Halloween
Page 1
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
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23
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25
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27
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31
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
HALLOWEEN
THE OFFICIAL MOVIE NOVELIZATION
HALLOWEEN
THE OFFICIAL MOVIE NOVELIZATION
BY
JOHN PASSARELLA
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
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
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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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 se
curity 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 ye
llow 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.”