Halloween 2

by Jack Martin

  Janet bent over it.

  Mr. Garrett's body was sprawled face-down where he had fallen amid an expanding puddle of darkness. The claw of the hammer was embedded in what had been his cranium. The darkness had flowed out of him, surrounding his head in a thickening blot before it stopped spurting, grew cold and began to congeal.

  Janet shrieked.

  She tore out of the room and down the hall, her face melting.

  "Help! It's Mr. Garrett! Someone, please! Anyone! Help me now!"

  No answer. Only the uneven blotches of the walls rushing past her, the windows of the wards dark as hollow eye sockets.

  "A phone! Oh, please . . . Dr. Mixter, yes!" Ahead, the doctor's office.

  A green ribbon of light from a desk lamp shining under the door.

  Janet darted inside and threw the bolt.

  "Dr. Mixter, please hurry! I need you! First Laurie Strode—we couldn't find her pulse, and then . . . oh, doctor, you've got to hurry! There's been a terrible—"

  Empty office.

  Except for the steam that was rising under the door to the inner study.

  The sound of running water.

  She crossed the outer office and threw open the door.

  The bathroom was open, awash in red steam under the infrared heat lamps. The shower was running full blast. Water rich as blood spread across the floor toward her feet.

  She stepped back, her hands to her face, hysterical.

  To the side, adjoining the bathroom, a chair. Clothes, shoes, socks draped over it. Beyond that a desk. Another chair, a swivel chair—

  Dr. Mixter, back to her, his skin pale and green in the light from his aquarium. Within the tank the model of a diver hung suspended by an air line over a little plastic treasure chest. Each time the diver leaned forward a stream of bubbles was released from under the lid, striking his face mask and knocking him upright again. The effect was serene at first glance. Then an insane-looking eel came poking out from behind a lava rock, its beady eyes a crenelated orange in the ultraviolet. Dr. Mixter seemed to be deep in meditation, transfixed before this submerged seascape.

  Janet averted her eyes and came up to the desk.

  "Excuse me, Dr. Mixter. I—I'm sorry, but you've got to help. There's been a terrible—Dr. Mixter?"

  Impulsively she leaned across the desk, touched his bare shoulder with one finger. The chair rotated.

  Dr. Mixter turned to face her. He had not fallen asleep. One eye was open. The other—

  A hypodermic needle was stuck several inches into the center of his right eyeball.

  Janet flew backwards from the sight, and straight into a pair of powerful, waiting arms.

  One huge hand gagged her mouth. One huge hand obstructed her eyes. A blur of plastic. A scarred thumb flipped the cap off a fresh needle. Forced the plunger back. Loading it with air.

  Janet kicked until her shoes fell off. Her scream was gurgling, like a scream from deep underwater.

  The needle swooped in front of her. Her eyes contorted shut. Time stopped. She opened them. The needle had moved out of range.

  She tried to twist aside.

  The long needle drove all the way into her temple.

  Her eyes bulged and rolled white.

  When the twitching subsided and she hung limp in his arms, the tall shape released her. She dropped like a heavy doll.

  The shape stood there for a moment while another round of bubbles was released from within the aquarium grotto. The humming of the air pump blended with the hissing of steam from the shower as its terrible featureless mask tilted over her without expression, observing curiously.

  Then it backed away, disappearing through the mist, and was gone.

  Out into the hall, to finish its rounds.

  Laurie had gotten her wish. Miraculously, she was on her own in the hospital. Only it wasn't the same; it wasn't Haddonfield. There were windows with bars on them.

  Why should there be bars? she wondered. To keep people out? Or to keep them in?

  She didn't know which question bothered her more.

  She tested a door, but it was locked.

  People passed her in the corridor. Big people in white gowns and slippers. They don't get to keep their own clothes in here, she thought. But I do. I'm only visiting. She smoothed her new blue dress proudly and looked up into the faces. But their eyes could not find her.

