closer, recognition flashed on his face. “Cameron Elam? Of course. Elams always running their mouths. It’s been about forty-eight hours since we got a complaint about your compound.”

“Oh yeah?” Cameron asked, purposely belligerent.

“You figure out which one is your mom yet?” Andrews asked, smirking. “Kids eating out of a dog bowl. That’s a pretty dress you got on. Your moms dress you up like that?”

Ronin and Andrews laughed.

“They’re costumes,” Allyson said, forcing a smile. “For the dance. We’re—”

“I don’t give a shit, ma’am,” Ronin said, not taking his gaze from Cameron. “This one’s trouble. Pure and simple.”

“Weird family,” Andrews said. “Weird kid.”

Cameron glowered at them. “Go fuck yourself.”

Andrews extended his flashlight toward Cameron. “What did you say?” he asked, any trace of humor now absent from his tone. “What’chu say to me?”

They were baiting him. Why couldn’t he see that?

Cameron clenched his fists at his side, one squeezing the knit beret in his hand as if he wished it were a weapon. “You say anything about my family again and I’ll—”

“I know exactly what you’ll do,” Andrews said. “Assault a police officer. You’ll sit on the roof of your garage and throw fuckin’ rotten eggs and potted meat at me like you did last time.”

Allyson hadn’t realized they had rough history together. And, obviously, cops unwilling to tolerate any hint of someone questioning their authority, or who interpret natural curiosity as a personal affront, wouldn’t have a problem holding a grudge long enough to exact payback when the opportunity presented itself.

Cameron wouldn’t back down. Staring Andrews in the eyes, he said, “I was twelve years old and made you look like a bitch in front of your entire department.”

To Allyson, the whole exchange felt like watching a car accident in slow motion. Though stunned by what happened next, she couldn’t claim surprise.

Officer Andrews grabbed Cameron’s arm, spun him around and slammed him to the turf hard enough to crack his ribs. Cameron grunted in pain, struggling futilely as the cop pressed a knee into his back. “Keep resisting, pal,” Andrews said. “Give me an excuse to break your arm.”

Allyson noticed movement from the fieldhouse and turned to see Oscar running toward them, his cape flowing behind him. Farther back, a dozen costumed classmates approached, curious but showing some caution due to the police presence. Some had cellphones out, held up to record whatever happened next. With the police acting irrationally and so confrontational with Cameron, the cellphones might provide enough deterrent to get them to back down. Her classmates would have a record of everything the cops did to Cameron.

With Oscar sprinting toward them, Allyson marveled that Ronin didn’t pull his gun and threaten to shoot him. Or at least taser him. Oscar stopped beside Cameron, who lay face down on the turf, grimacing in pain and frustration. Clearly, he was pissed. Embarrassment didn’t factor into it, even with a group of his classmates closing in. Right then, embarrassment might have helped him keep his cool. But he continued to twist and try to get out from under Andrews’ knee and the painful grip on his arm.

“Cameron?” Oscar said in a casual tone, despite the apparent seriousness of the situation. “What’s up, dude? Are you being misunderstood again?” To Andrews, he said, “This is a heartbreaking case of mistaken identity, Your Honor.”

Andrews ignored Oscar and looked over his shoulder at his partner. “Take him in,” he said. “He’s drunk off his face on school grounds. We don’t have time for this shit.”

Allyson stared at the cops and then at Cameron in disbelief. This night keeps getting better. First Cameron flirts with Kim. Then he ruins my phone. Now he antagonizes the police and gets himself arrested—after I practically begged him to ignore their insults and shut the hell up. What is wrong with him? Hell, what’s wrong with me? How did I miss this?

“Are you serious?” Cameron asked hoarsely. “Are you fucking serious? Allyson!”

Biting her tongue, Allyson turned away. The next thing she said to the cops might result in adjoining cells for her and Cameron.

When Allyson remained silent, Cameron called, “Oscar?”

“Who’s the little bitch now?” Andrews asked Cameron.

“Oscar!” Cameron shouted. “Get her home safe, man.”

“Party’s over!” Ronin shouted, loud enough for the congregating students to hear. If he expected them to disperse without explanation, he must have been disappointed in their lack of movement. “Curfew is in effect. Go home immediately or we’ll take you all in and have your parents pick you up at the station. Bet they’ll like that. Understood?”

Allyson heard a few grumbles of discontent, but most of the students began to walk away.

As Andrews slipped handcuffs on his wrists, Cameron yelled to Oscar again, “Get her home!”

A few of Allyson’s costumed classmates lingered—those most suspicious of authority figures, she imagined—continuing to film Cameron’s arrest, but once Andrews led him toward the police cruiser, the diehards walked off the football field.

“Let’s get out of here,” Oscar said to Allyson, “before they arrest us as accessories.”

Considering she could smell alcohol on Oscar’s breath, they were more likely to arrest him for underage drinking or public drunkenness. With Cameron already in custody, and both cops in a foul mood, Allyson didn’t want to be responsible for getting Oscar arrested as well. Giving the police a wide berth, they backtracked past the fieldhouse.

As Allyson headed toward the back gate, Oscar said, “Hold up. Need to make a pit stop.”

Allyson waited, assuming he needed to use the men’s restroom on the far side of the fieldhouse, but he ducked under the back of the bleachers. “Should be right—ouch! Damn it! Banged my head…”

“Oscar…?” After listening to him grunt and grumble, she said, “If you can’t see, take off the stupid sunglasses.”

“Got it!” he called, backing out of the confined space.

When he turned around, she saw his arm wrapped around an open case of beer.

“Seriously?”

“What? You know my motto,” he said, grinning stupidly. “No can left behind.”

“In case you forgot,” she said sarcastically, “we lost Cameron. But I’m glad you managed to save your precious beer.”

“They’ll release him after he cools off,” Oscar said. “The police give him a hard time because he—his family—is different. Police don’t trust ‘different.’ I think it’s in their handbook or something.”

That might be true, she thought, but Cameron certainly added fuel to the fire by provoking the cops.

As they slipped out the back gate, Allyson worried how to explain the evening to her parents. If they heard Cameron had been drinking, resisted arrest and got locked up, they might forbid her from seeing him again.

Maybe if I keep quiet, they’ll never find out.

Not so much a plan, she thought, as wishful thinking.

31

While relaxing with a glass of wine, Karen sat on the corner of her sofa, reading her book club’s selection for the month, a murder mystery with literary pretensions set in fifteenth-century Florence, Italy. The plot revolved around a Renaissance painter attempting to solve the murder of his patron. But the book was a doorstop, weighing in at close to nine hundred pages, and Karen had trouble keeping the names straight in her head. Apparently, the book had become popular enough to spawn a few sequels, the second book set in Venice and the third in Genoa.

Wearing her Christmas sweater, she was determined to avoid thinking about the current holiday by focusing on a more joyful one. They’d had a couple trick-or-treaters, even though their house remained undecorated, the porch light extinguished. Mostly, the kids who rang the bell had traveled from neighboring school districts to maximize their candy haul. Local kids knew better. With Allyson at the school dance, Karen had asked Ray to deliver the bad news to the wayward travelers. A few more hours and it would all be over… until next year.

Karen flipped back a few pages when she realized her mind had wandered. Had Lorenzo stabbed Benedetto in the cathedral—or Bartolomeo? One of the two remained a suspect, the other a victim. And she couldn’t remember if Agostino was still alive or if he had been the one who discovered Francesca’s drowned body in the grotto. Obviously, her chosen form of distraction created distractions of its own, and she began to feel maybe she’d skip the book club discussion this month.

“You’re awfully quiet in there,” Ray called from the kitchen. “Not spying on your daughter, are you?”

“Spying? Moi?” Karen replied. “How could I possibly spy on my daughter? She’s at school and I’m curled up here with a book. A big-ass book.”

“You know what I mean.”

Karen glanced at her phone on the coffee table. “Okay, okay, I may have looked for tweets, scrolled her timeline, checked her Instagram.”

“And…?”

“It’s frustrating,” Karen said. “Some pics at the school gate, but nothing since they went into the dance. I thought she was part of the connected generation.”

“Maybe they’re having too much fun to post online.”

Karen laughed. “No, seriously,” she scoffed. “The school must have a cellphone jammer.”

“I’m sure that’s it,” Ray called. “And I hear the gymnasium is a massive Faraday cage.”

“Ha, ha,” Karen fake laughed. “To be fair, I stopped checking after the first half hour. Giving my daughter some privacy. She can tell me all about it when—”

CRASH!

Karen almost dropped the glass of wine in her lap at the sound of pots and pans tumbling out of a cabinet in the kitchen. “Ray?”

“I’m okay!”

“I wasn’t worried,” she said. “What happened?”

“Checking the mouse traps.”

“Again?”

“Thought I heard one go off.”

“Did the man set a trap for a mouse?” she called, smiling. “Or did the mouse set a trap for the man?”

“Mice are not smart enough to booby-trap kitchen cabinets, dear,” Ray yelled back.

“Well, did you catch it?”

After a pause. “No.”

So, the mouse is smart enough not to get caught in a trap. “And the peanut butter?”

Another pause, a little longer than the first. “Gone.”

“All of it?”

“Yes.”

“How’s that possible?” she wondered. “Don’t those traps have a hair-trigger?”

“How the hell should I know?” Ray said. “GMO mouse? Sneaky bastard.”

“Let me see if I have this correct,” Karen teased. “You think a genetically modified mouse got into our home?”

“Until a better theory comes along,” Ray said. “I blame unethical science.”

Karen laughed. “Maybe the mice work in teams,” she said. “One holds the trap steady while the other one scoops off the peanut—”

Blue and red emergency lights flashed through the windows.

Setting her book down on the coffee table, Karen stood and peered through the curtains of the living room window. Two cop cars had pulled up in front of the house.

“Karen?” Ray called. “Everything okay?”

“Police.”

“What?”

“The police are here,” Karen repeated, louder. She had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something had happened to Allyson at the dance. Unbidden, her mind began to envision scenarios, each more troubling than the next, when someone knocked on the front door. As far as she could tell, the cops hadn’t exited their vehicles, so who…?

Hurrying to the front door, she pulled it open to find—

“You have to go,” her mother said. Not “Hello.” Not “How are you?” Not “Mind if I come in?” “It’s not safe to be here.”

Exasperated, Karen said, “Mom! Do we have to do this?”

Past Laurie’s shoulder, Karen noticed four police officers gathering at the curb, their expressions various shades of grim. Once again, Karen began to imagine the worst. If the police were involved…

Karen felt her body begin to tremble, her hands visibly shaking. Laurie noticed and took them in her own, holding tight. A wave of overpowering emotion threatened to engulf her. Laurie’s eyes were bright, but she appeared in control of herself, determined. In contrast, Karen felt as if the ground were crumbling beneath her feet.

Ray came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel, and stopped abruptly. “What’s your mother doing here? Thought you said the police—?”

“Where’s Allyson?” Laurie asked Karen.

Karen’s irrational fears roiled again, surging inside her, like lava spewing up from the caldera of an erupting volcano. Is she missing? Has something really happened to—?

“Where’s Allyson?” Laurie repeated, the concern in her voice escalating quickly with Karen’s silence.

“The dance,” Karen said. “She went to the school dance with Cameron.”

“So, you don’t know?”

“Know what, Mom? What are you talking about?”

Laurie glanced back briefly at the police before explaining. “The police canceled the dance. The school was evacuated. Everyone sent home.”

“Why—Why would they do that? What happened?” Karen asked frantically. “Was there an accident?”

“You haven’t been watching the news?”

“No, I’ve been—Why? What’s this all about?”

“He escaped.”

“Who—?”

“Michael,” Laurie interrupted. “The transport bus never made it. He killed the guards and the driver. Four people at a service station and…”

“And what?” Karen asked, grabbing her mother’s arms, fighting the impulse to shake her to find out what she was withholding. “What’s happened?”

“He killed at least two people in Haddonfield,” Laurie said softly. “Two that we know of… and one of them was a babysitter.”

“A babysitter…” Karen whispered. “That’s…”

“It’s happening all over again,” Laurie said. “He’ll come for me. To finish what he started. And if he comes for me, you’re not safe. Allyson isn’t safe. I tried to stop him tonight, but—”

“Tonight?” Ray said. “You’ve actually seen him?”

“I shot him,” Laurie said. “But he got away before I could… The point is, you’re not safe here. None of you.”

“But the police—outside?” Karen said, gesturing toward the curb.

“Yes, the police have been assigned to protect you and me,” Laurie said. “But they don’t know what they’re dealing with. They’re treating him likes he’s—what they know. Not what he is.”

“You’re not making sense,” Ray said.

“This house is not secure,” Laurie said. “You admitted you’re unarmed. These windows and doors are nothing to him.” She shook her head. “Nothing here will stop him. Or slow him down.”

“What are you suggesting?” Ray asked.

“Come with me,” Laurie said. “The police agree on this. My house is safer. It’s fortified. And I have… Well, I have an arsenal.” Laurie took Karen’s face gently in her hands. “I’ve been preparing your entire life for this. Nobody else is ready to deal with Michael Myers like I am. It’s all I’ve thought about since 1978.” Laurie took a deep breath. “Now call your damn daughter and let’s get the hell out of here.”

Karen nodded and walked to the living room coffee table for her phone with Laurie right behind her. After speed-dialing Allyson’s cellphone, she said, “Voicemail.”

After the prerecorded message, Karen clutched her phone with both hands and spoke quickly, trying to stay calm but unable to keep the urgency out of her voice. She needed to convince Allyson of the seriousness of the situation, but without scaring her to death. Her daughter needed to stay calm long enough to get help.

“Allyson, you need to call me the second you get this. The police said the dance was evacuated and I haven’t heard from you. They’re making us go to your grandmother’s house for safety. We’re worried about you.”

Laurie grabbed the phone from Karen and somehow managed to sound calm when all Karen wanted to do was scream—or cry. She felt foolish now, for ignoring her mother all these years, for dismissing her concerns. Most importantly, for not taking the threat seriously. Her carelessness had put her own daughter at risk. If anything happened to—

Sensing her distress, Ray squeezed her hand and she fell into his embrace, eyes closed as she listened to her mother reach out to Allyson.

“There is a police officer at your house waiting for you,” Laurie said. “Get to them and they’ll bring you to us. We’re all together now. We love you…” Overcome with emotion, Laurie covered her mouth with her free hand for a moment, then continued. “Wherever you are… it’s not safe outside tonight.”

She ended the call and returned the phone to Karen, who cradled it in her palm, staring at the display, willing it to ring or flash a text or buzz or do anything to indicate Allyson had received the message.

