Chapter Text
These eyes will deceive you. They will destroy you. They will take your innocence, pride, and eventually your soul from you. These eyes do not see what you and I see. Behind these eyes, one finds only blackness, the absence of light. These are the eyes of a psychopath. Michael Aubrey Myers was created by a perfect alignment of interior and exterior factors gone violently wrong. A perfect storm, if you will. Thus creating a psychopath that knows no boundaries, and has no boundaries.
Yet,...I loved him so much. Like a son. How ironic, isn't it?
A ten-year-old boy is wrongly accused of the tragic murders of his mother, older sister, and infant sister. In reality, the crimes were committed by his stepfather. Some believed in a desperate act, he attempted to take his own life but survived. Subsequently, he was committed to Smith's Grove Mental Institution. Despite the darkness of his past and the terror that now surrounds him, I found myself deeply attached to him. My obsession to help him grew, even as he seemed to become the embodiment of my darkest fears—a being consumed by malevolence and driven to destroy all life. Yet, paradoxically, my feelings for him only deepened amidst the growing terror.
I remember the day I first met him vividly. He sat motionless in his confined room, his gaze fixed on the barred window. His expression was hauntingly vacant, a profound emptiness that seemed impenetrable. Despite my efforts, I couldn't find a way to reach through to him or offer any comfort.
Yet I've failed.
The news reported that on that night of Halloween, 1963, he was found in the house, still wearing the clown costume he wore for trick-or-treating, cradling the dead and bloody bodies of his deceased mother, Deborah Myers, his older sister, Judith Myers, and his baby sister, Angel Myers. He held them close, crying out in loud, manic grief, desperately refusing to let the police or ambulance take them from his arms. As they eventually loaded the bodies into the ambulance and covered them with sheets, his cries gradually faded. Once filled with mourning, his face grew stony and expressionless, and the tragic sounds gave way to an eerie, unending silence.
He was admitted to Smith's Grove, and my mission was to get him to talk and find a way to help him. However, it felt as though I was speaking to a wall rather than a person. He would stare blankly at his hands, as if still seeing the blood of his family on them, lost in haunting visions. I wondered if he saw them even in his dreams. He refused to utter a single word, offering no insight or communication. The more he remained silent, the longer he stayed at Smith's Grove, ultimately sentenced to remain there indefinitely.
And in that moment, I knew I had failed him.
Fifteen years had passed, and that same little boy who had lost everything had grown into a man who remained as emotionless and silent as ever. My fear of him only intensified with each encounter as he continued wearing the masks he had made over the years as if they were his true face. Despite my efforts over the years, I was never able to break through his wall of silence. As I prepared to say my final goodbyes, I hoped for some sign of emotion—anything to reassure me that the person before me was still a human being and not a soulless entity. Facing my failures, I was left to confront the evil that had emerged from that fateful Halloween night.
Yet, I knew at that moment I had failed him.
That very night, as I left, evil and revenge were unleashed. Michael escaped from Smith's Grove, murdering all the staff without sparing any of them, despite whatever pleas they might have made. That same night, he killed four mechanics and a truck driver, stealing one of the mechanics' coveralls to conceal his identity. Under the full moon, he lurked in the shadows, continuing his killing spree as a grim celebration of his escape and his newfound freedom.
On that same night, he claimed more victims, most of them teenagers, and ever since I have tried to find him and to stop him, but he seemed to vanish as a ghost. As dawn approached, he disappeared, vanishing until the night of Halloween.
On Halloween night, a disturbing series of events unfolded. Numerous trick-or-treaters reported seeing a shadowy figure, and in a deserted Halloween store, a worker was found murdered and a mask stolen. This incident marked the beginning of a terrifying spree, escalating the evil that had been unleashed.
His killing spree grew increasingly brutal, with crime scenes so horrifying that even seasoned officers struggled to endure them. The bloodshed was immense, pooling larger than mere puddles. On that same Halloween night, despite a thorough search of Haddonfield by the police, Michael Myers eluded capture. Witnesses reported seeing a towering figure in the shadows, masked with a pale, ghostly face, clad in a black coverall suit. The figure would vanish in an instant when spotted.
One notable witness was Angus Taylor, a cemetery caretaker. He described seeing the masked figure through the misty fog, holding a blood-stained butcher knife in one hand and a bag of candy in the other. The figure approached a family monument, gently placing the candies on the grave. Taylor observed the figure kneeling in a poignant display of grief, embracing the stone as if mourning lost loved ones.
After that night, Michael Myers vanished without a trace for the rest of the year. Yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that he would return, his malevolent presence lingering in the shadows.
I searched tirelessly, summoning all the courage I had to explore his abandoned and decaying home—the only place he had ever known. Despite my thorough investigation, he was nowhere to be found. Yet, I still find myself haunted by lingering questions and doubts. I can’t shake the unsettling thought that, from some distant vantage point, he might've been watching me.
Yet, I still failed him.
Now, as I lie here alone in my hospital bed, feeling my heart slowing to a halt and my body growing stiff in the encroaching darkness, I am painfully aware that my time is drawing to a close. All I can think about is you, Michael. I feel I have failed you. Despite my efforts to reach you, I fell short. I wish I could have done more for you. But the reality is, I have failed.
I fear this will be the last time you'll hear from me, and perhaps the last time you'll see me. As Halloween approaches, I know you will emerge from the shadows, driven by rage and pain over the loss of your family. I plead with you, Michael—no matter how deep your fury runs, spare at least one life. Let one person survive the approaching night of October and the night of Halloween.
Farewell, Michael. Farewell. Remember, my boy…I love…
He crept silently into the hospital room, his eyes fixed on Loomis, who lay still and breathless in his bed. Emerging from the shadows, he approached the bed and saw Loomis, pale and lifeless, resembling his victims. Clutching the knife tightly, its handle grew warm from his grip. Hearing the approaching footsteps of nurses, he retreated into the shadows, observing as they entered and wheeled his psychiatrist Dr. Samuel Loomis away.
He would soon leave the Haddonfield hospital to find a victim to kill.