Halloween

by Curtis Richards

  “Get out of here, Goddamn it. Get out of here before I...”

  The first slash of the knife caught her on the wrist, splashing blood across her chest and legs. She looked at the wound with more surprise than pain. She couldn't believe it was happening.

  Then she realized.

  She jumped to her feet and backed away to the wall, knocking over her chair. “What are you doing? What are you doing?” she cried. As he raised the blade again, she held her hand out to protect herself. He slashed the hand viciously, and it dropped limply to her side. Now she was shrieking insanely as she grasped what was happening. He plunged the knife into her right breast, and a great gout of scarlet blood spurted out of the wound and soaked his hand and wrist. He thrust the blade into her belly. At what point she died, he didn't know, for now that she was defenseless he stuck the knife into her again and again, jamming it into her breasts, belly, groin, arms, legs, and throat. He stabbed her fifty times if he stabbed her once, exultation sweeping over him like no joy he had ever known.

  The paroxysms began to die down and he stood over her, spent. It was almost impossible to recognize this piece of hacked flesh. Blood was everywhere, and the sour odor of it rose up from his hands, intoxicating him.

  The gory little figure turned and stepped over the fallen furniture and scattered clothing and walked down the stairs and into the kitchen. Suddenly he realized he was hungry. He reached into a bowl on the kitchen counter and stuffed a cookie into his mouth, then opened the refrigerator door and removed a bottle of milk. He emptied half of it into his mouth with his bloody sleeve, leaving a streak of red and white across his cheek.

  He opened the side door and went outside, still carrying the butcher knife. He stepped out onto the lawn and stood there for a minute indecisively.

  At that moment, a dark sedan pulled up to the curb. The assassin made no attempt to flee, but stood on the lawn waiting for the occupants of the car to get out. After a moment both front doors opened and a man and woman emerged. They took two or three paces toward the house, then saw him and stopped, staring at the figure in the bloodstained clown costume with a blood-clotted butcher knife in his hand.

  The man reached out and removed the mask from the boy's face.

  “Michael...?”

  Chapter 4

  They didn't know what to call him, and they didn't know what to do with him.

  He wasn't a man, so he couldn't be tried for murder. He wasn't even an adolescent. And although the law respecting juveniles was broad enough to cover a six-year-old boy, it didn't seem appropriate that laws designed to handle vicious teenage punks, muggers, purse snatchers, and car thieves, should apply to him. To look at him, during the hearing before the magistrate, was to see a handsome, almost pretty, rosy-cheeked little lad in a neat tweed suit, a tie, and highly polished shoes.

  His eyes were warm, his smile genuine, and when he spoke it was with artless sincerity. In fact, more than one newspaper report described him as “charming.”

  Yet the boy had, by his own admission, stabbed his sister thirty-one times at least, the coroner testified. Probably more.

  The magistrate concluded that the boy was either mad or lying. He questioned the little fellow very closely about whether some other person had done the deed and thrust the blade into the child's hand. But the boy's insistence on his story, and the absence of any other evidence – despite the fact that poor Danny, Judy's lover, was treated very roughly by police detectives, and came within an ace of being accused – compelled the magistrate to declare it an act of madness.

  Yet, knowing what sort of place the boy would be sent to, and what sort of people he would be thrown in with, the magistrate agonized over the verdict that would deliver Michael into the hands of those howling maniacs and their gangster keepers that he had seen with his own eyes on a recent official visit to the downstate center at Smith's Grove.

  Looking ashen and exhausted, he reconvened the hearing a week later. “Ladies and gentlemen of the court, in forty-two years as a loyal servant of the law and of this court, I have never been asked to make as remotely cruel a decision as the one I am now compelled to make. Even as I speak I am aware that I'm struggling to keep my eyes from gazing upon the accused in this bizarre episode, for I know that if I do, I may falter in my duty. Nevertheless, absent any evidence to the contrary, absent any witnesses, absent any other person to come forth with a confession, absent any contradiction in the child's story, absent any regret on the part of the accused, and above all, absent any sense of right or wrong, which is the foundation of the law with respect to the criminally insane – I have no choice but to remand Michael Audrey Myers to the Smith's Grove Sanitarium in Warren County, Illinois, where he shall be placed in the care of a resident psychiatrist who shall report to this court regularly. His case shall be reviewed no less than twice a year, and upon recommendation of the psychiatrist the boy may be released back into the custody of his parents.