“Did we tell her enough?” Ray asked. “Should we have told her about…?”

“No,” Karen said. “She’ll know it’s urgent. And she needs to stay calm long enough to get home. If she panics, who knows what she—?”

“I hope you’re right,” Laurie interrupted. “Sometimes we do more harm by keeping secrets, no matter how frightening. Maybe it’s better to know the truth.”

“She’s only a teenager,” Karen said.

“So was I back then,” Laurie said. “Allyson is resourceful. She’s stronger than you think.”

“Hope you’re right, Mom,” Karen said. “I pray to God you’re right.”

32

Allyson walked along the sidewalk with Oscar, who struggled to carry the case of beer he’d retrieved from under the bleachers. Three times Oscar offered her a can, and three times she declined. She wasn’t sure if he was being generous in his own way or simply trying to lighten his load.

“Believe me,” Oscar said. “After a couple beers, you won’t be so stressed out about the Cameron situation. After three or four, you’ll forget why you were stressed out in the first place.”

After each alcoholic offering, Allyson said, “No thanks.”

“The longer you wait,” he said, “the warmer the beer gets.”

“The more you bring it up,” she replied, “the more irritated I get.”

“Fine by me,” Oscar said. “Just trying to be sociable.”

“Not in the mood.”

“I get it.”

“I’m tired of people letting me down,” Allyson said. “You give them the benefit of the doubt and think they’re going to be different, but then they show you who they really are. Cameron doesn’t want people to judge him, but then he acts like a jerk. Gets drunk, gets arrested.”

Oscar stopped.

Allyson continued a few steps before noticing Oscar was no longer beside her. She walked back to him, confused. Had she upset him? Insulted his friend. “What?”

“You deserve better,” Oscar said, shoving his sunglasses in his pants pocket. “You’re the smartest, most beautiful girl at school. Anyone that doesn’t appreciate that is crazy.”

Allyson expected a punchline, but when one didn’t come, she considered what he’d said and smiled. “Thanks, Oscar,” she said. “That’s sweet.”

Looking over her shoulder, Oscar said, “Check it out. Five-0. Let’s detour this rendezvous.”

Cradling his case of beer, Oscar led the way between two houses. Allyson glanced back and saw a police cruiser two blocks away, approaching at a deliberate pace, side-mounted spotlights slicing through the night, as if searching for fugitives rather than teens breaking curfew. As the car passed by, they ducked behind one of the houses, out of sight.

* * *

Officer Hawkins drove his squad car down the tree-lined streets of suburban Haddonfield, searching for a deranged serial killer. Dr Sartain rode shotgun while wielding the side-mounted utility spotlight. Sartain turned the powerful spotlight back and forth through an almost 180-degree arc, from the front of the car to the back, piercing the darkness across yards and between houses.

They were both confident they would recognize Michael Myers if they saw him on the street. Assuming he hadn’t changed out of his dark coveralls—and still wore the deathly white mask. With Sartain surveying houses on the right side of the cruiser, Hawkins focused on everything in front and to the left of the car, where he’d set his spotlight at a forty-five-degree angle.

For a moment, he glimpsed two shadowy figures turning off the sidewalk toward one of the houses, but when he got close enough to the area where he’d seen them, they were gone. Other than general concern for their safety, he had no reason to suspect them of anything but breaking curfew. Myers was a loner. If they spotted him on the street, he would be alone or in the act of breaking into a house. Not walking with a buddy.

Hawkins decided to break the ice with Sartain by tackling something they had in common. “From a clinical perspective, would you say that Laurie Strode has lost her fucking marbles?”

Sartain gave the question some thought. Not that he had much to go on to form a professional opinion since he’d only met her once and that meeting lasted a matter of minutes. “There are many ways for tragedy and violence to change a victim,” he said. “They can grow accustomed to always being afraid. In constant fear. They can become weak or they can become strong. But there is also the other side.”

“What side is that?”

“The effect on the victimizer,” Sartain explained. “This is what has intrigued me through my studies. How does a crime like Michael’s change him? What is he feeling? Is he on a random path or is he emotionally driven? Triggered by something. Some unheard marching order imprinted on his very being? Evil incarnate.” He paused for a moment, hand resting on the spotlight control handle. “Michael and I had a special connection, but without his verbal participation there was an aspect of his emotional journey that I could never understand.”

“Walk a mile in another man’s shoes, or something like that, right?” Hawkins wondered and shuddered at the prospect. “Not for me, brother. That old man has some boots he can keep.”

Obviously, Sartain’s job was to understand patients like Myers, and that was fine with Hawkins. As a cop, he had to deal with some gruesome vehicular accidents and the victims of crimes committed by those like Myers. He doubted Sartain would have the stomach for some of the visuals that plagued Hawkins’ nightmares.

“Tell me what became of his childhood home.”

“That place was a shrine kinda thing but for serial killer groupies and death metal bands,” Hawkins told him.

“Interesting,” Sartain said, nodding as if he could envision it.

“Vandals got the best of it,” Hawkins continued. “A local organization that I work with tore it down and turned it into a community garden. Turned tragedy into beauty, if you can believe it.”

* * *

Since they left streets and sidewalks behind to cut through backyards, their progress slowed to a virtual crawl. At least that’s how it felt to Allyson. Tired and irritated, she had no idea what the future held. A promising night had fizzled to a bunch of uncertainties. She’d grown comfortable and happy with Cameron but now was unsure if she even wanted to see him again. Betrayed and embarrassed in front of everyone at the dance. A confrontation with belligerent cops. A boyfriend who maybe had more baggage than she could handle. Every step forward now felt like two steps in the wrong direction. More than anything she wanted to get home, crawl under the blankets and sleep, to shut down and stop obsessing over every little detail. Of course, Oscar offered canned oblivion, but she was at least smart enough to know his option came with a hangover price tag.

They came to a dead-end of sorts; they needed to climb over a retaining wall topped by an abbreviated black wrought-iron fence into the Elrods’ backyard to avoid having to circle back around several houses. Emotionally, she couldn’t deal with having to go backward to get home.

Oscar scrambled over the fence, hampered by the case of beer clutched to his side. He dropped down on the other side, overbalanced for a moment, almost dropping the beer, then almost face-planting on top of it, before regaining his balance. Turning, he looked across the yard of the large property. Allyson followed his gaze. In the moonlight, she could make out the opposite side of the iron fence in the distance.

Allyson started to climb the fence to join him on the other side, grateful that her costume for the dance featured trousers instead of a dress or something even less conducive to nighttime trespassing.

“Watch out for the poison ivy,” Allyson said as she threw one leg over the top of the fence. “It’s all over. This is a dumb shortcut.”

“Extremely treacherous,” Oscar said. She couldn’t quite tell if he was sincere or making fun of her. “Apologies. Let me give you a hand.”

He reached up to help her down from the top of the fence and the cement wall beneath it. With her second leg clear, she almost slipped but Oscar caught her, hands around her waist, and lowered her safely to the ground.

“Thanks,” Allyson said, grateful that she wouldn’t need to hobble the rest of the way home on a sprained ankle—or worse.

After an awkward moment of silence, Oscar continued to hold onto her.

“What?” she asked. “What are you doing?”

“You deserve better,” Oscar said, echoing his earlier sentiment, from before they ditched the police. But this time he leaned in to kiss her on the lips.

“Ew. Oscar. What the fuck?”

She pushed him away, almost a knee-jerk reflex, but Oscar seemed caught off guard by her reaction. “Wait, I thought you said you weren’t with Cameron anymore.”

“Doesn’t mean I want… Get away from me.”

“I thought you were sending me signals.”

“Definitely no signals,” she said. “Just go!”

While he stood there, she brushed past him, crossing the property to get to the other side and out of the yard. She hadn’t made up her own mind about her relationship with Cameron, let alone announced that she’d broken up with him.

And besides, she thought, who does that? Cameron is Oscar’s friend. And I barely know him.

Oscar sprinted to cover the distance between them. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Please don’t tell Cameron I did that. I didn’t feel anything either.”

“Don’t tell Cameron.” So, it wasn’t a misunderstanding. He’s just a terrible friend. She stopped walking to face him. “You’re disgusting,” she said. “I’m going home. You can figure your own shit out.”

Tired of his lame excuses, Allyson stalked off alone.

* * *

The second time Allyson walked off without him, Oscar hesitated to follow. Better to let her cool off, he thought, then I’ll catch up.

He planned to stay back a bit, to keep her in view but wait for the ground to thaw around her. Suddenly, a motion-sensor light activated, and he was bathed in a powerful backyard spotlight. Just what I need. Some nervous homeowner calling the cops on me.

Oscar mumbled to himself, “I’m drunk. Like… really drunk, and I got all horny at the party, I was dancing with some girl, this way-out-of-my-league girl and my brain got all sexed up, and her tits got me all chubbed out when she was feeding me guacamole in sexy ways—”

In the middle of working on his excuse, maybe practicing what he would tell Cameron if—when—Allyson ratted him out, the case of beer slipped through his sweaty hands. One can fell free, hit the ground hard and sprayed foam all over.

“SHIT!”

He grabbed the cardboard container and more cans spilled out through the ripped opening, rolling in different directions. Scrambling around, he grabbed cans and shoved them inside the damaged box. As he straightened up, he saw a dark shape standing twenty feet away in the middle of the yard, cast in silhouette against the motion-detection spotlight. Shielding his eyes from the light, Oscar could only make out a pale mask.

“Happy Halloween, Mr Elrod,” Oscar said, trying to act nonchalant. “Cool mask. Sorry… I’m not trying to trespass on your shit, but I was talking to this pretty girl over there.” Oscar pointed toward Allyson, near the far end of the yard, to bolster his excuse. “It’s just I guess I always kind of liked her. And I know she’s bummed out about Cameron, so I thought maybe… Stupid, right?”

The Shape stood there, unmoving.

If Oscar had hoped for a little sympathy from another guy, an older guy who had probably had an unrequited crush or two back in the day, he was disappointed by the complete lack of response. Not that he knew Elrod all that well, but enough to know he wasn’t one of those “get off my lawn” geezers who hated anyone young enough to still have a life.

“All right,” Oscar said. “Peace. Thank you.”

Suddenly, the motion-detecting spotlight winked out, casting Oscar into darkness until his eyes could readapt to the ambient light. He blinked frantically, blinded by afterimages of the bright bulb, frozen to the spot to avoid tripping over his own feet or a misplaced can of beer.

* * *

At the far side of the yard, Allyson heard Oscar talking to someone but thought it as likely that he was talking to himself. The motion-detecting light he’d tripped winked out by the time she reached the fence. On this side, facing an alley, the fence was six feet high and each iron fence was tipped with a spike, a dangerous design to discourage trespassers, although she needed to get out of, not into, Elrod’s yard. Using the calf-high horizontal rail to boost herself up, she carefully climbed the fence, pulling her hand away when it pressed into one of the spikes. It was certainly not razor sharp, but she wouldn’t want to put any of her weight on one of them as she navigated the top of the fence. Taking as much care as possible, she supported her weight by placing her hands on the upper horizontal rail, swinging her legs over the top. Once her body cleared the spikes, she pushed off and dropped down on the other side.

Proud of herself, she brushed her gritty palms on the front of her trousers. She’d scaled the nasty fence on her own, injury-free. A small victory in an otherwise crappy night. But she’d take it. Don’t need Oscar or his grabby hands and lame excuses.

* * *

Again, the motion-detecting sensor switched the yard light back on.

Shielding his eyes with his forearm, Oscar looked at where The Shape had been before the lights winked out. Nothing. He looked left and right. More nothing. Oscar had started to get a bad vibe about the time the light went out, beginning to wonder if the figure hadn’t been Mr Elrod after all.

“Yo!” he called. “Where’d you go, bro? You’re acting super sketchy right now.”

Okay, don’t panic, Oscar thought, hoping the fog of alcohol had begun to clear out of his mind. Maybe it was Elrod and he went back inside. He had his back to the light, so his eyes were adapted to the dark. So, after seeing I’m just a goofy, lovesick teen, he ignores me and goes inside. Or decides to call the cops on me. Either way, I’m out of here!

With as many beers as he could recover, he clutched the case to his chest and rushed toward the far fence to rejoin Allyson, who couldn’t have gotten f—

He slammed into the unmoving figure, the dark shape with the creepy pale mask—and gasped. Instinctively, he backed up a step, ready to utter another apology when the figure raised his right arm, revealing a long kitchen knife gripped in his hand, the blade gleaming with reflected light. Oscar’s damaged case of beer slipped free of his numb hands again, crashing to the ground. Several cans hissed.

Desperate, he raised his forearm to block the knife.

The spotlight switched off—

—plunging Oscar into total darkness.

33

Not that she wanted to admit it, even to herself, but Allyson had been nervous walking through the dark alley, breathing through her mouth to avoid the unpleasant odors of rotting food and fresh urine. Several smelly metal dumpsters lined the alley, hulking shapes, no doubt harboring rats and other squirmy vermin she’d rather not think about, but her imagination ran wild anyway. Each trash bin offered hiding places—yuck—and blind spots for someone to lie in ambush. They might try to grab her as she passed or wait until she thought she was clear and pounce on her from behind.

When she passed the last dumpster, she whipped her head around to the left, making sure nobody crouched beside it. She sighed in relief—then nearly jumped out of her skin when a feral cat yowled and bounded out of the dumpster. For a second, it balanced on the edge, then leapt to the ground and scurried to the street ahead of her.

She didn’t resent a hungry cat. Best case, he reduced the rat population in Haddonfield, specifically in the creepy alley. Worst case, he contracted rabies during his nocturnal hunting. But that unpleasant thought had her obsessing about nearby rabid rats.

She quickened her step and turned onto the connecting street, grateful for the wan illumination provided by the widely spaced streetlights. After a few steps, Allyson heard a scream and stopped, turning to look back the way she’d come. To her ears, the sound seemed to have originated from the far end of the alley.

Returning to the alley entrance, she looked back the way she’d come. The thought of going back filled her with dread.

* * *

By the time the light switched on again, Oscar was already running toward the fence. Blood ran from the stab wound in his forearm down to his elbow, dripping in his wake. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed The Shape—definitely not Elrod—walking after him, unhurried but determined, Oscar’s blood staining the deadly knife. Too panicked to think about who had attacked him or why, Oscar simply focused on surviving. He stared at the wrought-iron fence in front of him, fixing its location in his mind so he’d remember exactly where it was when the lights went out. One imperative ran though his mind on repeat.