  They were talking, but not to her. Not even to each other. They were talking to themselves. I do that sometimes, when I'm afraid. I never knew grownups do that, too.

  These were grownups, all right. But different grownups. Not like Mom and Daddy. They were more like children. Only so big! She clasped her dolly closer and kept walking. Well, I won't talk to them, either. So there.

  They were sleepwalking, she decided, the way someone used to at home. She could barely remember. It had been like a ghostly passing in the night outside her bedroom door, feet padding the hall, never satisfied. He never slept, she thought. I can almost remember what he looked like. His cold blue eyes like chips of ice. Like their eyes? she wondered. She looked up again, trying to hold the eyes of the tall, very tall people passing her in the corridor. But she could not see them now; the sunlight through the high windows coruscated around their heads, flaring out their features.

  Do they have trouble sleeping, too? That must be why we had to come here today, to find out how to help him go to sleep. Only—he hasn't been home for such a long time. Since I was a little girl.

  She came to another door.

  This one opened.

  A boy was seated on a stool. He was staring out through the bars, directly into the sun.

  Why does he do that? she thought. To get warm?

  Mikey did that once. She held up her doll to show him the room. See? My dolly was a bad boy, too. He stared right at the sun for so long one day when I left him outside that his eyes won't work right anymore.

  "Hello," she said.

  The boy swiveled around on his stool. As if it took no effort for him to do so.

  She could not see him clearly. The sun washed out his face, too. But his eyes. His eyes glinted through the flaring sunlight like chips of blue ice.

  I don't want to see those eyes, she thought. They scare me!

  She drifted through layers of cloudlike sleep. The room, the sunlight, the whiteness all

  around cushioned her and lifted her. . . .

  "Why are you asleep, Laurie?"

  A woman's voice. Her mother's. She floated toward it.

  "We have things to do. You promised me you wouldn't sleep."

  She fought to awaken.

  She was caught and supported by the bed, the sheets, the cool darkness. She tried to sit up. She couldn't. She struggled to move her leg but it hurt.

  I'll make a sign, she thought, to let them know that I hear.

  She wanted to move an arm, a hand, a finger. It was useless.

  "Christ," said a voice, very close by. A real voice this time. Was it Jimmy's voice? "I can't believe this! Where the hell is he?"

  "He'll be here."

  "This is ridiculous! I'm gonna go find Mrs. Alves myself."

  Laurie heard footsteps leaving her room. She felt them, too, throbbing in her head. She battled to open her eyes, to sit up. Are they leaving me?

  But it was too late. They were out in the hall.

  She forced her abdominal muscles to contract and her good left arm to lift her.

  She swooned there away from her pillow, about to fall back. But she was out of the dream at last. She had come out of it, and her eyes were open.

  Jimmy let the door to Laurie's room close and followed Jill to the desk.

  "This is like some kind of a nightmare," he said.

  Jill made a brave attempt to laugh it off. "Oh, don't make it sound so dramatic. This is a hospital. We help people, make them well. That's our business. All Laurie needs right now is a quick visit from Dr. Mixter or Mrs. Alves, so she can have an injection as a precaution. There's no hurry.
She's coming out of it fine on her own. I'll admit I was worried there for a minute when I couldn't find her pulse, but she's breathing okay again—you saw her. She's out of danger. That girl in there is very tough. She inherited a real strong constitution from someone."

  "Why am I having such a hard time believing you?"

  Jimmy was right. There was a tightness in Jill's throat, and the tendons of her neck stood out when she spoke. She had experience at controlling herself, which was the only thing left for her to control now, but at the moment she was doing only a moderately good job of it.

  "Like I said, I'm going for Mrs. Alves and the doctor, anyway. You stay here. Wait in there with her, if you can."

  "Janet's got to be on her way back," said Jill, "with all the help we'll need. But—" and here her face grew taut, giving her away, "—but if you want to, well, good luck."

  Jimmy was on his way. "I'll find out. There's got to be somebody else alive in this whole place. It can't be just us."