  “Although it is impossible for me to conceive a lengthy stay for Michael, whose brutal act I believe to have been the product of a passing madness that I hope has discharged itself forever from his system, I am obliged to cite the law concerning criminally insane minors, namely, that at the age of twenty-one they must be brought before a magistrate for a criminal proceeding.

  “If Michael is still at Smith's Grove fifteen years hence, he shall be brought before the court on the day of his twenty-first birthday, where he shall be tried as an adult for the murder of Judith Margaret Myers.

  “I have,” he said, holding up a sheaf of papers, “prepared a list of supplementary instructions for the care of Michael at Smith's Grove, in the hope that the problems that exist in such institutions shall not damage his chances of returning to society as a normal, healthy, fully functional human being. This court is dismissed.”

  He rose, and the courtroom, which was composed almost exclusively of newspaper reporters, rose with him. He pivoted and, still averting his eyes from the boy he had just sentenced to the living death of an insane asylum, passed through the rear door of the courtroom. Michael's parents sobbed as the boy was led out of the room by a stern-looking matron, and even the normally tough-skinned reporters, who had seen everything, looked wan and reflective.

  One observer, however, was unaffected. Sam Loomis, a round-faced man with a goatee and a head shaved bald, had been staring penetratingly at the accused boy. In all his years as a clinical psychiatrist, he had heard and read about such cases but had never observed one personally, and so the Myers case had interested him keenly – particularly because Loomis was the resident in charge of juveniles a Smith's Grove. Like everyone else, Loomis had been deeply touched by the angelic appearance and manner of the little boy until, as the boy was reciting the events of the evening of October 31, 1963, his eyes had happened to lock with Loomis's. The man felt a chilly forbodding that almost curdled his blood...

  Six months had passed since the hearing, and, as required by law, Loomis now appeared before Judge Christopher in the magistrate's chambers. As they sipped glasses of port, Loomis noted how much the judge seemed to have aged. Loomis tactfully said something to this effect.

  “It disturbed me deeply then, and it disturbs me no less deeply now. It haunts my waking hours and my sleep. I don' think I've ever done anything so difficult in my life. But what could I have done? What would you have done? How is he?”

  “He is... fine. Of course, in my professional capacity, 'fine' must be defined...”

  “Please, no psychiatric rubbish, Loomis. Just tell me about his behavior in plain terms.”

  “In plain terms? He has done nothing, to our direct knowledge, that would indicate anything else but normality.”

  “Direct knowledge?”

  “Judge Christopher,” Loomis said, rising to his feet and distractedly running his fingers over the red and beige bound legal volumes on the judge's shelves, “there have been some peculiar and unpleasant occurrences at Smith's Grove in the last six months. Parti
cularly in the juvenile ward.”

  The judge leaned forward. “Like what!”

  “Well, first of all, you have to understand that as Michael is by far – maybe eight or nine years – the youngest patient in the ward, he would ordinarily be the subject of a great deal of bullying yes?”

  “I should imagine so.”

  “Well, there hasn't been any attempt whatsoever. Not so much as a pinch.”

  The magistrate stroked his cheek. “And what do you make of that?”

  “The same thing you do, I'm sure. They're afraid of him. I have seen him turn the hardest delinquent in the ward to stone with a stare.”

  The judge digested it. “And this is all you have to say? You feel this is sufficient reason for me to extend his incarceration...”

  “Then there was the matter of Gilden, the trustee. Gilden is known around the ward for his pranks. The children love him; he's the only breath of fresh air in the place. One day, about a month after Michael's arrival, old Gilden played one of his harmless practical jokes on the boy – one I've seen countless times.”