Get over the fence; outrun the monster!

Primed by a surge of adrenaline, Oscar leapt for the top rail of the fence. He swung one leg over and felt sudden resistance—not from the lunatic with the knife but from his cape, snagged on one of the sharp post points.

A primal cry of fear and frustration erupted from his throat, “FUUAAHH!”

Another quick glance back. The Shape was closing the distance between them—knife raised, gleaming in the light, dripping with Oscar’s blood.

Oscar pulled against the resistance, trying to rip free of the cape—

He gasped at the sudden, jarring impact of the knife plunging into his back. The pain felt like a spike of fire ripping through him. Unable to breathe from the overwhelming agony, poised above the wrought-iron fence, he felt the muscles in his arms and legs quiver with fatigue. A moment later, strong hands gripped his feet, tugging down. Oscar struggled to hang on, but the pain and blood loss betrayed his efforts.

Abruptly, the light winked off, shrouding Oscar in darkness.

And a moment later, his arms gave way.

So close to escape and freedom, he fell on the fence. The sharp iron spike on the post underneath him ripped through the soft flesh under his chin, impaling his jaw on the fence…

* * *

Despite her reservations about traversing the dark alley again, Allyson couldn’t ignore the scream, fearing Oscar had hurt himself and needed help. Even though he was largely responsible for ruining her night, she couldn’t let him suffer alone in the dark. If she couldn’t help him, at least she could assess the situation and get help—which would be so much easier if Cameron hadn’t tossed my phone in the damn nacho cheese bowl.

“Oscar?” she called. “Oscar!”

Walking blind, she hurried down the alley, gritting her teeth each time she passed a smelly dumpster. At least she knew from her first pass that nobody was hiding by any of them. When she reached the far end of the alley, Elrod’s motion-detecting lights flicked on again and—

Allyson froze in horror.

She’d found Oscar—stuck on the fence. One of the sharp iron spikes atop had pierced the underside of his chin and come out between his lower and upper teeth. His jaw protruded far enough that the spike stuck out in front of his face. She shook off the gruesome thought that his jawbone had detached from his skull, held in place only by the skin of his face.

Standing on tiptoe, Oscar sagged against the fence, one trembling foot propped on the lower rail. Beneath his feet, a spreading pool of blood stained the ground.

He choked, gargling his own blood.

With half-lidded eyes, fading, he tried to speak, “Guh-guh…”

Go? Get help? It didn’t matter. She couldn’t help him. Not alone. She caught herself hyperventilating, panicked by indecision, and looked around, hoping to find anyone—she hadn’t expected—

Out of the corner of her eye, for a split second, she noticed a dark shape standing on her side of the fence, holding a bloody knife—

Then the lights winked out.

Allyson screamed.

Overwhelmed by the horror of Oscar’s plight, the terror of the stranger standing beside her, Allyson whirled around and sprinted down the alley, running faster than she’d ever run before. Colliding painfully with the corner of a dumpster, she spun away from the glancing blow, staggering to catch her balance, then course-correcting to continue her desperate flight through the dark passage.

She burst onto the street at full speed, too fast to turn onto the sidewalk, veering across both lanes, fortunate not to have been hit by a car. But if a car had hit her, she thought insanely, she might have rolled across the hood, landed on her feet and kept going without a glance at the driver.

Though she was by no means dressed for a run, she’d had plenty of practice and, if she hadn’t been running to save her life, she might have slipped into her natural gait and cadence. Instead, she sprinted at maximum effort as if within sight of a finish line that retreated with every stride she took. But maximum effort had a price. She couldn’t maintain this speed forever.

Her eyes darted left and right, settling on the first home with downstairs lights aglow. Veering left, she jumped over the curb, cut across the sidewalk, ran up the front lawn and bounded up the porch steps, almost slamming bodily into the front door before halting her forward momentum. With her fists curled, she pounded on the door, casting a quick glance over her shoulder before shouting, “Help me! Open the door!”

A second light inside the house switched on.

“Please open the door!”

Allyson continued to pound on the door, her excess energy pouring out through her fists.

A nervous face appeared in the window.

Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!

* * *

Officer Phillips drove the patrol car, with Officer Francis beside him. Laurie, Karen, and Ray sat in the back. A shared nervous silence kept everyone on edge. Even within the safe confines of a police cruiser, sitting behind two well-armed law enforcement professionals, they couldn’t relax, not with Allyson missing.

Laurie tried not to think about Allyson out there alone at night with Michael on the loose. She’s the one at risk, the most vulnerable among us, while we get a police escort to my house.

At least Allyson was on the move. Maybe she’s less of a target—for now. But she had a hard time buying her own reasoning. Skepticism born of experience. I should be the one out there, she thought. Allyson should be safely locked in my house. I fortified my home specifically to stop him when the time came. And right now, it sits unoccupied. A cruel irony.

Karen’s cellphone rang, startling them.

Laurie glanced over at the display before Karen answered. Unknown caller.

Karen’s hand shook as she pressed the button to answer the call. “This is Karen… Allyson?” She smiled with relief, the pent-up tension draining from her shoulders, her free hand gripping Ray’s. “Thank God you’re all right. The police are looking for you. Where are you? Where are you?”

Laurie stared at her own reflection in the window as Karen listened to Allyson’s story. With Allyson safe and accounted for, Laurie could turn her attention to her primary goal, stopping Michael once and for all.

* * *

Standing behind the bole of a large tree next to a sidewalk, The Shape turns from left to right and back again, looking for any sign of her. Or anyone walking alone on the street. But the roads are deserted.

Suddenly, The Shape hears the roar of a powerful car engine approaching, speeding down the suburban street.

The Shape lost sight of her when she exited the alley but knows which way she ran. So The Shape follows in the same direction. No doubt, no concerns. Steady breathing. And an unrelenting purpose.

As The Shape steps out from behind the tree, the police car speeds past, answering some other call. Turning to the left, The Shape looks at the blue-and-white car, glimpses the two faces inside. Familiar faces.

They do not notice The Shape.

* * *

Officer Hawkins turned onto the street where the emergency call had originated. At last, Allyson had been located, frightened but apparently unharmed. He had orders to get her to Laurie Strode’s house. After that, he could return his full attention to apprehending Michael Myers. A small crowd of neighbors had gathered in front of the house in question. Safety in numbers, he supposed.

He pulled up at the curb in front of the onlookers but pressed the button to give a short yelp of the siren to make sure everyone stayed clear. As he climbed out of the patrol car, a young woman broke from the crowd and ran toward him. Even if he hadn’t seen the photo her mother had provided to the police, he would have recognized Allyson. Considering the family’s history, specifically Laurie’s infamous encounter with Myers forty years ago, he had kept tabs on the family out of professional curiosity.

“Officer!” Allyson called as she neared him. “I saw him. My friend was attacked! He came out of nowhere—”

Allyson was breathing heavily. Hawkins felt her fear, the tension rolling off her in waves, panic finally giving way to relief. Placing a comforting hand on her shoulder, Hawkins said, “Take a deep breath, Allyson. You’re going to be all right. Take a deep breath.”

She nodded.

“Tell me about your friend,” Hawkins said. “Is she…?”

“He,” Allyson corrected. “I don’t know. I only saw him for a moment. He’d been stabbed—more than once I think. And the fence, he fell and the fence—”

“What about the fence?”

“The fence—the fence had iron spikes on top and he fell—Oscar fell, and it—the spike—it went right through his chin, all the way through! It was awful! I think he’s dying… he may already be—but then I saw him, the killer, standing there with a knife, so I ran—I had to run before he—before…”

“Of course you did,” Hawkins said. “You were right to run. You’re still alive because you made the right decision.”

“But Oscar…”

“Where is he?” Hawkins asked. “I’ll send an ambulance.”

“The Elrods’,” Allyson said. “At the back of the property—we went around—near the alley.”

“I know it,” Hawkins said. “Let me call it in. Then you need to come with me.”

“Why? I don’t understand?”

“I’m taking you to your family,” he said. “Your grandmother’s place. Your parents should be there with her by now. You’ll stay there until we apprehend Myers.”

A worried look flashed across Allyson’s face. “Has something happened at home?”

“No,” Hawkins said. “But you’ll be safer at your grandmother’s house. Apparently, she’s fortified the place.”

“Oh,” Allyson said, nodding. “That makes sense.”

Only in your world, kid, Hawkins thought. I don’t envy you.

As Hawkins stepped away from Allyson to make the call to dispatch, several people in the gathered crowd started shouting questions, their concerned voices overlapping each other.

“Can you tell us what’s—?”

“How many people have been killed?”

“What are the police doing to keep us safe?”

“Do you know who the k—?”

“Has Michael Myers really returned?”

Hawkins raised his hand to request silence. “Everyone! Calm down,” he shouted. “I need you all to return to your homes—now! Lock your doors and windows. We’re in pursuit of the suspect.” A bit of an exaggeration, but more reassuring than telling them they were still searching for the suspect. “If you notice anyone or anything suspicious, call 911 and report it to the emergency operator. Once the suspect is in custody, the sheriff will hold a press conference and all your questions will be answered. For now, please go home, lock up and stay safe!”

Reluctantly, they quieted down and dispersed. All of them lived relatively close by, so didn’t have far to walk to get back inside. Hawkins radioed dispatch to request an ambulance at the back of the Elrod property, but judging by Allyson’s descriptions of his injuries, Hawkins doubted the boy had survived.

And he doubted the boy would be the last victim tonight.

34

As Officer Phillips turned the squad car off the rural, tree-lined road onto Laurie’s gravel driveway, the twin sets of spotlights mounted on the sloped roof of her house powered on, bathing them and the entire front yard in light. In the passenger seat, Officer Francis raised his forearm to shield his eyes and said, “Forgot to bring my sunblock.”

“Damn,” Phillips said. “How do you afford the electric bill?”

“They’re motion activated,” Laurie said, then, “I don’t get many visitors.”

Phillips rolled up to the intercom and looked over his shoulder at Laurie. “Pass code for the gate?”

“Open my door,” she said. “I’ll get it.”

“Case you haven’t noticed,” Phillips said. “We’re the good guys.”

“I have trust issues,” Laurie said. “Sue me. Besides, this seat is killing my back. What is it made of, plastic?”

Francis chuckled, “Ever try to scrub puke out of fine Corinthian leather?”

“Fine,” Phillips said, stepping out of the car to open her door. As Laurie walked to the control box, he smiled and asked, “Want me to cover my eyes while you enter the code?”

“You’d just peek through your fingers,” Laurie said. “Turn around.”

“Seriously?”

Laurie shrugged. “Better safe than sorry.”

She entered the security code and, as the gate rumbled open, climbed back into the cramped, uncomfortable backseat.

Karen looked at Ray. “She’s not wrong,” she said, shifting over to give Laurie room. “About the seat.”

“Present company excluded,” Francis said, “the back is reserved for perps. Don’t want them to think they’re traveling in the lap of luxury.”

“No worries there,” Laurie said.

Once the gate opened wide enough, Phillips shifted into gear and drove through the gap. “We’ll drop you off and stand wait at the gate for your daughter to arrive. We have an officer on the scene in contact with her now.”

* * *

Laurie spent almost a minute at her front door, unlocking locks and retracting deadbolts before she could usher Karen and Ray inside. While Ray took it all in, immediately noticing the steel mesh on the windows and the deadbolt locks on all the interior doors, Karen walked around refamiliarizing herself with the interior she had known as a child—before she’d been removed from Laurie’s care.

In the living room, Karen paused in front of the wood-burning stove. The vent pipe entered the sealed chimney at a ninety-degree angle through a wall of bricks. The chopped wood stacked beside the stove indicated that it served more than decorative purposes. “What happened to the fireplace?” she asked. “Besides the obvious.”

“Vulnerable point of entry,” Laurie said. “Had to go.”

“Obviously,” Ray said sarcastically.

Ignoring Ray’s comment, Laurie continued, “Poured concrete down the chimney, bricked up the wall.”

“Aren’t you worried about the vent pipe?” Ray asked.

“Diameter’s too narrow,” Laurie said deadpan. “Michael won’t fit. Not in one piece.”

“Home is where the heart is, right, Laurie?”

Laurie spread her arms wide and smiled. “Mi casa es su casa, Ray.”

She stared at him, waiting for another sarcastic comment.

But Ray nodded, following Karen into the kitchen, noting the woven wire mesh on the windows there, multiple locks on the back door. Watching him, Laurie saw her residence with fresh eyes. With airy floral-patterned wallpaper, the kitchen was brighter than the wood-paneled and red-brick living room. Ray’s attention turned to the small desk and chair facing shelves stacked with four security monitors, a personal computer, and a police scanner.

“I can watch my entire property from here,” she told him. “The gate, the front door, both sides, and the back of the house. No surprises.”

Ray nodded and looked toward the wall on the opposite side to the doorway, where she’d hung her gray welder’s mask, like a country kitchen decoration. Nope, she thought, nothing abnormal about that at all. Every home should have one.

While Karen walked toward the cream-colored island in the center of the kitchen, laying her palms on the blue countertop, Ray noticed something that disturbed him on the floor near the pantry: a dead rat in what looked like a homemade trap, if the person building the trap had fantasized about medieval torture devices. When Laurie walked into the kitchen, Ray pointed at the contraption. “What is that?”

“A dead rat,” Laurie said. “Surprised you’ve never seen one, Ray. They live in the fields out back but every now and then they get in through a crack in the foundation and try to raid the pantry.”

“I know what a dead rat looks like,” he said. “I meant that—thing that… eviscerated it.”

“I saw your mousetraps,” Laurie said. “Peanut butter and marshmallow fluff?”

“And?” Ray asked defensively.

“How’s that working for you?”

Ignoring their exchange, Karen leaned against the kitchen island, twisting the whole thing counterclockwise to expose the hidden door in the floor of the tiled kitchen. Crouching, Karen lifted the door to the underground shelter and peered down into the darkness.

Ray walked beside her and looked over her shoulder, intrigued.

Karen continued to stare into the darkness, as if entranced by something only she could see.

Ray glanced at Laurie then at Karen and asked, “What’s this?”

“My childhood,” Karen said softly.

“It’s how we protect ourselves,” Laurie said, surprising herself. Those words weren’t what she’d meant to say. She said them by rote. A phrase she had repeated numerous times to her daughter, throughout her early childhood—for as long as Laurie had Karen in her care. Before the state took her away.

It’s how we protect ourselves.

