Vicky glanced back at him in disbelief. “Her grandmother is a badass and was almost fucking murdered, Dave!”
“And she escaped!” he said, taken aback by Vicky’s explosive reaction. “And he was caught! He’s, like, super-incarcerated right now.” He held up both hands in a placating gesture. “I’m just saying it’s not like the absolute worst thing that has happened to a person. By today’s standards.”
Vicky stopped in her tracks and whirled around to face him. “Shut up, Dave. Stop talking.”
“I’m sorry,” Dave said. “I sensed myself going on a rant and didn’t know how to eject. Sorry.”
Allyson was almost as surprised as Dave by Vicky’s defense of her grandmother’s ordeal. While Vicky frequently teased Dave, busting his balls now and then, her tone usually remained in the snark zone rather than emotional outbursts.
Noticing another jack-o’-lantern on a decorative bale of hay, Dave’s eyebrows rose, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. Or perhaps he merely wished to deflect attention away from his rambling faux pas to escape Vicky’s ire. “You guys cool if I explode this pumpkin head?”
With a flicker of a smile, Vicky said, “Yes, please.”
Allyson plucked the stem lid off the jack-o’-lantern. “Go for it.”
Dave fished what looked like an M-80 out of his jacket pocket and lit the fuse with the dwindling roach, which was almost short enough now to burn his fingers.
“Houston, we have ignition,” Dave said, dropping the firecracker through the carved opening. Allyson replaced the lid. Dave set the jack-o’-lantern on the sidewalk. Allyson could hear the fuse sizzling. “Go!”
As they ran clear of the blast zone, Dave yelled, “Wooooo! Happy Halloween!”
Allyson glanced over her shoulder at the muffled whump!
Orange chunks and pumpkin gore splattered the sidewalk, a nearby fence and the rear quarter panel of a white SUV. The three of them couldn’t stop laughing.
4
Basically, Laurie Strode had turned the backyard of her farmhouse into a shooting range. Although the term “backyard” in her case was an oversimplification. The rear of her property was bordered by wilderness, secluded from any neighbors who might file noise complaints or poke around where they might inadvertently place themselves in her line of fire.
Of course she could have honed her marksmanship skills at a traditional shooting range, reserving her land for holiday cookouts, family get-togethers, rounds of badminton and horseshoes. Hell, even a garden. But that stuff hardly mattered. Family was kind of a sore spot, though not by her choice. She had to honor her daughter’s wishes—as much as it pained her. And though she enjoyed lawn games as much as the next person, shuttlecocks and horseshoes were impractical for self-defense.
Besides, a backyard shooting range made regular practice as easy as rolling out of bed. Less likely to skip practice under those circumstances.
When it came to self-defense there were no excuses for Laurie. She hadn’t let her guard down in a long time. Not that it helped her psyche. She hadn’t felt safe—truly safe—in forty years. But she was prepared…
Taking aim with her Smith & Wesson revolver, she fired shot after shot at the head-and-torso silhouette target attached to a wooden frame twenty feet away until the gun was empty. With the smoking barrel held upright, she gazed with satisfaction at the grouped shots. Tight cluster. Center mass. At this distance, headshots were a crapshoot.
A lot had changed in forty years.
Laurie didn’t have to gaze into a mirror to acknowledge the lines etched on her once youthful face, the price of time—and of relying on whiskey as a crutch when the remembered fear rose up unbidden. And the dark circles under her eyes reminded her of too many sleepless nights. Long nights of fear, real and imagined—remembered fear as fresh as that night so long ago, and the senseless grotesqueries that clotted her nightmares. Over time, fear for herself had spread like an insidious stain to include the greater burden of her family—first a daughter, and then a granddaughter. And yet, instead of paralyzing her, the fear galvanized her. She’d spent her life in a cycle of endless preparation. Because as much as she practiced and readied herself to face the fear again, in the flesh, a sliver of doubt gnawed at her subconscious. The doubt that no matter how much she readied herself, she would fall short, fail herself and those she loved…
Yes, a lot had changed—but the fear remained as potent as ever.
She reloaded the revolver.
This close to the wilderness, among the stacks of used car tires and sandbags, and in front of a wall made of interlocked railroad ties, she’d set up a bunch of department-store mannequins purchased at a steep discount from yet another brick-and-mortar victim of the growing trend of online shopping. Pale and staged in various poses, the mannequins presented a ghostlike aspect, especially in the twilight hours. And when an occasional fog rolled in, the mannequins seemed like cemetery residents risen from their eternal sleep to walk the world again. For Laurie, they weren’t intended as decorations or to evoke emotion in anyone. They had a simple, practical purpose.
She walked up to a standing male mannequin, who appeared to stare directly toward her, as if it were someone she recognized. For a moment she considered the resemblance of the pale, blank face with dead eyes to the stark white mask and another set of dead eyes—eyes without mercy or remorse.
