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No one in their right God damn mind would step a single foot into the Myers old house. That thing lingered over Haddonfield like a bad dream. The people that could remember little Mikey Myers slaughtering his sister would dip their heads down to the ground when they drove past. Kids had all but forgotten the horrors of Michael Myers that loomed over them and threatened to resurface every Halloween.
They didn't even relax when you had plucked the keys out of the sheriff's hand, and moved everything in. A sunny, friendly smile did nothing to warm their icy disposition.
It's not like you need them anyways. You have plenty of friends at the office, as distant as they may be at times, they were a positive social interaction. At least, they weren't exactly a negative interaction. Things aren't always pleasant, but you never found yourself exactly wanting to smack staples into their heads like some of the guys at college did.
"God," you think to yourself, stuffing your wallet and keys into your coat pocket. "I'm so pathetic."
Because the only person you are really close to is a psychotic serial killer who, despite the police's best effort, still hadn't caught. Cold, emotionless, silent, and very likely to turn at any minute and plunge a kitchen knife into your chest.
And this is the man you found yourself hopelessly in love with, and balanced a strenuous relationship with. He had kissed you first, after all. And he didn't exactly oppose when you kissed him over his mask, or lean against him.
But Michael is a very special case, so you couldn't have expect things to go like you expected a typical relationship to. I mean for Christ sake, since your first kiss five months ago you could hardly get past first base.
The furthest you had gone is french kissing on the couch. He had been like a statue, but got up and left the instant you started to grind against him.
Tomorrow is Halloween, and you know Michael is going to go out slumming Laurie as far as he can make it in a night.
She has gone into hiding, of course, so that’s out of the question, but the hapless people of the next town over aren't. After all, he can't do much in Haddonfield when Loomis sits parked outside of the house.
You had invited him in one year, but he had smashed your favorite mug on the floor and grabbed at you when you insinuated that Michael isn't a complete monster. Now you just passed out candy and peered at him from between gauzy curtains.
Sometimes you wish Michael would give up his hunt for Laurie, just for one year. You know you can never change him, and while the news reports of murder unsettles you, it doesn’t bother you as much as it should. Michael will never be a normal person, you’ve accepted this, but there are times when you wish you could breach his walls.
You really hate having to walk home this time of year, but there had been an incident with Michael a few weeks ago with your car that had left it smashed in the middle of the street (something about being left in neutral, but you always were sure to put it in park at night). It's not like your office was the best part of town either. Haddonfield is overall peaceful, but there has been a string of disappearances as of lately that local law enforcement want to link to human trafficking.
You shudder, and pull your coat around yourself tighter as you step outside. Living with Michael makes you wary of all eyes on you. But the station wagon that you see parked outside, with a kindly looking older lady behind the wheel, doesn't set anything off. It is only Mrs. Stanford, who works as a receptionist at the office.
She has been following you home for the last couple of nights, and was probably just making sure you make it home safe. She fusses when you come into work without a scarf, or lunch. It is just in her nature.
She rolls down the passenger window. "Sweetie, I know you're not the type to ask, but I insist I drive you home. It's too chilly for you to be walking home tonight."
With a terse smile, you can't find a reason to turn her down. Your feet and back ache like something fierce, so you aren't exactly looking forward to the hour walk home. ESPECIALLY when Michael found it fit to nab your mittens. You climb in, buckle in, and you’re off.
Her cab is toasty, and smells like pine needles, and something chemically sweet, like a frosting scented candle. She doesn't say much, and just stares ahead, smiling. "You have any plans for Halloween darling?" she asks after a long stretch of silence.
You hum, and fiddle your thumbs in your lap. "Not really. Just passing out candy. That doctor, Loomis, is probably going to be lurking around, AGAIN. I might rent that Invasion of the Body Snatchers remake, or just flip through TV and see if they're playing Psycho," you chuckle. “What about you? Any movie plans?”
"That sounds like such a relaxing evening. Though, I don’t have the stomach for those kinds of movies. Oh I’m probably just going to pass out candy with the ladies from my book group." She leans forward, trying to get a better look into the dark side street she pulls into.
You furrow your eyebrows. The power in this part of town must have gone out. You don't have any time to react when a hand darts out from the backseat, covering the lower half of your face with a cloth. You suck in a breath of something that smells disgustingly sweet, and instinctively claw at the hand, digging your nails in deep.
Mrs. Stanford drives on as if there is nothing wrong, humming cheerfully over the muffled sounds of you crying out for help. You try swiping for her, but she grips your wrist without taking her eyes off the road and squeezes harshly enough for your bones to clack and a scream to rip out of your throat.