  "No," said Jill after he had gone, "it can't be. Don't be silly, Jimmy. That wouldn't make sense."

  She fidgeted behind her desk. She looked ready to bolt herself. The only sound was the liquid guttering of the pumpkin on her desk. That and her own shallow breathing.

  Behind her, on the other side of the counter, a shape moved across one video monitor screen, off the screen, and into another corridor.

  It was not Jimmy.

  It was coming this way.

  The man with the pointed hat led Loomis to a yellow car with the state emblem on the door.

  Marion, the state psychiatric worker, opened the door and waited for him, shame-faced.

  Hunt stood there smoking another cigarette, In another part of the city a cacophony of sirens raced the dark streets.

  Loomis dug in the pocket of his trenchcoat. "Your lighter," he said.

  "Keep it." Hunt alone met Loomis' eyes. "We'll find him," he said simply. It was neither a boast nor a promise; it was for him a commentary on what was to be. There could be no other outcome. If there were, his job would mean nothing.

  Loomis locked eyes with him. "Where are you going to look?"

  "I don't know," said Hunt honestly. But that detail did not change the conclusion for him. He did not flinch from Loomis' stare.

  There must be something more I can tell him, thought Loomis, some betraying detail about what to expect next. But Michael Myers is too single-minded for an elaborate strategy. He waits. He does not speak. He moves and acts when the black spirit within him tells him it is time, and not before. He does not think. You can't stop him in the usual ways. Nobody ever stopped him and nobody ever will stop him, unless they understand what he is. I am the only one who understands. And I can't tell you. Some things are too fierce for words.

  "Neither do I," said Loomis, and got into the car.

  Good luck. May God help us all.

  Hunt watched them go. Over his chest, the red light from his own car parked at the curb reflected rhythmically in his badge. He became only a small figure alone on the sidewalk of the elementary school, and then the trees closed in front of him and there was only the night and the sound of the state car gearing up and out of town.

  It was late. Once, thought Loomis in the car, there might have been time.

  "You didn't believe me, did you?"

  "I'm sorry," was all Marion could say.

  The driver in the front seat said nothing.

  "Don't feel sorry for me. Feel sorry for that little town back there. Be years before they forget this."

  "Dr. Loomis, I think there's something else you should know."

  The car passed the town square. A few reckless teenagers were still congregating. There was the sign pointing directions to Haddonfield Memorial. Loomis felt ill.

  It did not matter what this woman thought.

  It did not matter what anyone thought now. It was too late.

  But his mind would not put it away. His jaw worked and the words continued to come. It was the only thing left for him. Useless words.

  Let it out, he thought. Perhaps a small part of it will get through, enough for them to assess responsibility accurately tomorrow and for the rest of their lives.

  "Did you see the blackboard back there at the elementary school?"

  "Yes."

  "In order to appease the gods, the Druid priests held fire rituals. Prisoners of war, criminals, the insane, animals were burned alive in baskets. In the spring it was called Beltane, in the fall that word you saw back there, Samhain. By observing the way they died, the Druids believed they could see omens of the future."

  The marshal observed Loomis suspiciously in the rearview mirror.

  Marion's eyes were wandering, embarrassed.

  She thinks I'm mad, he thought.

  Let her think what she likes.

  He went on.

  "Two thousand years later we've come no further. Samhain isn't evil spirits. It isn't goblins, ghosts or witches." And here perhaps was a handle a psychiatric nurse could latch onto, if she had the courage. "It's the unconscious mind. We're all afraid of the dark inside ourselves."

  "Dr. Loomis, listen to me . . ."

  But she wasn't listening to him. She has ears but she does not hear. Tears filled his eyes. The pointlessness of it all. City lights and children's costumes whipped past the car window, blurring until they were abstractions into which he or anyone else could read anything they liked. Anything that was within themselves. It didn't matter how you interpreted it. Utimately it would come down to the same thing. The absence of light, which was the darkness carried within an entire race.

  "Dr. Loomis, there's a file on Michael Myers that nobody knew about."