  “What was that?”

  “Oh, he loosened the cap on the salt shaker, so that Michael salted his dinner, the contents of the shaker fell into his food. As usual, it got a big laugh. It has become practically an initiation ceremony for the youngsters at the hospital.”

  “And...?”

  “Michael didn't think it was funny.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Nothing, at the time. But that night, Gilden came down with a case of cramps so severe he had to have his stomach pumped. It was analyzed as food poisoning.”

  “But you think...?”

  “Yes, though I don't know how the boy might have gotten to the kitchen or what he could have used. The juvenile ward is separated from the kitchen by a series of guarded or locked passages.”

  “I see. Anything else?”

  “Nothing quite as tangible. But the other boys in my charge have become... well, rather restless since Michael's arrival. Like a herd of cattle that instinctively feels the presence of wolves out there in the darkness. They always seem to be on the verge of bolting. Stampeding.”

  The judge looked at him. “Dr. Loomis, I think you know how profoundly unnerved this matter has made me, and how desperately interested I am in seeing Michael treated and released. I'm not overly impressed by the observations you've made this morning, and it's only your reputation that keeps me from making some rather critical remarks. Now, I want to know if the boy sticks to his story, understands what he did, feels remorseful, feels purged of the murderous hatred he described to us at the hearing, that sort of thing.”

  “Judge,” said Loomis, collapsing into a leather chair, “the boy's story and attitude haven't changed a whit since the hearing, though I have spent nearly two hours a day with him every day for six months. I have nothing to go on but my experience and my hunches, and I tell you out of the depths of all I have learned and observed in fifteen of exploration of the human mind, Michael Myers may be the most dangerous person I have ever handled.”

  Loomis's crystal blue eyes locked with Christopher's and held them for a long moment.

  Then the judge pulled his gaze away and quaffed down the rest of his port nervously. “Damn it, Loomis, I cannot run my court on hunches, hearsay, coincidences, or anything but hard evidence. So unless you can come up with something, something he says, something he doe, I am going to seriously entertain the boy's release the next time you appear before me. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Loomis breathed, taking his leave with no ceremony whatever.

  In the following months there were more “occurrences,” and in Loomis's mind there was no doubt whom to ascribe them to. Every time Michael was slighted, or fancied he was, by a staff member or another inmate, some awful vengeance was visited upon the offending person. It might be a day, a week, a month later, but Michael got even.

  The problem for Loomis was that no one ever observed the boy doing it directly. One day, as the boys were watching television in the lounge, a fifteen-year-old got up and turned the sound lower. Michael rose and turned it up again. The other boy turned it lower again. Michael accepted the situation with a resigned shrug.

  That evening, as the older boy showered, the water turned scalding. The lad was harmed only enough to discomfort him for a week, but it could have been serious, and everyone knew who was behind it. Yet apparently Michael had not left his room.

  There were other incidents. A nurse who quarreled with Michael fell down the stairs two days later, fracturing her pelvis. A boy who borrowed a game from Michael and forgot to return it suffered a vicious rash that hospitalized him for a month.

  What doubly disturbed Loomis was that subtly but definitely, the boy was capturing the leadership of the juvenile ward, because no one dared to challenge him. Everyone, staff and inmates alike, indulged him, and so he pretty much got his way.

  Loomis wondered when his own turn would come, but it never did, and he believed it was because no matter how much Loomis challenged the boy, no matter how much he thwarted him, Michael knew that Loomis was trying to help him. The boy grudgingly acknowledged Loomis's authority, and that, Loomis concluded, was probably, the only thing that prevented Michael from walking scot-free out of the institution. “You could, you know,” Loomis aid to him one afternoon during their regular therapy session. “That's how much they fear you. If you were to ask an orderly for keys, ask a guard or trustee to turn his back at the appropriate moment, you could stroll out of here, such is the power you exert over them. Isn't that true Michael!”