Those five words became the answer to all the questions young Karen had for every one of Laurie’s eccentric behaviors, all her unusual preparations. For the abundance of locks. For the midnight drills. For the weapons training and target practice. She had sacrificed what most would consider a normal life to prepare for when the darkest day returned. When he returned. Back then, she never would have imagined forty years would pass before the darkness re-entered her life. It was easy to wonder now if all the lost time between mother and daughter had been worth it. But life never offered guarantees. While Michael Myers lived, she never would have found peace, regardless of the path she chose. So she chose to let her fear galvanize her to action rather than cripple her with worry.

Without saying a word, Karen descended the wooden stairs into the underground shelter. Once she was low enough, she flipped the switch to turn on the light. “Come down,” she called up to them.

Laurie looked at Ray and gestured to the hole in the floor. “After you.”

Nodding, Ray took the stairs but stopped while his upper half remained above ground and looked at the door Karen had opened. “You’re not planning on…”

“What?” Laurie asked, playing dumb.

“Locking us down here?” Ray asked. Then, making finger quotes, added, “For our own good?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Laurie said, nodding with a crooked smile. “But now that you mention it—”

“No way!” Ray said, starting to ascend.

“Ray,” Karen called from below. “The door locks from this side.”

“Oh, okay,” Ray said quickly. “Of course. I knew that.”

“And, Mom…” Karen yelled.

“Yes, dear?”

“Stop trying to freak out Ray,” Karen said. “This whole—situation is nerve-wracking enough.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Laurie said. To Ray, she added, “I’ll go first.”

Laurie descended the stairs, ducking her head at the last second to avoid clipping the island. “Watch your head, Ray,” Laurie said from below. “Wouldn’t want you to brain yourself.”

Laurie stood at the bottom of the simple wooden staircase beside Karen as Ray came down. His gaze swept the shelter. There were ordered stacks of boxed and canned foods on shelves, multiple cases of bottled water lined up in a row, a neatly made bed against one corner, a camping toilet in another corner behind a hanging cloth screen. To the right stood her weapons locker, a heavy steel cabinet with a security keypad.

Ray stared at Karen, who had a haunted look on her face that troubled Laurie. Her daughter couldn’t help but remember living down here, the test runs and lockdowns that had scared her, that were designed to scare her, so that Karen would learn to function through the fear and find a way to survive, to not give in to helplessness. Laurie wanted to prepare her child as she had prepared herself. Unfortunately, preparing to deal with the worst in human nature left little time for pleasant memories.

After a moment, Karen seemed to shake off her dark mood.

Laurie led them over to the weapons locker and keyed in the six-digit security code, 103178. The LED light blinked from red to green and she pulled open the door. Turning back to them, Laurie said, “Pick your poison. A weapon for every occasion and peace of mind.” She gave a sweeping wave of her arm, like a model presenting a prize on a game show. “Do you need small-caliber defense, semi-automatic ballistics with blackout rounds, a shotgun for tactical operations, large-caliber hand cannon, or a rifle with accuracy and stopping power?”

They both stared at her and exchanged a typical husband and wife look. No doubt wondering if Laurie was confident and prepared, or becoming unhinged.

“He’s waited for this night,” Laurie said. “He’s waited for me. Well, that goes both ways. I’ve been waiting for him.”

* * *

Officer Hawkins drove the squad car toward Laurie Strode’s home with Allyson, her granddaughter, sitting quietly in the back. Her head was turned toward the window, her eyes unfocused in the thousand-yard stare he’d seen many times before. She might be in shock, worried about her friend, or simply overwhelmed by the events of the evening. Looking over his shoulder through the metal mesh barrier between the front and back seats, he said, “Everything okay back there?”

“What? Oh, sure,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“I called an ambulance for your friend.”

“Thanks,” she said. Then, after a moment, “Is he…?”

“Haven’t heard,” he said, trying to keep his tone neutral. He wasn’t optimistic but didn’t want to upset her any more than she already was. Once reunited with her family, she would be fine. At least as much as anyone could be after an attempt on their life. “Do have some good news,” he added. “I’ve been informed your parents and grandmother are safe at her house.”

“Thanks.”

Through it all, Dr Sartain sat silent, nestled in the passenger seat of the cruiser, cradling his injured left arm.

As Hawkins returned his attention to the road, the radio squawked.

“601. Be advised. Suspect reported on 11th Avenue, south of bypass at Saint Park. Multiple reports. Be advised. Armed and dangerous.”

Glancing at the street sign, Hawkins’ eyes widened.

Only a few blocks from here…

Hawkins peered through the windshield, straining his eyes. In the distance, a dark shape topped by a blur of white moved through the night and stepped into the street.

He squeezed his mic. “Copy, dispatch. I got eyes.”

Glancing in the rearview mirror, he made eye contact with Allyson, who leaned forward, peering between the two front seats.

“Is it—?”

Nodding, he said, “Hold on!”

He flipped on his light bar.

And floored the accelerator.

* * *

The Shape walks down the deserted streets of Haddonfield, fingers gripping the hilt of the knife at his side. With each deep breath the fingers clench the handle in dark anticipation of death. This clench-and-relax cycle is not a conscious act. The heart beats, the lungs breathe, the hand clenches. The Shape hunts and The Shape kills. Always ready. Inhale… exhale… clench… release. Hunt… kill… one leads to the other. This is all The Shape knows—or wants. The true purpose.

The Shape hears the roar of a car engine, a familiar sound that brought familiar faces, but no interruption to the purpose.

The Shape steps into the street, walking closer to the chosen prey, but watching for anyone that might cross The Shape’s path. Looking into the lighted windows of houses on the other side of the street, The Shape clenches the knife handle again. Waiting this time for the impulse to strike—or to pass—

In the middle of the street, The Shape hears another roaring engine, sees the blue-and-white police SUV approaching fast, skidding through a turn, barreling toward The Shape.

This time it will not pass The Shape.

Standing still, The Shape stares—

—waiting—

—less than a heartbeat—a breath—a clench—

Brakes squealing at the last instant, tires shrieking in protest, the SUV slams into The Shape—

—and the impact hurls The Shape backward.

Sudden motion—jarring impact on the asphalt.

The Shape lies still…

35

“Stay in the car!” Hawkins shouted to Allyson.

She looked rattled by the impact. She’d barely had time to buckle up before he rammed his cruiser into Michael Myers.

At the last second, he’d held back, hit his brakes rather than crushing and running over the murderous son of a bitch. Hawkins had no idea where the merciful impulse had come from. He’d like to think his better angels had prevailed, but he thought it probably had more to do with the presence of the teenaged girl in his backseat. A small part of him had balked at letting someone so young and innocent witness him commit cold-blooded murder—even if Myers deserved that and more.

In hindsight, the best thing he could have done for Allyson and her whole troubled family—not to mention the entire town of Haddonfield—would have been to rid the world of Michael Myers once and for all. He doubted a prosecuting attorney in Warren County would have found a single jury member willing to convict Hawkins of anything more severe than reckless driving. With luck, Myers had been killed on contact. Hawkins’ conscience would be totally fine with that.

He and Sartain got out of the cruiser and approached the prone Myers from opposite sides. Clutching his service weapon, Hawkins advanced cautiously. A quick glance back at the cruiser showed Allyson leaning forward, peering through the windshield at the three of them.

Sartain lowered himself to one knee to examine The Shape lying in the middle of the road. He leaned forward, reached out with his good hand and checked the neck for a pulse.

Seemingly relieved, Sartain looked up at Hawkins and said, “He’s alive.”

Okay, not as simple as I’d hoped.

Nodding, Hawkins extended his weapon, sighting down the barrel for a head shot, mid-forehead, just north of the eyes partially concealed by the pale mask.

“Not for long,” Hawkins said. “Stand back.”

Outraged, Dr Sartain bellowed, “Officer Hawkins, do not kill my patient!”

Hawkins’ finger lay beside the trigger guard. As soon as Sartain moves his condescending ass, this is over. “I’m finishing this,” Hawkins told him. “That’s a promise.”

“No!” Sartain shouted defiantly. “He’s unarmed.” A moment later, Hawkins thought he heard Sartain whisper, “But I’m not.”

“What did you say?”

“If you do this,” Sartain replied, “I’ll see you prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Hawkins said. Hell, the mayor might give me the key to the city for putting down this rabid animal.

Hawkins took aim again.

Sartain stepped in his way.

“Get back now, Doctor. I’m going to fire! GET BACK NOW!”

Instead, Sartain removed a pen from his pocket, clicking it nervously.

“I’m not going to ask you again, Doctor,” Hawkins said, practically spitting out the words in frustration. “Step away from the suspect!”

* * *

From her obstructed view in the backseat of the patrol car, Allyson strained to see what was happening out on the road. She slipped her fingers through the openings in the steel-mesh barrier and pulled herself forward, the tip of her nose brushing the metal as she stared intently through the windshield.

Hawkins had struck Michael Myers with the car, but hadn’t killed him, at least according to Dr Sartain—apparently Michael Myers’ doctor from Smith’s Grove—who checked for and found a pulse. She could only hear some of their contentious conversation through Hawkins’ half-open window, but the topic of the debate seemed clear. Hawkins wanted to put a bullet through Myers’ brain, and Sartain wanted to save his patient.

Personally, Allyson sided with Hawkins; she wanted the nightmare to end as expediently as possible. If she closed her eyes longer than a moment, she saw the gruesome image of Oscar impaled on the fence spike, bleeding out in front of her. Forty years after his incarceration, Michael Myers continued to threaten her grandmother and anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. Clearly, the justice system had failed.

But Sartain never spoke to Hawkins after closing the distance between them. Instead, Allyson saw him fiddling with his fancy pen, twisting the clip and—

—a gleaming two-inch blade flipped out of the pen!

Sartain held the blade to the side, hidden from Hawkins’ view, while clearly visible to Allyson—but only for an instant. Long enough for Sartain to switch the pen to an overhand grip.

NO!

Before Allyson could scream a warning, Sartain grabbed Hawkins’ gun hand by the wrist with his injured arm, pushing it to the side as he as he swung his right hand around and plunged the pen-blade into Hawkins’ neck. Hawkins’ gun fired, wide of the mark, the bullet ricocheting off the asphalt.

As Sartain drove his blade deep, cutting back and forth, Hawkins’ dropped his gun, his body swaying. He toppled over to his left, blood gushing from the jagged wound in his neck. He fell below the hood of the police cruiser, mercifully out of Allyson’s view.

But the murderous doctor stood calmly between the headlights of the police cruiser, twisting the clip of his pen to retract the bloody blade. She stared at him through the windshield, petrified with terror.

* * *

Dr Sartain stared down at the corpse of Officer Hawkins.

The blood pulsing from the man’s neck had stopped within moments. If he wasn’t clinically dead yet, that moment was only a few feeble heartbeats away. Sartain inhaled, smelling the fresh blood, filling his lungs with the moment of the kill. His kill.

Once again, he felt the power and freedom that he knew Michael must feel each time he sank his blade into a living body and snuffed out the life inside. A profound dominance, the power to twist the fate of another to one’s will. Despite the discomfort radiating from his injured shoulder, a sense of utter calm flowed through him, invigorating him.

He examined the bloody blade extending from his custom pen for a moment, then twisted the barrel and—

Click!

—the blade retracted, hidden from view.

As he returned the pen to his jacket pocket, he turned toward Allyson who stared back at him in shocked disbelief from the back of Hawkins’ cruiser. When he spoke to her, he raised his voice, but his tone was measured and calm. “Do not move, young lady,” he said. “Do not scream. Stay where you are.”

She couldn’t open the car door, but he preferred she not spend the rest of the night screaming her fool head off, attracting unwanted attention and giving him a headache. She was a minor player in what was to come and should not try to rise above her role.

* * *

Panicked, Allyson immediately reached for the door handle only to find the door locked. Of course, she realized belatedly, police cars transport prisoners! Between the locked steel-mesh barrier, the uncomfortable seat and the locked doors, she basically sat inside a mini jail cell.

Without a weapon, she was trapped and helpless.

Movement at the front of the car caught her eye. As she looked, Sartain squatted before Michael Myers and dropped out of sight. He was right near the body, but she couldn’t tell what he was doing. Then, a moment later, he shifted position, moving forward, placing one knee on Michael’s chest, leaning forward… jostling for a moment or two, then he was suddenly still. His head bowed forward, and she saw his arms move, fussing with something. His back rose and fell as he took deep breaths.

When he stood up, his back to her, his hair seemed different somehow… disheveled.

Then he turned around to face her—

—wearing Michael’s mask.

The shock of seeing it again was too much.

Cowering down, out of sight, she screamed, finally losing control of her fear, giving in to the terror of what she had witnessed earlier—and in this moment.

Sartain began to scream with her.

He pounded on the hood of the car with his fists, his own scream almost muting hers. Suddenly, he stopped moving, straightened, and stared at her through the mask.

Breathless, she stared back in new horror, crying now, tears streaming down the sides of her face. She pleaded, “Please… Don’t.”

Sartain walked calmly to the side of the car and stood by the back window, staring eerily at Allyson. He had control. While the doors remained locked to her, all he needed to do was reach out to the handle and pull the door open to get to her. Whether he was pretending to be Michael or wanted to be Michael, the difference didn’t matter. He was armed, and she was not. He had killed someone in cold blood. For all intents and purposes, he might as well be Michael Myers. She braced herself for a fight—a fight for her life—with no tangible weapons and no combat training. All she had was desperation and her instinct for self-preservation. A potent combination of doubt and dread clawed at her insides. She held her breath…

He raised an index finger to the mouth of the hideous white mask and made a shhh sound at her. Then walked away…

She exhaled so forcefully she had to grab the wire mesh to stop herself from doubling over in relief. Don’t relax, she warned herself. It’s not over. Not even close…

Lacing her fingers through the openings in the wire mesh, she pushed and pulled, testing for any give. If she could pry either side loose, she might be able to squeeze through to the front seat where the doors weren’t prisoner-proof. Despite a little flex in the center of the cage between front and back, farthest from the anchor points, it held firm. She checked the edges, tugging with all her might, praying for loose bolts, then ran her fingertips along the edge, seeking a gap wide enough to reach through and pry back one of the corners. Here and there the metal squeaked, but nothing moved. Stronger arms than hers had probably tested the wire-mesh barrier in a cop car with similar results.

Allyson checked on Sartain through the windshield. He stood over Michael, talking to him, attempting to coax him awake, “This is a dream, Michael.”

No, it’s a nightmare! What are you—?

Sartain crouched close to Michael and slipped his right arm under his prone form. Then, with a grunt of effort, he lifted Michael first into a sitting position, before placing his left arm—still in the sling—against Michael’s chest. Straining, he stood, pulling a groggy Michael up with him. Sartain braced himself, supporting most of Michael’s weight, and slowly walked him toward the police car.