It drags on for a torturous five minutes before your vision starts to go sideways and darkens.
When you wake up, you're missing everything but your undershirt and boxers, but your shirt is on inside out. There's a cloth shoved into your mouth, and your hands are bound roughlyly with coarse rope. Everything swims, and you can't stop yourself from crying out for Michael.
The only person in the room is the hazy image of Mrs. Stanford, who is taken aback slightly by your sudden waking, wrapping rope around your ankles. Without thinking much either, you swing your entire weight into hitting her on the head with your bound hands.
It's enough for you to knee her in the jaw, and get a good enough grip on reality to grab her by the hair, and smash her head on the concrete floor enough to stop her from moving, but not for her to stop breathing.
On the table where there lay camera equipment and the rest of your clothes is a thick envelope with your name on it. It’s the only thing you think to grab before running for an exit.
You clamber up the staircase you see, ramming your shoulder against the door at the top when it wouldn't give way. Then again, you just may not have been able to get your fingers working. You fall to the floor when you break through, and run through the house. You pause in the living room with a few people in it.
As soon as one stands up, lecherous grin on their face, and hand moving for what looks like a cattle prod, you launch yourself through the nearest window window. Adrenaline keeps you pumping your legs, dashing through the unfamiliar front yard in a dilapidated neighborhood.
There’s only one house you can see with lights on closes the curtain when you frantically look their way.
Some of the people are already moving out the front door, so you push yourself as hard as you can through the haze of drugs still clouding your mind. You just run for the bright lights in the distance, and don't look back. Ever the while your stomach tears itself up wanting everything out out out.
You finally make it to a main street, but the police are the last thing on your mind. A distant clock chimes 3am, so it's not like there would be anyone. All you can think of is home, and is of Michael. Scary, sweet Michael that can keep you safe.
With your balance starting to wane, you keep running, headed in the way you know is home. It would have normally have taken you an hour to walk there, but pushing your body as far as it can go, it only take fifteen minutes before you're in front of 707 Meridian Avenue, only a dim light on in the living room.
Keys are out of the question, who the hell knew where those were. You ram your body against the front door until it gives way, splinting and hanging off a hinge. The distant thought of getting something sturdier follows you while you stumble into the bathroom, uncoordinated and slamming into walls.
You don't know which way is which, all you care about is getting off the duct tape, and ripping out the sweet smelling cloth. The toilet seat cradles your face as you retch into it uncontrollably.
Distantly, you can hear heavy footfall from the stairs, and you grip the envelope in your hands tighter. The sobs coming out make you throw up harder.
Heaving and crying, you can see Michael standing in doorway out of the corner of your eyes. You rest your face against the cool toilet seat to look at him.
He's under dressed as well. Sans coveralls, wearing a form fiting black t-shirt, a pair of boxers you bought him after you found out he only owned one pair. Most shocking of all was his mask, which he had never let you be privy to seeing him without.
God, if nausea wasn't roiling up inside you, you would sit back and admire how handsome and fit he is. Brown hair partially pushed back out of his face, a scar over a cloudy eye, an unsurprising stone like visage, and those plush pink, pink chapped lips.
It is only when he sees the grazes on your body, the rope knotted snugly around your wrists, and your unfocused gaze, that his eyes widen slightly, and his lips parts. His hands ball into fists and tremble harder than your body is.
You can't get any words to make their way out of your mouth, only half formed cries and choked sobs. Your tongue feels like a dead lump of flesh in your mouth.
Michael kneels down next to you, hitting the floor with a solid thump. His calloused hands unfurl and tug your hands into his lap, where he methodically and carefully unknots the rope around your wrists. He doesn't look at you, only focuses on freeing you.
Once you're released, he picks up the crumpled envelope, tilting his head to the side as he tears it open. Polaroids that are just as ruined spill out across his lap. Each one containing an image of your unconscious, nude body is various voyeuristic and invasive shots.
As you hide your face from him, Michael goes still. He grips one of your ankles, and tugs you closer to him, letting the photographs flutter to the floor. His throat vibrates, as if he was going to say something, but he presses his lips into a thin line, instead tracing something onto your ankle.
- U. R. T. M. I. N. E. E. N. D.
It takes a good amount of your focus to heave your body against his torso. You tuck your head under his chin. You try to mutter out an objection, but all that comes out is a strained wheeze and a whole lot more tears for your effort.
Michael sits there for a few moments, not moving from your side, but seemingly not reacting to anything going on in front of him.
Then he suddenly stands. You can hear him stomp up the stairs, and slam a door shut.