  Why was she lowering her voice? Was this a professional consultation? What did it matter now?

  "I've seen everything."

  "No. It was hidden, sealed by the court after his parents were killed. Then, after the Governor heard what happened tonight, he

  authorized Dr. Rogers to open it."

  "What file?"

  "It isn't fair." She went on in a whisper, wary even of the marshal. "They should have allowed you to examine everything. That girl, that Strode girl—that's Michael Myers' sister!" She took a quavering breath. "She was born two years before he was committed. Two years after, their parents died in an automobile accident and she was adopted by the Strodes. They requested that the records be sealed in order to protect the family."

  Loomis' eyes cleared and his spine went ramrod-straight.

  "Jesus, don't you see what he's doing here in Haddonfield? He killed one sister fifteen years ago—now he's trying to kill the other!"

  He realized in a flash that he had been waiting ail along for the other shoe to drop. And now he had it, the last piece of the warped jigsaw that was his—and Michael Myers'—life.

  How could I not have seen it?

  Now I have the last weapon I need. The truth. My cup runneth over.

  "Tonight, after I shot him. Where did they take her?"

  "The Clinic," said Marion.

  "The Clinic! Where—?" He grabbed the back of the front seat and said directly into the marshal's ear, "Do you know this area well?"

  "A little bit," said the marshal noncommittally.

  "Where is the Clinic located?"

  Marion touched his shoulder. "Dr. Loomis, we're under orders from the Governor!"

  "It's the hospital back on Route 17," offered the marshal, "about three miles."

  "Turn this car around. Now."

  The marshal smirked. "I can't do that. I've got orders."

  "Those orders just changed!"

  "Dr. Loomis . . . !"

  Loomis pushed her back in the seat.

  "Doctor, you're getting yourself into a lot of trouble. . . ."

  Loomis whipped the magnum revolver out of his pocket and waved it savagely. "What is it you fellows usually do? Fire a warning shot, right?"

  The marshal reached back, as if to take a toy from a child. He was stil
l smirking.

  Loomis pointed the barrel at the side window and pulled the trigger.

  There was a deafening roar.

  The marshal's jaw dropped open.

  Less than a second later the car was skidding onto the shoulder.

  "Now," said Loomis. He eased the smoking muzzle up against the driver's medulla. It fit perfectly. "Hand your gun back here. And turn this car the hell around. And then start praying that we're not too late!"

  Jill was eyeing the small novelty shrunken head that someone had left on the counter when the buzzer went off.

  She almost jumped out of her skin.

  "I'm coming," she said, "I'm coming!"

  She frowned and picked up the rubber head by its synthetic hair, using two fingers, and dropped it into the waste basket.

  "Very funny. Almost as much fun as helping some eighty-year-old guy take a whiz."

  The buzzer sound again.

  "Hold onto your rectum, grandpa," she said, "I'll be there in a minute. . . ."

  She left the desk and headed past Laurie's room.

  She pushed open a door and disappeared into the darkness beneath a yellow emergency light.

  As a shape bled off the edge of one of the TV monitors and into the corridor.

  The shape's hand was cuffed around something bright.

  A bent scalpel.

  Jill remained inside the patient's room. The yellow light over that door clicked off and the corridor was drab once more.

  Through the glass in the door to Laurie's room, a white mound was clearly visible in the moonlight on the bed. A long, resting outline. The contour of a sleeping body.

  The tall, dark shape entered Laurie's room without a sound.

  The white form on the bed did not move. Perhaps it was asleep.

  The door damped shut.

  The corridor was silent, except for the faint trickling of refrigeration from within the soft drink machine at the end of the hall, the sizzling of the pumpkin over on the desk, and the friendly joking and cajoling of Jill's voice from the next room.

  A silver scalpel swooped through the air over Laurie's bed.

  It rose and fell once, twice, three times, its blade stabbing deep, each blow buried to the hilt in the bedclothes.

  The form on the bed could not have had time to cry out.