Allyson pounded on the mesh and the side window, trying to get Sartain’s attention. “No!” she shouted. “Please no! Please!”

When they were close enough, Allyson saw beads of sweat on Sartain’s forehead. The effort of bringing Michael to the car with his injured arm taxed him to the point of exhaustion. Allyson prayed for the deranged doctor to have a massive coronary. But the man was determined to finish what he’d started. Propping Michael against the side of the car, he pulled the back door open.

Allyson pushed herself to the far side of the car and slammed into the opposite door, her head bouncing off the glass so hard she saw stars.

With much grunting and shifting of his feet, Sartain wrangled Michael’s listless body into the backseat with Allyson. Bending over, he picked up Michael’s legs and pushed them inside the car, so he could close the door. With his knees pushed up out of the way, Michael flopped backward, bumping into Allyson; his sparse hair, greasy with sweat from the mask, brushed her arm, and she shuddered in disgust.

“Make room, my dear,” Sartain said to her with his hand gripping the edge of the doorframe, his face hidden behind the creepy mask. “Beautiful girl. Mindful of my patient.” He looked down at The Shape sprawled across the backseat. “Are you with us, Michael? Are you listening?” No response, but Sartain nodded anyway and looked at Allyson again. “I do believe he hears everything.”

For a brief, anger-fueled moment, Allyson’s revulsion overcame her fear and she shoved Michael away from her, pushing him to the far corner of the uncomfortable seat. An instant later, she backed away as far as possible within the confines of the backseat cage and huddled in the corner.

Before closing the door, Sartain tugged off the hellish mask and tossed it on the seat, where it landed in the gap between Allyson and Michael. When Sartain slammed the door, locking her in with the murderer, she flinched. Panicked, she banged her fists against the wire-mesh barrier and screamed at him—at anyone who could possibly hear her, “NO! LET ME OUT OF HERE! HELP!”

Glancing down, she saw the flattened mask, how the empty eyes seemed to stare back at her. She had the creepy idea that it had inched closer to her thigh. Disgusted, she pinched a clump of the fake hair between her thumb and index finger and flung the mask as far away from her as possible. It slapped against the door window—the rubber clinging there for a moment—then tumbled into Michael’s lap.

And despite knowing the doors would not open, she banged on the door and the window, throwing her body against it, praying that somehow her weight might pop the door free of its lock.

Sartain put the car in gear, steered around the lifeless body of Officer Hawkins and drove into the night.

36

After the exhaustingly futile effort to free herself from the backseat of the police cruiser, Allyson pressed herself against the door, cowering from the unconscious murderer sitting mere feet away from her. To her, he was a ticking human time bomb. She feared the moment he regained his senses, he would lean across the backseat and kill her. While he remained unconscious she was safe. And unless she somehow got out of the police car before he began to stir, she was doomed.

Knowing that, she stared across the seat at him, trembling from the rigidity of her body, all her senses on edge. Shadows shrouded his face, providing no clue. He might already be awake, toying with her. Were his eyes—the undamaged one anyway—open at that very moment? She couldn’t tell. His body seemed to sway with the movement of the car, nothing more.

When Sartain made a left turn, Michael’s body began to tilt toward her, teetering on the brink of falling against her again. Gripping the wire mesh with one hand and the back of the seat with the other, she swung her legs up and pushed him back to his side with her feet. She had a stark fear that if she touched him again with her hands, he would snatch her wrists, pull her to him and—

Stop it!

Taking deep breaths, she shook off the paralyzing thought. She had to keep calm, to stay alert to the slightest opportunity for escape. In the back of her mind, a thought bubbled forward.

What would Grandmother do?

Laurie Strode had survived Michael Myers. Allyson had to remember that, to cling to the hope that she could survive too. Of course, she had no idea how… but she had to stay open to the possibility. If she gave up hope, she created a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Sartain glanced back through the steel-wire mesh at her. “People want to kill Michael, but these observations are an opportunity,” he said. “My question now is… who must be protected from whom? His pursuit of your grandmother seems to be what keeps him alive. The notion of being a predator or the fear of becoming prey keeps both of them alive.”

Allyson considered his words, wiped tears from the corners of her eyes and said, “You’re right.”

“What?” Sartain asked, showing mild surprise. Of course, he believed his own words, but he seemed to have doubted she would agree with them so readily.

“I think you’re right.” Though she was woefully unprepared for her current predicament, she knew someone who had spent years—decades—preparing for just such an encounter and looked forward to its resolution. “I’ll show you where to go. Before he wakes up and kills us both… I think I know someone who would like to say goodbye.”

Allyson gave Sartain the address.

With an anticipatory smile, Sartain turned right at the next intersection.

* * *

Seconds seemed to pass with agonizing slowness…

…struggling to amount to minutes.

As she had every other second of the nightmarish drive, she glanced toward the dark shape of Michael Myers on the opposite side of the police cruiser’s hard bench seat. Like a crushed face, now seemingly impotent, the flattened mask lay in his lap. When Sartain cleared his throat, Allyson turned toward him expectantly.

“Michael?” Sartain said. “Are you awake, Michael? Our friend Allyson has been so kind as to invite us to the family homestead. We’re almost there.” After a pause, he added ominously, “You have what you need, you know?”

“What does that mean?” Allyson asked nervously.

“You have what you need,” Sartain repeated, his eyes, visible in the rearview mirror, focused on Michael in the shadows of the backseat.

Heart racing, Allyson examined Michael’s still form, leaning forward without moving more than an inch or two closer to him. Was he talking about the mask? What—?

Then she saw it—and gasped.

The dark handle of a kitchen knife protruded from the left pocket of his grease-stained coveralls. Immediately, she tried to calm herself, to not reveal that she’d seen the knife. Let Sartain think she was clueless to his meaning. With her gaze flickering between Sartain and the dark shape next to her, Allyson began to subtly reach across the backseat.

While Sartain’s attention was on the road ahead, her hand extended inch by inch, past Michael’s right leg, then over the pale mask in his lap, ever careful not to nudge or even touch the unconscious psychopath, but her arm wasn’t long enough. Gradually, she leaned sideways, no sudden movements, as her fingers reached for the handle—

Sartain’s gaze flicked to the rearview mirror and he shouted, startling her, “That’s for him!”

Before she could reach across the remaining distance, Sartain jerked the steering wheel hard to the left. Unbalanced, she fell back against her door, banging her head against the window. To avoid ditching the car down the left embankment, Sartain swerved again to the right, pitching Allyson in the opposite direction. Frantically, her right hand snagged the wire-mesh barrier to stop herself from crashing into Michael.

With the car back in its proper lane, Allyson regained her balance and her composure. Sartain chuckled as if the reckless driving had been nothing more than an innocent prank to startle her. But when she looked to her left, she noticed something—missing.

The pale mask was no longer in Michael’s lap.

As she looked up, she gasped, a sudden chill racing down her spine. Even in the shadowy corner of the backseat, she could see that The Shape now wore the mask—

—and was staring at her.

From impossibly far away, Allyson heard Dr Sartain.

“Wake up, Michael!”

Before Allyson could scream, The Shape grabbed her by her hair and hurled her against the rear passenger door. For the moment, it wasn’t an attack. She was simply in his way. He scooted toward her, leaning back, and raised his leg, boot poised more than a foot from the window of his door. Suddenly, he slammed his boot against the glass. With the first impact, the glass seemed to give slightly in the frame.

Distracted by Michael’s action, Sartain lost control of the car and swerved back and forth across both lanes of the rural road. Allyson hung on, fingers gripping the steel mesh, pushing herself against the door, trying to stay in place and far away from Michael.

He kicked the window a second time, fracturing the glass.

Sartain slammed on the brakes. The cruiser screeched to a halt in the middle of the dark road with the smell of scorched rubber. Shifting into park, Sartain left the car turned at a slight angle, headlights piercing the night.

After spending so much time unconscious and waking to find himself trapped in the back of a police car, Michael raged against his confinement, throwing his shoulder against the door, his back against the seat, his forearms and fists against the wire mesh.

For the moment at least, killing Allyson wasn’t his top priority, so she rode out his violent storm, pressing herself against her door, as much out of his way as possible. If he saw her as part of his confinement or an obstruction to his freedom, she didn’t like her chances—at all.

Instead of watching Michael, Sartain stared calmly through the windshield. Allyson followed his gaze and saw what had his attention. They were within sight of her grandmother’s property—and a flicker of hope.

A police cruiser guarded Laurie’s gate.

* * *

While they waited for Hawkins to arrive with Allyson, Officers Phillips and Francis sat in their police cruiser listening to rock music and eating Vietnamese food. Since they dropped off the other three members of the family, including the supremely paranoid Laurie Strode, they’d had a quiet night. They’d heard the dispatch call, acknowledged by Hawkins, that the suspect had been sighted and that his unit was in pursuit, but nothing since then. They assumed it had been a false alarm, though nothing had come through on the radio. Once you told the public the Boogeyman was on the loose, every Nervous Nellie peeking through her curtains saw something in the shadows. Halloween only made it worse with the morbid decorations, more elaborate each year. Skeletons and zombies and scarecrows propped up on porches, sitting in front yards, dangling from trees. A bunch of props designed to scare the neighbors, so of course the neighbors started seeing prowlers near every bush and window. Typical bullshit.

“You know what goes good with a banh mi sandwich?” Phillips asked, while chewing a wad of said sandwich in the side of his mouth.

Though the cruiser sat off a dark, deserted road, Francis thought he’d heard something in the distance. He leaned forward and saw a car in the distance, headlights and flashing lights. An emergency vehicle—or another squad car.

“An IPA,” Phillips answered his own question.

“What the hell?” Francis said, pointing.

Phillips turned in his seat, straining his eyes to see. “Looks like it’s in the middle of the road…”

“Just sitting there,” Francis said, nodding. “Alone…”

* * *

Utterly silent and desperate to remain unnoticed as much as possible, Allyson watched The Shape kick the window again, determined to break free of the police cruiser. In the front seat, Sartain spoke calmly, as if he were unaware of the turmoil right behind him. “What greater spectacle than to reunite two old friends. Michael Myers and Laurie Strode. An historic reunion.”

Cloaked in shadows, The Shape sat motionless.

Was he listening?

Allyson couldn’t tell. His body language was impossible for her to read.

A moment of quiet passed, broken by Sartain. “Michael,” he said. “She’s been waiting for you. Are you ready?”

Sartain turned in his seat to look over his shoulder as Michael lunged forward, ramming the steel barrier with ferocious strength. Possibly loosened by his earlier fit of violence, the entire barrier bowed inward and broke free of its restraints, striking Sartain violently in the head.

Michael drove himself forward, over the front seat, fingers gripping the loose barrier as he slammed it repeatedly against Sartain’s head until he was motionless, pinning him against the steering wheel. The car horn blared like a banshee’s wail.

The sudden burst of violence shattered Allyson’s stoic resolve. She’d been utterly still and silent, but the brutality of the attack rekindled all her suppressed fear, and she screamed.

* * *

“Something’s wrong,” Phillips said. “Why is he sitting there?”

The flare of the cruiser’s headlights blinded them to whatever was happening inside. Was he waiting for them? Suffered a mechanical breakdown? Injured, unable to drive the rest of the way? Those and other questions ran through Phillips’ mind. But now he heard…

Phillips rolled down his window to the blaring of a car horn.

That settles it. Squeezing his shoulder mic, he called, “606, 601? 606 to 601? Hawkins. Turn your fuckin’ radio on. Hawkins?”

Not a peep. Not even a burst of static.

Francis nudged his shoulder. “Let’s check it out.”

Nodding, Officer Phillips put the car in gear and pulled out of Laurie Strode’s driveway to investigate.

* * *

With Sartain motionless, slumped against the steering wheel, Michael settled back into his seat.

Allyson clamped a hand over her mouth.

Michael raised his left elbow and drove it through the fractured side window. Chunks of glass exploded outward and rained down on the concrete. He reached through the window opening and yanked the handle to open his door.

Inhaling deeply through her nose, Allyson fought against the wave of panic that would overwhelm her. She pressed herself into the shadows, hoping—praying—he would want to get away from the cop car, that he would somehow forget about her and disappear into the night.

After he had climbed out of the back, Michael pulled open the driver’s door and grabbed Sartain by his feet, dragging him out onto the road. Sartain’s head whacked against the concrete with enough force to make Allyson wince. Not that she cared what happened to the doctor at this point, but she feared she was next.

The blow seemed to have roused Sartain, unless he’d been playing possum all along, hoping Michael would move on. He struggled, but his feeble resistance could not deter Michael, who dropped to one knee beside him and began to choke the life out of him.

When the radio suddenly squawked, Allyson bit down on a reflexive scream, drawing blood from her lower lip.

“Hawkins, please respond.”

The Shape released Sartain’s throat, standing to look down the road, in the direction of Laurie’s compound. Allyson looked, saw a car approaching—another police cruiser.

With Michael distracted by Sartain at his feet and the oncoming police car, Allyson scooted across the backseat, ducked below the window’s edge of the open door and slipped out of the car. This was the moment she’d been waiting for, her one chance to slip through Michael’s grasp and certain death.

Once again, she ran for her life, veering right into the line of trees beyond the shoulder of the rural road.

* * *

As The Shape stands beside the injured doctor, watching the approaching police car, the girl slips by, running toward the trees. For a moment, The Shape turns to follow her progress, but she is lost in the shadows. At his feet, the doctor reaches out, clutches his ankle to command his attention.

The Shape looks down expectantly.

The doctor speaks, his voice weak and raw, “But you promised I could watch.”

The Shape no longer needs the doctor. As The Shape lifts a boot over Sartain’s head, the doctor grins, blood oozing from his split lips and loose teeth. The Shape wonders if this is what the doctor wants after all. To serve The Shape’s purpose—but only for a moment.

The Shape stomps on the doctor’s skull, feels bones crack and give way. Raises the boot—stomps again, harder. The skull caves in completely, blood and wet chunks of brain splatter across the road.

* * *

Crouching low beyond the first line of trees, Allyson couldn’t help herself. She had to look back, but then wished she hadn’t. She turned just as Michael shattered the doctor’s skull. She gagged and felt the burn of bile surging up her throat.

In contrast, Michael looked down at the splinted bones and lumpy gore, and tilted his head, as if curious about the result of his violent actions.

No disgust, no remorse, no humanity.

He had an emptiness inside him he could never fill.