  The boy's eyes clouded and he shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know what you mean, sir.”

  “Ah, but you won't do it,” Loomis said, almost smugly. “You won't do it because you have it made here. Here you have your own little world. If you were to escape, why, what would await you out there but strife and hassle? So you stay here, snug and secure, isn't that true, you little dev-----?

  Loomis caught himself. No matter what he believed, it was unprofessional to express it that way, and besides, when you got right down to it, no one had ever seen the kid do anything to anybody.

  Which is why, at this outburst of Loomis's frustration, Michael simply fluttered his long eyelashes, smiled, and said, “I don't understand, Dr. Loomis.”

  Loomis dreaded his next six-month review of Michael's case with Judge Christopher, because if Loomis couldn't produce any hard evidence of wrongdoing on Michael's part, the judge might very well order his release.

  So it went, through the summer and early fall. Then, one day in mid-October, at the end of another fruitless therapy session, Michael dropped a bomb.

  “Can we have a Halloween party, Dr. Loomis?”

  Loomis's eyes all but bulged out of their sockets. “A Halloween party! You of all people...”

  “All the other kids think it would be a wonderful idea. So does Nurse Kramer, and Dr.

  Martin said he'd have no objection.”

  “Nurse Kramer and Dr. Martin are my subordinates, and they...”

  “Are you sure you don't want us to have one?” Michael asked. His feelings were clearly very strong.

  “Of course I'm...” He caught himself in mid-sentence, and suddenly he realized a Halloween party might be just the thing. A plan formed in his mind, and after a moment's reflection he said, “Well, actually, I see no harm.”

  The mere announcement of the party proved therapeutic for most of the boys in the ward as they set to work industriously to create costumes and decorations. The costumes they chose were revealing their deepest fantasies, and this was an unexpected bonus for the psychiatric staff who might otherwise have had to probe for months into their minds for the same material.

  In the last week before Halloween, Michael began to get restless and excited, edgy and irascible. Loomis was well aware of the psychiatric phenomenon known as the “anniversary syndrome,” wherein mentally disturbed persons relive the events
of the previous year's trauma. Michael seemed to be following this classic pattern, and on the evening of October 31, Loomis placed the staff on what he only half-jokingly called red alert. The children (the girl's ward had been allowed to join the boys for the occasion) were to be carefully observed, and Loomis wanted two staff members besides himself to do nothing else but watch Michael. Loomis needed not only an incident, but witnesses.

  The children were led into a little gymnasium, where black and orange streamers had been festooned, and cutouts of witches and goblins, black cats and pumpkins made by the children had been taped to the walls. The children wore their costumes, and even the nurses and orderlies donned clever masks, hats, or costumes to join in the fun.

  Michael was dressed as a clown.

  After cake and soda, the games began. For obvious reasons, they were kept simple and non-threatening. But after a round of musical chairs, in which a sixteen-year-old girl named Sophie had beaten Michael out for the last chair (had she known about the boy's reputation, she'd have given it to him), Loomis leaned forward alertly, scrutinizing Michael. The stage had been set for something.

  The next game was ducking for apples. A huge vat had been borrowed from the kitchen, filled with water, and a dozen apples floated in it. The idea was for the children to pick an apple out of the water using just your teeth.

  After eight or nine children had gone, it was Sophie's turn. Michael stood third or fourth in line behind her. She leaned over the lip of the vat, struggling to keep her hands behind her back to resist the temptation to grab the apple.

  The Lights went out.

  It was not uncommon for the lights to fail at Smith's Grove, especially on windy nights, when trees fell on power lines in rural areas. But it was not a windy night.

  Loomis had been prepared for anything but this. He leapt from his chair and ran in the pitch darkness for the spot where he thought the vat was. He bowled over several shrieking children and groped the last few steps until he collided with the platform on which the vat stood. At that moment the hospital's own emergency generators, which tripped on automatically when the main utility system failed, brought light back into the auditorium.