Moments later, Loomis cautiously peers in bathroom, eyes searching in the darkness, pistol gripped in his hand. Next to him is your neighbor, Mr. Wen. When his eyes and on your form, he rushes to your side. "Dear, when I saw your front door busted open, I had assumed the worst-"
You try pulling yourself up, but your limbs are too weak, and if it hadn't been for Loomis catching you, you would have collapsed to the floor. "Lets get you to the hospital, alright?"
You shake your head violently, and put your hands on the vanity to help steady yourself. You were quickly becoming dead weight, and Loomis wasn't exactly in his prime.
"Do not worry, Biyu has already called for the police. They are on their way," assures Mr. Wen, swooping in to take you from Loomis. He leads you to the kitchen, sitting you down and getting you a glass of water. Loomis takes the seat across from you, clasping your hand between his. "It's entirely unlike Michael to toy with someone like this, and on the day before Halloween too!"
You shake your head again. "Not... Wasn't Michael. Mrs. Stanford... A-and the people..." Tears start welling up in your eyes, and your hide yourself in your arms.
Mr. Wen sits next to you and grips your other hand. "We will stay with you as long as you need us."
Under the threat of Michael Myers, it isn't long before the police arrive in full force.
Apparently, that neighborhood wasn't abandoned as you originally thought, because the sight of a half naked person, hands bound and gagged, busting out of a window and sprinting down the street caused enough concern for someone to call the police.
Almost everyone in that house had been been caught before they could gather themselves, including an unconscious Mrs. Stanford. Even though you only saw them for a fleeting second, you could provide a good enough description of the others that managed to escape for the police to hunt them down.
They really didn't want to leave you all alone, especially with, after they tested, chloroform in your system. Then again, they couldn't hospitalize you against your will when you still had some of your wits still about you, and Loomis and Mr. Wen vouching for you.
The photos of you had been taken as evidence, but the sheriff couldn't exactly look you in the eyes after collecting them. He had seen all sorts of things, but he had seen you grow up.
Mr. Wen and his wife promised to come in to check on you periodically, and Loomis sat parked in front of your house, right behind the police cruiser that has been stationed there.
When all of the commotion has died down, you are left lying on the couch, the TV tuned to Psycho and turned down low, still trying to collect yourself. The EMT had patched you up, and given you something to flush your system, but your mind was still in a haze, and your body doesn't 100% want to listen to what you wanted to do.
But still, you pull yourself up, and climb up the stairs to your bedroom. All you want is to curl up and forget any of this had ever happened. It was just a bad dream. That was all.
When you tug open your bedroom door, you come face to face with the tall, lithe wall of muscle that is Michael Myers. He still hasn't put on his coveralls, or his mask.
His face is still as neutral and stone like as ever, but his hair seems more tousled than it was earlier, his eyes more puffed and tinged pink. He can practically see the image of him sitting on the bed, fingers pulling at his hair and repressing everything else.
He wraps his arms around your shoulders, gently holding you to his chest, as if you were a humming bird fluttering in palm. He's as stiff and stock still as normal, but with your head pressed firmly to his chest you can hear his heart thudding like he has just run a marathon.
In a fleeting moment of vulnerability, he presses his face to the top of your head and squeezes his eyes shut. There's that same deep rumbling in his throat, but nothing comes out of his mouth.
You clutch at the back of his t-shirt, yours knees starting to give out. He keeps a tight grip on you, and peddles backwards into bed, pulling you down with him.
Michael is always rigid in bed when he falls asleep. Almost like a corpse, once he was passed out there was no moving him. He's the same now, on his back, but holds you against his body.
"Mikey," your voice cracks when you call out to him. He despises that name, but when he hears it, he opens his eyes and looks down at you. You could always see his eyes through his mask, but here and now, unmasked, you can see them clearly, see everything about him clearly.
He's just as cold and stoic as he is with his mask but, but somehow he looks softer, and you're reminded how young he is. When he had first killed in Haddonfield, you were just starting your senior year of college, giving you a year over him. He has an old soul, and eyes that are eternal, and it was so easy to forget that if he had never killed his sister, had never been institutionalized, he would be starting his senior year of college.
You wiggle your arms from him, wrapping them tightly around him, and bury your face into his neck. If the wetness from your eyes smearing against bare skin bothers him, he doesn't let on to it.
Michael holds you through the rest of the night, you awake and crying in his arms until you pass out when the light of dawn breaks through the window.
It is Halloween, and Michael doesn't want to be anywhere else but right here, or do anything else but hold you close.