Turning away from the madness, Allyson ran as fast as she could.

37

Phillips stopped their patrol car right in the lane, facing Hawkins’ car. For safety’s sake, he flipped on their light bar, bathing the night in blue and red flashes of light. Last thing they needed was some lead-footed speed demon to plow into both police cruisers. Both he and Francis strained to see what was happening beyond the glare of the headlights. At least one standing figure, indistinct beyond the light…

Phillips switched on his spotlight, adjusting the handle to turn the beam toward the dark figure. The pale mask and dark coveralls were unmistakable.

“It’s him,” Francis said.

Phillips turned on the unit’s roof-mounted megaphone, brought the mic to his mouth and pressed the talk button. “Hands where I can see ’em! DON’T MOVE!”

The Shape raised his hands, but to shield his eyes, then abruptly dropped to the ground, out of sight.

Steeling his courage, Phillips said, “Let’s go.”

Francis nodded nervously.

They were small-town cops who dealt with vandalism, juvenile delinquents, the occasional stolen car, and maybe even an armed robbery once in a blue moon. They had no experience with mass murderers, serial killers, or raving lunatics.

First time for everything, Phillips told himself. Nobody comes fresh out of the academy with this kind of experience.

He and Francis exited their cruiser, weapons drawn, separating to approach Hawkins’ car from either side. In the military they called it a pincer movement, designed to attack the enemy on both flanks. All Phillips could think about was the distinct possibility of crossfire. If one of them got an itchy trigger finger, he could inadvertently take out his partner.

Phillips circled to the left, checked the side of the cruiser and the back, but found nothing. Francis took the right and paused by the side of the car. Phillips thought he heard Francis gag.

“Oh, Jesus…” he said, back of his hand to his mouth.

“What is it?”

“The doc from Smith’s Grove.”

“Is he dead?” Phillips asked, coming around to the driver’s side.

“Considering most of his brains are outside his skull,” Francis said. “Yeah, I’d say the poor son of a bitch is well and truly dead.”

“Christ,” Phillips said when he saw the splatter of gore covering the road. “How am I supposed to finish my damn sandwich after this?”

“You’ll power through,” Francis said. “Check under the car?”

“Fuck—no!” Phillips exclaimed nervously, abruptly dropping to peer under the cruiser, then cursing when the knee of his uniform trousers pressed into something wet and gooey. “Nothing.”

“He was right here,” Francis said. “Where the hell did he go?”

“And what happened to Hawkins and the girl, Allyson?”

* * *

Before the two police officers climb out of their car, The Shape follows the girl’s example, crouching low and scrambling toward the woods. But The Shape does not run away. Stalking past them, hunched over along the embankment, The Shape takes up position behind their own cruiser while they are distracted by their examination of the doctor’s body.

And The Shape watches…

* * *

As she had done more times than she could remember, Laurie walked through the rooms of her house, checking and setting her security and defenses. In her bedroom, she walked to the balcony door and secured the multiple locks she’d added to the simple latch lock years ago. Next, she verified that her windows were locked. They were also secured by the same woven wire mesh she’d installed on all the downstairs windows.

Of course, nothing was foolproof, but she made sure there were no soft points of entry into her house and anyone attempting to breach her defenses would make one hell of a racket. No surprise attacks in her own home.

* * *

Though Karen had intended to stay in her mother’s underground shelter until Michael Myers was captured or killed, she had become nervous waiting for Allyson’s arrival. As the minutes ticked by, her anxiety had increased to the point where she needed to escape the cramped quarters. Once upstairs, she’d returned to the only room in the entire farmhouse that might offer her some comfort.

Karen sat on the bare mattress of her childhood bedroom and tried to calm herself. Emotions flooded through her, almost overwhelming her with memories she had hoped to forget. To chase away the dark, she turned on both bedside lamps, casting the room in a warm glow. Looking around the sparsely decorated, wood-paneled room—a summer hat with a wide brim hung over the headboard of the bed, a white analog clock and a black-and-white framed photo of her with her mother sat on one end table—she felt little comfort in her return. She had no memories of comfort to draw upon. The only normal childhood memory was sparked by the detailed two-story dollhouse on the floor, complete with its own internal lights. She remembered herself at eight years old playing with the dollhouse, imagining life in a normal home, without the worries and the fear that made her continually gnaw on her fingernails until they bled.

She’d never really understood the phantom danger her mother spoke of, but it crippled her early years emotionally, never allowing room for joy or discovery or a sense of wonder. Danger lurked around every corner. Sleep itself was dangerous. You were vulnerable when you slept. No wonder her childhood slumber was always plagued by vague nightmares, images she could never quite understand even though they haunted her waking hours, filling her with an ever-present sense of dread.

Truthfully, she hadn’t felt any peace until child services removed her from her mother’s care and what she had called the danger house. No matter how safe the house seemed, Laurie feared it wouldn’t be enough. Karen always sensed that worry in her mother. How can a child ever feel safe when her parent goes through her days in a state of perpetual panic?

Laurie walked into Karen’s bedroom and immediately checked the window locks, even though the windows were shielded by steel mesh.

Some things never change, Karen thought bitterly.

Standing at the last window, Laurie peered through the blinds.

“Anything?”

“Not yet,” Laurie said.

Because it was always “just a matter of time.”

“I’m scared,” Karen admitted. “I don’t know how to do this.”

Coming to the bed, Laurie grabbed Karen’s hands and looked her in the eyes.

“You never wanted to listen when I spoke about that night…”

Karen started to protest but Laurie shook her head.

“But this is why,” Laurie said. “We fight to survive. He is a killer. But he will be killed tonight. I’ve been preparing for this for a long time. And whether you know it or not, so have you.”

And suddenly, Karen found herself weeping, but nodded “yes” to her mother, because that’s what her mother wanted to believe, that Karen would be ready. Now Karen had to find a way to convince herself. She could tell by the sympathetic look in her mother’s eyes that she sensed Karen’s self-doubt.

“How do you know he’ll come here?”

Laurie started to reply, then stopped herself. She sat on the bed beside Karen, squeezing her knee as she made eye contact. “Karen… I’m sorry. For everything.”

Laurie’s eyes began to well up with tears, a rare show of weakness for her. Karen’s mother prided herself on her strength and determination, to be ready for every fight, to never back down or surrender. Sensing her mother’s vulnerability as a reflection of her own, Karen leaned into her mother and hugged her. After a startled moment, Laurie hugged her fiercely in return.

* * *

Allyson scrambled through the woods as quickly and quietly as she could, circling around to the back of her grandmother’s property. In the dark, she’d twisted her ankle more than once and felt it throbbing with her heartbeat. Bloody, tired, limping and drenched with sweat, she grabbed a tree and held on while she caught her breath. Her hands—and no doubt her face, since she’d swiped at tears and biting insects several times—were smeared with dirt and stippled with blood from several ungraceful falls into clotted underbrush.

She peered through a clearing ahead, lit by the light of the half-moon, and saw ghostly white figures, sitting and standing, utterly motionless before a wall made of interlocked railroad ties. Taking a few steps closer, she stopped when she realized they were mannequins, some missing limbs. Some posed around a tractor tire. Their frozen, bullet-riddled faces made for a disturbing tableau. Even though she knew they weren’t human, their presence gave the clearing an eerie feeling, almost as if it were haunted.

Standing there before their silent ranks, Allyson had the strange feeling that if she joined them in the moonlight she would meet her end, that her cold corpse would remain there, trapped with them forever, paralyzed in death.

* * *

As soon as Karen had declared her need to get out of the underground shelter, at least until Allyson arrived, Ray thought it pointless to stay hidden down there alone, so he’d returned to the kitchen, giving his nervous wife space to deal with her nerves, and steering clear of Laurie as she checked the locks and bolts on her doors and windows… again. For now, they were stuck in a waiting game. Ray stood leaning against the kitchen island, examining a yo-yo Karen had brought home from the community center after one of the kids had tangled the string into several knots. He was good at undoing knots, so she’d asked him to “fix it” before she took it back to the center. He’d completely forgotten about it, but the nerves and anxiety he hadn’t been able to shake since the police brought them to Laurie’s house needed an outlet. Untangling the knots gave him something to do with his hands while they waited for the police to bring Allyson to them. After a few minutes, he removed the last knot and coiled up the string to test the yo-yo.

He flipped it down, watched it spin, then gave a slight tug to bring it up to his palm in a flash.

Movement and a flash of light caught his attention—something on one of the security feed monitors. The motion-detecting rooftop spotlights had flashed on. With the yo-yo clutched in his hand, he walked closer to the small black-and-white screen, watching as a police cruiser, bathed in the overhead light, pulled up to the front of the house, absently plowed into a couple of trash cans, knocking them over, then came to a stop.

He frowned. Were they doing shots out there while waiting for Allyson?

It had taken long enough for the cops to get her here, but at least the waiting was finally over. Karen and he could finally relax… well, relax as much as possible with a psychopath on the loose who probably wanted to kill Karen’s mother, if not all of them, before the night was over.

Ray passed through the kitchen archway, into the living room, circled behind the loveseat and stopped at the front door. He peered through one of the vertical panels of decorative obscure glass. Through the distorted glass, the only details he could make out were the cop car and its flashing red and blue lights. Even less detail than what the black-and-white security monitors revealed, especially since, without subsequent movement, the rooftop spotlights had gone dark.

After about thirty seconds spent fiddling with multiple locks and lifting the horizontal drop bar out of its brackets, Ray stepped out onto the weathered floorboards of the front porch, feeling the old wood give slightly under his weight. By now, he would have expected Allyson to have jumped out of the car and run up the porch steps, but the police cruiser just idled there… waiting.

“Any word?” he called, absently tossing the yo-yo down and up again.

No response.

Only metallic clinking from the row of bell-shaped wind chimes hanging from the roof of the porch.

What’s taking so long? She should be here by now.

“Any word on Allyson?” he asked, louder. “You guys need coffee or something?”

Ray leaned forward, straining to see Phillips in the front seat of the cruiser. Ray waved. Still no response. He spread his hands. Anything?

“What the hell?” he muttered and descended the rotting porch stairs, grateful his foot didn’t break through any of the treads. “Too damn lazy to get out of the car?”

The cruiser was too close to the front of the house for his movement to trigger the spotlights, so everything remained relatively dark. He peered through the side window into the car, but glare from what seemed like a flashlight and the fogged window made it difficult to see anything but the general shape of Phillips sitting in the driver’s seat.

Irritated, he rapped on the driver’s side window.

Phillips didn’t budge, so Ray pulled the door open—

—and took a quick step back in shock.

Phillips’ throat had been slit from ear to ear, creating what looked like an apron of blood over his police jacket. A metallic pen with a thin blade jutting from its tip had been rammed into his ear.

Propped on Phillips’ lap was a severed human head.

And it was glowing!

The human head had been carved to resemble a jack-o’-lantern, with triangle eyes cut through his skull, a cutout triangle nose where his actual nose had been, and a jagged smile sliced into and beyond either side of his actual mouth. A flashlight had been shoved into the neck hole to illuminate the gruesome nightmare.

With the facial features mutilated, Ray couldn’t be sure, but the hair looked familiar—it had to be Officer Francis’s head.

Overwhelmed, Ray stumbled backward.

Suddenly, the clinking of the porch wind chimes seemed louder—closer—than they should.

Turning toward the sound, Ray saw a dark shape wearing a pale mask instantly close the distance between them and wrap the chain of the wind chimes around Ray’s neck. Choking and wheezing for air, Ray fought against the strong hands tugging the metal links deep into the soft flesh of his throat. He flailed with his fists, unable to get sufficient leverage for a solid blow. Twisting, bending, staggering left and right, he tried to break free, but The Shape moved with him, never relenting. With each passing second, Ray weakened; his burning muscles, denied oxygen, began to fail him.

A deeper darkness than the night sky encroached on his vision, spreading fast, narrowing his view to pinpoints, as his legs gave out and his arms dropped to his sides, until finally the light winked out.

38

Laurie descended the stairs from the second floor right to the unsecured front door, gripping a pump-action 12-gauge shotgun in her hands. Even though she had her hunting knife in its sheath, she considered that weapon her backup. She felt safest when she had her revolver, bolt-action rifle, or pump-action shotgun in hand.

She’d been in Karen’s old room when she thought she heard rattling downstairs. Ray had been in the kitchen, fiddling with a yo-yo of all things, when she’d gone upstairs. But the sound she’d heard came from the front of the house. Expecting news that Allyson had arrived, but hearing nothing but a rattling of locks, she feared something was wrong.

The house was only as secure as its weakest point of entry but, by inviting others into her home, she’d added new variables. Human variables. People who had not spent the last forty years in a low-level state of fear and paranoia, always expecting the worst to happen on any given day, at any given moment.

“Ray?” Laurie called.

As she suspected, Ray had gone outside to converse with the police, and had, naturally, left the front door unsecured. She peered through the right vertical window panel, trying to take in the scene through the obscure glass.

First thing she saw was The Shape, standing below the front porch, his back to her. Then she saw a body sprawled unnaturally at his feet—Ray!

Her breath caught. Stunned, she swayed forward and raised her hand to the doorframe to steady herself. As quickly and quietly as possible, she re-engaged all the door locks and lowered the open bar into its brackets.

Karen hurried down the stairs. “Mom?”

Recovering from the shock of Ray’s death, Laurie slipped into defensive mode. The years of drills and weapons practice had brought her to this moment. She was prepared. She was in control. She would not panic.

Laurie shook her head at Karen, index finger pressed to her lips to command silence. With a head nod, she directed Karen away from the door, toward the middle of the room. “He’s here, Karen,” Laurie said. “Michael is here. Go to the shelter and hide. You’ll be safe there.”

Wide-eyed with a fright she’d never thought she’d experience, Karen seemed to accept that Laurie’s dreaded moment had finally arrived. But Laurie had trained her daughter well enough that she didn’t panic. Her concerns were practical: “What about Ray? What about Allyson?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Laurie assured her, hoping Karen felt her confidence and determination—but not the sliver of fear that had her heart racing. “It’s time. Now. It all ends tonight.”

Without protest, and nodding through tears, Karen rushed to the kitchen and spun the island counterclockwise. She lifted the secret door built flush with the surrounding tile but, before descending the steps to the shelter, Karen turned to face her mother—armed and ready to face the psychopath that had haunted her for years—and they shared an intense look. In that moment, Laurie knew what her daughter was thinking. Is this goodbye? Will I ever see you again?

Lips pressed tight, Karen gave her mother a brief nod, went down several steps before reaching up to grab the door and flip it closed. Laurie stared after her, watched the island spin back to its normal location, once again hiding the shelter entrance.

Immediately, she returned to the front door with her shotgun to keep an eye on The Shape. As she neared the right vertical pane of distorted glass, a fist smashed through the left window and Michael’s right hand grabbed her face, dislodging her glasses as he pulled her closer to the door. She tried to twist free, but his powerful arm slipped lower and wrapped around her throat, shoving her face against the wooden door. Despite her struggles, her strength was no match for his and she remained helplessly pinned there. With the door separating them, he couldn’t strangle her, only hold her in place, until—

—his left arm burst through the other window-pane, his hand reaching desperately for her. If he got both hands on her head—her face—

She blocked the gruesome thought. Since she couldn’t pull herself away from the door, she twisted around within his grasp, trying to loosen his hold, and ended up with her back pressed tight to the door. But that freed her arms and her hands.

Angling the shotgun barrel toward the window, she switched off the safety and pumped a round into the empty chamber. A second later, Michael’s frantically grasping left hand closed over the top of the barrel—

Laurie pulled the trigger, momentarily deafened by the roar as she watched Michael’s left hand explode in a mist of blood, his index and middle fingers completely disintegrated. Only his thumb, ring and little fingers remained.

As both his arms let go and withdrew through the broken windows, Laurie staggered away from the door, her momentum carrying her to the base of the stairs before she regained her balance.

Glancing back at the shattered windowpanes—new breaches into her home—Laurie needed time to reassess. Crossing through to the kitchen, she moved the island along its turning axis and opened the secret door to join Karen in the shelter below. Once there, she flipped a circuit breaker to turn off the upstairs lights, then turned the switch to slide the island back into place.

* * *

Breathing deep and measured, The Shape reaches his intact right hand through the broken window closest to the locks and lifts the open bar barricade, tossing it aside. Then The Shape feels along the doorjamb for the locks, unlatching them one by one, finally turning the deadbolt above the doorknob. With the restraints gone or disabled, The Shape turns the doorknob and enters her house, now cloaked in darkness.

* * *

In the basement shelter, Laurie opened the weapons locker and swapped her 12-gauge shotgun for the high-powered bolt-action rifle with its detachable magazine. Then she stood before a frightened Karen and squeezed her hand.

“This is it. It all ends tonight,” Laurie said softly, repeating her statement from earlier, hoping it would comfort her daughter, knowing the fear would end—and soon. “I’m ready—we both are. Do you believe me?” After a moment, Karen nodded. “Good!”

In the momentary silence, they both heard distant footfalls on the floorboards, the slight creak of the joists. From the direction of the sound, Laurie placed him in the living room.

Karen glanced up at the ceiling, following the sound. “That’s him,” she whispered. “Isn’t it?”

Laurie nodded.

Minutes ticked by and Laurie began to wonder. What the hell is he up to? What’s taking him so long to search the house?

Then she heard the creak of the stairs.

She should have had security cameras in the house, with monitors in the shelter. It was maddening to have him roaming through her house with no idea where he was or what he might do next…

Before the growing anxiety became overwhelming, Laurie said, “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You think this house is my cage?” She smiled. “You’re right. But not tonight. Tonight, it’s a trap.”

They both looked up. Finally, the measured footsteps had moved closer, almost directly overhead. A fine mist of dust motes filtered down, glinting in the light.

He’s in the kitchen.

“I’m scared,” Karen said.

“We can do this. We can kill him,” Laurie whispered, her voice even softer than before. “Let’s burn this motherfucker to the ground.”

Then Laurie held her hand up for silence.

They waited, listening. The footfalls sounded directly overhead.

Raising the rifle to her shoulder and tilting the barrel upward, Laurie tracked the steps. With her eyes closed for a moment to focus only on the sound, she visualized where he was with each methodical step. Then she opened her eyes, worked the bolt, aimed and fired, then repeated the well-practiced firing motion again, and a third time, in rapid succession.

BOOM!—BOOM!—BOOM!

Standing motionless, Laurie cocked her head and listened for any sound from above. Other than bits of wood fluttering down to the floor, she heard nothing.

Into the renewed silence, Karen said, “This is your fate.”

Laurie looked at Karen. She no longer saw fear in her daughter’s eyes, only the grim determination to see the family nightmare finally come to an end. And, at last, the acknowledgment that Laurie really had prepared herself for this, that she would rise to the ultimate challenge of stopping Michael—permanently.

Karen distilled all those feelings into two words, spoken with icy calm: “Kill him.”

After turning the switch to move the kitchen island, Laurie scaled the basement steps and lifted the secret door high enough to scan the kitchen for any sign of him. When she saw the immediate area was clear, she opened the door the rest of the way, lowering it quietly to the tile floor before climbing the rest of the way into the kitchen.

In the dark and quiet house, her senses were on high alert, looking left and right, anticipating the slightest sound, the smallest movement…

She stalked into the living room, stepping lightly so as not to give away her own position. Turning to face the living room closet, she worked the bolt in one smooth motion and fired a shot right through the closed door. Then she stood still, listening. After a moment, she yanked open the door—

—but the closet was empty.

She closed the door and moved on, down a short hallway to a first-floor bedroom. She opened that door and peered inside the dark room. Taking a small flashlight out of her pocket, she flicked it on, took a step through the doorway and swept the room with the narrow beam. No furniture. No hiding places. Empty.

Backing out of the room, she reached for a switch mounted on the wall and flipped it. Instantly, a metal security gate dropped down from within the wall with a metallic shunnnk! sound—and locked in place.

She repeated the whole sequence on the last room downstairs, also empty, her flashlight revealing nobody inside before she flipped another switch, dropping a second security gate—shunnnk!

Shining her flashlight along the hardwood floor, she spotted a trail of blood, the glistening drops leading to the stairs and up the steps. At the top of the staircase, the blood trail turned right. Laurie turned left, creeping toward Karen’s childhood room. Flipping the switch on the exterior wall, she dropped another security gate in place—shunnnk!

Retracing her steps, she passed the staircase, following the blood trail on the floor to the other end of the hallway, to her bedroom. Gradually, she noticed her bedroom door was slightly ajar. When she’d left the room earlier, she’d closed the door. From within the dark room, a dim light glowed.

Laurie took the last few steps up on her toes, reaching forward with her left hand. Fingertips extended, she pushed the door open…

39

Clutching the rifle in both hands, Laurie stepped into her bedroom.

Unlike the clutter on the first floor, her bedroom décor tended toward the tastefully minimal, fewer distractions for the eyes. Limited hiding places. So, naturally, her gaze shifted to four standing mannequins posed in silhouette against the open glass balcony door.

He’s been busy…

Distracted by the sight of the mannequins, which obviously hadn’t been in her room before, she suddenly registered another person breathing nearby. With a quick turn, she faced her closet, a glance down revealing a trail of blood leading right to it. At that moment, she heard another noise from within the closet. Without hesitation, she worked the rifle bolt and fired into it.

Wary, she waited a moment or two before yanking the closet door open. And saw a lifeless body slumped on the floor of the closet—Ray!

Gasping, Laurie turned away from his body back toward the balcony and the three standing mannequins. Three!

Suddenly, in a blur of movement, The Shape attacked from behind, wrapping powerful arms around her. She somehow managed to work the bolt of the rifle but couldn’t bring it to bear. Leaning forward to break his grip on her, she staggered toward the balcony. But he matched her step for step. He knocked her right hand clear of the rifle’s wooden stock and wrested it away. In her attempt to regain the rifle, one of them pulled the trigger. The shot gouged a hole in the ceiling before the rifle spun away and slid across the floor.

Fortunately, she slipped free of Michael’s grasp the same moment she lost possession of the rifle, but her momentum carried her into the mannequins, knocking them to the ground and falling herself in the process. Amid the tumbled mannequins, she clawed at her belt, yanking her hunting knife free of the sheath. In a moment, she sprang to her feet, knife in hand.

As he stepped close, she swung the knife at him.

He caught her hand and stopped her mid-thrust. With his superior strength and despite how much she strained against him, he twisted her hand around, turning the blade toward her instead. With a violent shove, he drove the knife into her gut.

She doubled over in pain.

Then his hand clamped around her head, fingers clawing into her hair, and lifted her face high enough to look into her eyes, maybe one last time before the end.

Is the moment enough for him? Does it even matter?

He hurled her backward with more force than she would have thought possible. Her body smashed through the glass of the balcony door with enough momentum that she continued to flail, over the waist-high railing, one heel brushing the edge before she plummeted to the ground below.

* * *

Walking past the jumble of fallen mannequins, The Shape steps onto the balcony, booted feet crunching on broken glass, and peers over the edge.

The Shape sees her body sprawled below, utterly still.

The Shape stands there. Breathes.

Wants nothing…

“Mom?”

The voice calls from beyond the bedroom.

And The Shape recognizes the voice. From the police cruiser.

The youngest one—Allyson.

Turning, The Shape looks to the open bedroom door. Listens for a moment.

Then turns back to the balcony, breathes the night air, glances down again—

Laurie is gone.

* * *

“Mom?”

From the depths of the basement shelter, Karen heard her daughter’s voice. Without any thought for her own safety, she raced up the steps and located Allyson in the middle of the living room. Even in the relative darkness, Karen could tell her daughter had been through an ordeal: ripped clothing, forehead and chin smeared with grime, hair mussed. And she smelled like she’d slept in the woods. But there was no time for questions.

“Baby,” she called urgently, “come and hide!”

Allyson looked around, worried. “Where’s Grandmother?”

* * *

The Shape walks from Laurie’s bedroom down the hall to the far bedroom and stops at the security gate barring the door. The Shape grabs the bars, testing the strength of the gate, but the gate doesn’t budge. The Shape knows Allyson is not in this room, turns around and walks to the stairs.

* * *

Karen heard a heavy footfall at the top of the stairs.

Urgently, she whispered to Allyson, “He’s coming.”

“I’m scared.”

Karen took her daughter by the hand and led her through the archway back to the kitchen. She pointed to the opening in the floor. “Go!”

She followed Allyson down the stairs, twisting around to close the door quietly behind her, then turned the switch to reset the island above it.

* * *

At the bottom of the stairs, The Shape scans the living room, notices the hole in the closet door and checks inside. Nothing. Silence. After walking down the short hallway, The Shape finds security gates on two other rooms. Dead end.

The Shape hears a sound—

—turns suddenly, startled.

Returning to the living room, The Shape grabs a fire poker from behind the wood-burning stove. The Shape turns in a slow circle, notices unusual light shining upward in the kitchen.

Crossing through the archway, The Shape looks down at the source of the light: holes in the tile floor—bullet holes.

After setting the fire poker on top of the counter, The Shape grabs the island and rocks it, pushing and pulling…

* * *

First, Karen heard the heavy footfalls above, walking across the kitchen, the slight groan of the floorboards and joists. Then she saw a shape move past her line of sight through the bullet holes in the ceiling. Next, a heavy clank, something metallic hitting the countertop.

“What is—?” Allyson whispered anxiously.

“Shhh!” Karen motioned her daughter away from the stairs.

Just in case he…

A moment later, she heard a struggle—no, not a struggle, someone heaving a heavy weight. Wood cracked, metal creaked, straining, the ceiling above her trembling.

“Oh, no!”

“What?”

“Stay back,” Karen whispered as she scurried up the steps.

Michael had discovered their underground hiding place and was trying to knock over the kitchen island to get to them. Unless he figured out how to rotate it first, and then—

At the top of the stairs, she heard a loud squeal of metal, the tortured rumble of the damaged island rotating out of its normal position to expose the shelter door. Karen had only a second or two to recover from her mistake—she’d forgotten to lock the secret door behind them. Grabbing the knob of the slide bolt, she slammed it into the locked position just as Michael tugged it upward. The door shook against the lock housing holding it in place. But she knew it wouldn’t be enough.

Scrambling back down the steps, she picked up the Smith & Wesson revolver her mother had left on the bed for her. A last resort.

The door rocked again, then shuddered as Michael’s boot slammed on it. Still it held. For a moment, everything was quiet.

“Mom, is he—?” Allyson asked softly, a hopeful note in her voice.

Karen knew better than to think he’d give up. Her mother had certainly taught her that much in their years together.

Karen shook her head grimly, waiting…

And flinched as a heavy object slammed into the door.

Then a metal spike burst through the wood, wrenched back and forth until long cracks began to split the door panel. Not a spike, she saw, as the wrought-iron shaft dipped lower through the hole it had gouged—a fire poker.

In seconds, he ruined the integrity of the door, breaking it free of the slide lock. His hand reached down and pulled the damaged door up and out of his way.

Karen shifted her position to stand at the base of the stairs and aimed the revolver up to the dark open space above. She hadn’t noticed Allyson move to her side until her daughter’s hip pressed against hers. Knowing she should make her daughter back away, Karen swallowed hard, unable to speak. Staring at the opening above.

Any moment, he…

“Mom…?” Karen called out in a quivering voice, finding a sliver of hope inside herself, hope she thought had been snuffed out. She had always feared that when the moment ever came—if the moment ever came—she would not find within herself the power to act as her mother had, that she would freeze, never pull the trigger, paralyzed by fear or the inability to take a human life. Now she tapped into those lonely nights of self-doubt and called out, “I can’t.”

Allyson wrapped her arm around her mother’s waist.

And as the moment of self-doubt seemed to have overwhelmed Karen, The Shape appeared, framed in the opening, clutching the fire poker, looking down with soulless eyes from that ghoulish mask. Even at the bottom of the stairs, she could hear his heavy breathing, as if he wanted to inhale her fear and that of her daughter, to saturate himself with it before snuffing out their lives.

Karen whispered, “Got you.”

With her arm rock steady, she squeezed the trigger—BLAM!

The shot slammed into his chest.

He stumbled back out of view.

* * *

Standing in the shadows of the kitchen pantry with Michael’s back to her, Laurie stepped forward quietly, grimacing in pain as the fire in her bleeding abdomen flared anew. Her voice measured despite the throbbing pain, she said, “Happy Halloween, Michael.”

Wounded himself, The Shape turned toward her, fire poker in hand, but she had already closed the distance between them and, with no hesitation, plunged the large kitchen knife into his shoulder. He staggered back a step, trying desperately to regain his balance, but she was relentless, chopping downward into his flesh over and over, refusing to give him a moment’s respite from her attacks.

Somehow, he halted his retreat toward the hole in the floor and swung the fire poker like a bat, to strike her on the skull. At the last instant, she managed to duck to the side, taking only a glancing blow to the head, but she lost a step in the process, staggering backward.

As he raised the poker overhead, she dove toward him, knife outstretched. She hit him low as she fell, knocking him back, off-balance, and he toppled down the shelter stairs with a thunderous crash.

Laurie lay prone on the cool kitchen floor, the sudden silence broken only by her labored breathing…

40

Before the dark shape tumbled down through the shelter entrance, Karen had hoped a bullet to the chest was enough to stop Michael Myers, but she should have known better. A normal person would have been incapacitated by the wound. But he was anything but normal. Her mother’s subsequent struggle with Michael had been unnerving, but too brief for Karen to help. Fortunately for Karen, because in that moment of indecision, Michael hurtled violently down the stairs, limbs flailing.

Allyson shrieked in surprise. And Karen had a second, maybe two, to jump out of the way—but couldn’t move fast enough.

Michael’s legs whipped around, splitting the handrail’s middle support post in half, then his body careened down the rest of the stairs and tumbled into the tall supply shelf. As he rolled past her, one of his boots clipped the side of her knee and she fell on her rear, banged her head and lost control of the handgun. She watched helplessly as it spun across the floor and slid underneath the shelf—out of reach.

For the moment, Michael appeared stunned.

“Mom—are you—?”

“I’m fine,” Karen yelled, waving her daughter to the stairs. “Go!”

Eyes wide as she stared at Michael lying on his side, Allyson gave a quick nod and scrambled up the stairs into the kitchen.

As Karen struggled to rise, Michael heaved himself into a sitting position against the shelving unit. His right hand reached back, grabbing the edge of a shelf for support and pulling himself upright. He swayed, unsteady.

The hesitation was all the head start Karen needed.

She took a wider path around him to stay clear, but when she grabbed the lower section of the handrail, it snapped free and she nearly lost her balance. Though she recovered quickly, Michael was already lurching toward the stairs right behind her. As she ran up the steps, she felt his bloodied hand, with two fingers missing, swipe at her heel, unable to get a grip, but causing her to stumble and pitch forward. Her palm shot out, catching the edge of a tread to stop her fall. Then she shoved herself upright and continued to climb.

Halfway through the floor opening, Karen thought she’d made it to safety, but the stairs rumbled beneath her as Michael lunged forward. This time his intact right hand clamped tight around her ankle—and yanked!

Karen fell forward, her arms, head, and torso sprawled across the tile floor, while her legs remained below the shelter entrance. As Michael pulled on her ankle, tugging her inexorably down, her hands scrabbled for purchase, anything to slow her descent, but the smooth tile offered no resistance for her sweaty palms. In seconds, only her head and forearms remained above the kitchen floor. She braced her arms against the edges of the doorframe, wincing in pain from Michael’s powerful grip on her ankle.

Allyson slid forward on her knees and reached out. “Mom! Take my hand!”

With her left hand wrapped around her mother’s upper arm, and her right hand gripping her mother’s left, Allyson pulled with desperate strength. But it wasn’t enough. After a brief stalemate, Allyson faltered. Her knees slid forward, toward the opening, and her mother’s head began to dip below the level of the floor. Grimacing, Karen screamed in pain, tears in her eyes. She knew how this would end, and she refused to take her daughter down with her.

“No, baby, run!” Karen yelled.

Grunting with effort, Allyson said, “I’m not… gonna leave… you!”

But her fingers were slipping.

All Karen had to do was open her hand—

“Nobody’s going to run,” Laurie said.

She held one of the black-and-white security monitors she’d disconnected from the kitchen wall shelf, an old-fashioned CRT display about the size of a basketball.

“Duck!” Laurie told Karen.

Karen complied instantly, lowering her head between her outstretched arms.

Laurie hurled the CRT and, from the satisfying thud of the impact, hit Michael in the head with it, which was followed by another crash, as Michael fell to the bottom of the stairs for a second time. Suddenly, the pressure on Karen’s ankle was gone. Her foot dropped and caught against one of the wooden treads, and Allyson pulled with renewed strength. In a moment, Karen raced up the steps, free of the shelter.

In a flash, she turned to the askew kitchen island, reached under the counter’s edge and pushed a recessed button.

Shunnnk!

A horizontal security gate slammed into place across the opening in the floor—locking The Shape in the basement.

Seeing Allyson’s wide-eyed expression, Karen smiled and said, “It isn’t a cage, baby. It’s a trap.”

* * *

Laurie looked down through the thick bars of the locked security gate.

The Shape lay sprawled on the basement floor, unmoving—

—but breathing…

Wounded and exhausted, Laurie backed away from the gate and leaned against the counter, hand pressed to her head where the fire poker nearly split her skull open. Her shirt was soaked with her blood. The pain throbbing in her body had become an insistent drumbeat, impossible to ignore. And the last trace of adrenaline in her system had evaporated. She needed all her strength and concentration simply to stand without toppling over.

It’s not done yet, she told herself. He’s confined, that’s all. Not…

“I need to…”

“I got this, Mom,” Karen said. “Just like you taught me.”

Karen walked to the kitchen wall with a slight limp from her sore ankle, turned four wave handles to the open position. In the shelter below, four recessed natural gas faucets hissed, sounding unusually loud and powerful in the silent house.

After several seconds, Karen returned to the island beside Laurie, pulled open one of the drawers and removed a small box. “One last thing…”

“Let me,” Laurie said weakly.

She’d waited forty years for this moment. The least she could do was finish it.

Karen handed her the box.

Laurie’s hands were steady as she slid it open, took out a wooden match, and ran the head against the striking surface. She had enough strength left to focus on the final act. Leaning over the security gate, she saw Michael—lying on his back, one knee raised, breathing…

“Goodbye, Michael.”

And she dropped the lit match through the metal bars. The unlit end hit the edge of the third step, spun forward, twirling, and fell toward the floor until—

WHOOSH!

All three women, leaning over to witness the end, felt the concussive blast as flames engulfed the basement, consuming everything flammable within it. In seconds, the fire raced up the wooden stairs and begin to spread through the kitchen.

Michael will burn within my house, Laurie thought, with all the keepsakes and photos that have lingered throughout the years and, along with them, the memories that have sustained but also haunted us.

Allyson and Karen helped Laurie to the front door, one on each side of her, their arms under hers, wrapped around her back. On her own, she wouldn’t have had the strength to walk away from her own final trap. With them beside her, she thought she might just survive…

Getting down from the porch was harder than she anticipated, each step triggering a jarring burst of pain. More than once, a moan escaped her lips. But the frightening sound of the all-consuming fire, quickly rising to a roar, energized her, helped her focus on surviving the next few moments, and the next few after that…

The police cruiser that had drawn Ray out into the front yard stood next to her overturned trash cans, all four tires slashed. She caught a glimpse of the grisly scene within the car and looked away.

Karen stopped to pick up a bright yellow yo- yo lying in the brown grass. Laurie recalled Karen asking Ray in the back of the police car if he could untangle the knots for her before she took it back to the community center.

“Mom…?” Karen asked as a sob escaped Karen’s lips. “Ray—what happened…?”

“Oh, Karen,” Laurie said softly. “I’m so sorry…”

Laurie noticed silent tears streaming down Allyson’s cheeks.

As they crossed the yard, the heat from the fire shattered windows, and the porch erupted in flames. The burning roof creaked and groaned, and the twin sets of spotlights crashed through the charred wood, one side after the other, like mechanical eyes forever closed.

The three women continued walking toward the road. Even supported by her daughter and granddaughter, Laurie feared that if she stopped she’d lack the strength to move again. From a safe distance they turned back to watch the old farmhouse surrender to the inferno.

Laurie stared at the house, wondering how she felt about losing everything to the fire. But then it occurred to her that almost everything she’d lost had been saved or built in preparation for the cleansing flames. She couldn’t deny the fire its due.

More importantly, she had her daughter and granddaughter back in her life, for however long that life lasted. The fire had also freed her to be a mother again, and a grandmother, and nothing else precluded her from embracing those roles.

Wincing from a new, sharper bout of pain, Laurie reached down to her belt, where she’d slipped the kitchen knife she’d used to stab Michael before he fell into the basement. She withdrew the knife and handed it to Allyson.

And her granddaughter looked down at the bloody knife as if she had no idea what to do with the damn thing. Smiling, Laurie prayed she’d never have to find out.

“This is it…” Laurie said weakly. “Let me sit here until…”

“Mom, no!” Karen exclaimed. “We’re getting you help.”

“Grandmother, please,” Allyson said, her voice strained with emotion. “Don’t give up!”

Sagging in their arms, fighting through the pain, Laurie quirked a smile. “Strode women never do.”

“Look!” Karen yelled, waving frantically. “Someone’s coming.”

Hearing the rumble of an approaching truck, Laurie turned her throbbing head around and saw a pair of headlights zooming toward them. Allyson waved her free hand above her head as well.

The vehicle—an old red pickup—slowed and came to a stop beside them.

A gray-haired man in a plaid shirt and jeans leaned over and rolled down the passenger window. “Need a lift?”

“We need to get to the hospital,” Karen said. “Right away!”

“She’s hurt bad,” Allyson said.

“Happy to oblige, but don’t think you’ll all fit.”

“That’s okay,” Karen said. “We’ll ride in the back.”

While Allyson propped Laurie up against the side of the pickup, Karen lowered the gate, climbed up into the bed, and then helped Allyson lift Laurie up with as little jostling as possible. Even so, Laurie gasped in pain several times. Eventually, all three of them sat lined up against one side of the truck’s bed, Laurie supported on either side.

As the pickup drove down the road, veering around the police cruiser stranded in the middle, Allyson looked back one last time at the raging fire and the disintegrating skeleton of Laurie’s house.

Embracing a sense of calm she hadn’t known since she was Allyson’s age, Laurie closed her eyes…

* * *

Trapped within the basement of the burning house, The Shape rises within the encircling flames, heedless of the intense heat, and climbs the stairs even as they too burn.

Wrapping both hands around the steel bars of the trap, The Shape attacks the locked security gate with inhuman strength and fury, rattling the cage within its housing. The dark force that drives The Shape, that endlessly seeks to fulfill its purpose, does not tire or waver, does not stop or surrender—and continues to fight for the freedom to serve the purpose…

When the flesh of The Shape’s palms begins to cook against the hot metal bars, the struggle continues. When the stairs beneath The Shape begin to char and crumble, the struggle continues. When the air The Shape breathes sears The Shape’s lungs, the struggle continues. When the coveralls catch fire and the Mask begins to bubble and melt into The Shape’s hidden face, the struggle continues. And when all the flesh of The Shape’s body begins to sear and sizzle, the struggle continues…

Burned hands rattle the cage—

—breathing becomes tortured, ragged—

—burned hands continue—

—heartbeat slows—

—The Shape—

—struggles…

* * *

The rocking of the old pickup truck became hypnotic.

Lethargy crept over Allyson’s body, lulling her toward sleep.

Then the clink of metal on metal startled her awake. She looked to her left, at her grandmother’s head, tilted back against the edge of the truck bed. On the other side of Laurie, Allyson’s mother stared into the night, her face etched with grief and worry, for the loss of her husband and the life of her mother.

For a frightening moment, Allyson couldn’t tell if her grandmother was breathing. She feared Laurie had died while Allyson drifted off to sleep. Then her grandmother’s right hand reached out and covered Allyson’s left, as if to reassure Allyson she was still among the living. But her hand was cool, her grip feeble. She’d lost a lot of blood.

Allyson squeezed Laurie’s hand, willing her to stay with them and become the mother and the grandmother fate had stolen from them, but also to embrace who she was at heart, the brave woman who always fought valiantly for her life.

“Grandmother…?”

Laurie spoke softly, “Not today, kiddo.”

Allyson smiled, a lump in her throat.

Raising her right hand, which still held the source of the metallic sound that had awakened her, Allyson examined the bloody kitchen knife Laurie had presented to her. She wondered about its significance, why Laurie hadn’t thrown it away as soon as they’d escaped the burning house. After a while, the answer dawned on her.

A source of fear transmuted into a totem of strength.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special thanks to my editor, Ella Chappell at Titan Books, for her encouragement and support throughout the process, and for giving me the opportunity to write my first movie novelization. Also, at Titan Books, thanks to Valerie Gardner, Joanna Harwood, Helen Marie, Lukmon Ogunbadejo and Kiran Rihal.

Thanks to Malek Akkad, Bill Block, Jason Blum, John Carpenter, Jamie Lee Curtis, David Gordon Green, and Danny McBride at Miramax for bringing me aboard. And thanks to David Gordon Green, Danny McBride, and Jeff Fradley for the frightening and creepy screenplay! Of course, none of this would be possible without John Carpenter and Debra Hill, who gave us the terrific characters and situations from the original Halloween, the viewing of which has become a holiday tradition in our home.

For keeping me in the writing zone throughout, a note of audio thanks for Tangerine Dream’s Quantum Gate.

Finally, thanks to my family for their support and understanding while I burrowed ever deeper into the story.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John Passarella won the Horror Writers Association’s prestigious Bram Stoker Award for Superior Achievement in a First Novel for the coauthored Wither. Columbia Pictures purchased the feature film rights to Wither in a prepublication, preemptive bid.

John’s other novels include Wither’s Rain, Wither’s Legacy, Kindred Spirit, Shimmer and the original media tie-in novels Supernatural: Night Terror, Supernatural: Rite of Passage, Supernatural: Cold Fire, Supernatural: Joyride, Grimm: The Chopping Block, Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Ghoul Trouble, Angel: Avatar, and Angel: Monolith. In January 2012 he released his first fiction collection, Exit Strategy & Others. Halloween is his fourteenth novel.

A member of the Horror Writers Association, International Thriller Writers and the International Association of Media Tie-In Writers, John resides in southern New Jersey with his wife, children, and two dogs. As the owner of AuthorPromo.com, he is a web designer for many clients, primarily other authors.

John maintains his official author website at www.passarella.com, where he encourages readers to send him email at author@passarella.com and to subscribe to his free author newsletter for the latest information on his books and stories. To follow him on Twitter, see @JohnPassarella.

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TITAN BOOKS

Halloween – The Official Movie Novelization

Hardback edition ISBN: 9781789090529

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789090536

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: October 2018

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Cover Image © 2018 Universal Studios. All Rights Reserved.

© 2018 Miramax, LLC. All Rights Reserved. MIRAMAX and HALLOWEEN are the trademarks or registered trademarks of Miramax, LLC. Used under license.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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Content

John Passarella
HALLOWEEN
THE OFFICIAL MOVIE NOVELIZATION

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Newsletter

Copyright