Five feet from the mannequin, she swung her arm up, aimed and blew its head off. A satisfying eruption of fiberglass and plastic rained down on the grass up to twenty feet away. She thought of it as a dry run, dreamed of ending it once and for all. Sometimes she thought it could be that simple. A single shot. But in her nightmares, one shot and one weapon were never enough. That’s why, over time, she’d accumulated an arsenal.
She returned to her worktable, under a crude wooden shelter, put the revolver down and picked up a glass of strawberry-flavored milk. After a few gulps she set the milk down, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and picked up a high-powered bolt-action rifle. A dependable choice for precision shooting, with a detachable magazine to increase the capacity.
Turning, she faced the tableau of posed mannequins, worked the bolt, aimed and fired, worked the bolt to fire a second round, and a third and so on, watching in grim satisfaction as each bullet hit its mark. Boom! Boom! Boom! In less than a minute she created a fiberglass and plastic hailstorm of shrapnel from shattered mannequin heads, limbs, and torsos. When the haze cleared, she noted chunks of mannequins scattered everywhere; the inhuman carnage included a few, mostly intact, decapitated heads and a complete hand, fingers curled upward.
As she lowered the rifle, she muttered to herself, “Who needs tin cans on a fence?”
Satisfied with her practice, she packed her guns and ammunition and hiked to her black Nissan pickup, parked nearby, and tossed the duffel bag in the back. She drove along the dirt road, gravel crunching under her tires as she made her way back to her home. The recurrent fear troubled her less during daylight hours, but she couldn’t deny the sense of reassurance she felt whenever she noticed the bars in front of the downstairs windows. Protecting herself and her family required offense and defense. Her guns served as her offense, while her fortified home provided the defense.
As she climbed out of the pickup and grabbed the duffel bag the tranquil clinking of her wind chimes helped soothe her nerves. Pausing, she took a deep breath, pulling the scent of fall air through her nose, deep into her lungs, holding it there for a few moments before exhaling. And again. Several deep, calming breaths to release the hold of anxiety that crept into her bones and muscles daily.
Later, she sat at the dining room table, wearing a tank top that exposed her left shoulder scar, a memento mori from that night, a dark reminder carved into her skin to never forget, never let her guard down. Not while he lived. On a mat, to preserve the finish of the table, she’d laid out her revolver and bolt-action rifle, ringed by various gun-cleaning supplies, including a solvent, patches, bore rods, bru
shes and gun-lubricating oil. She considered target practice vital to her survival. For the same reason, she never failed to clean her guns. Poor maintenance might cause them to jam or fail at a critical time.
She didn’t mind this post-shooting chore at all. If anything, she found the process soothing, a step-by-step reassurance that everything would be in working order when she needed it. Not if, never if. Always when. After years of repetition, she could probably clean her guns in her sleep.
First, she picked up the rifle, removing the bolt by releasing the lever that held it in place. She sighted down the long barrel to check for stuck cartridges. Next, she attached a cleaning patch holder to the cleaning rod, inserted a patch and dipped it in cleaning solvent before pushing it from the breech end all the way through the barrel and back. Then she replaced the patch holder with a brush, also dipped in solvent, and pushed that through the barrel and back. The rotating handle on the cleaning rod allowed the brush to turn through the rifling of the barrel. Letting the solvent work on loosening any powder filings and bits of brass, she set the rifle down and switched to a hand brush dipped in solvent to clean the bolt.
At some point in the process, she started to hum…
* * *
Aaron drove their rental car down a sun-dappled country road. He didn’t need to refer to paper or online maps because he’d memorized the route. They were close. He held his digital recorder close to his mouth, mentally composing the setup for their interview. At least he hoped they’d soon have the interview. They hadn’t exactly made an appointment. And their subject remained a mystery—almost as much as Michael Myers.
In the passenger seat, Dana glanced from the road ahead to Aaron. “What is it we’re after?”
By way of answer Aaron spoke into the recorder, “Having seen the animal inside his environment, I fear there is no rehabilitation. But in this case, it seems one monster created another. A victim has locked herself away. Imprisoned by her own fear.” He cast a meaningful glance at Dana, thankful for her cue. “Our goal is to get them in a room together. Can we find a form of rehabilitation if she faces him again?”
Dana pointed through the windshield. “Here we are.”
Aaron slowed the car to a stop as he drifted onto the shoulder of the road. What he saw was less than promising. A PRIVATE PROPERTY—NO TRESPASSING sign attached to a cyclone fence. An overflowing mailbox next to a mounted intercom in front of a gated driveway. Is she even home? The intercom represented an impersonal obstacle, allowing her to reject them without a face-to-face meeting. She wouldn’t be pleased to see—rather, hear—them, so they had to convince her it was in her best interest. No easy task. Fortunately, Aaron believed in their mission and his ability to make a case for her cooperation.
“Here,” Dana said, removing an orange envelope stuffed with cash from her bag and offering it to him. “You might need this.”
Aaron sighed, refusing the envelope. “Journalists don’t pay for interviews, Dana. This is her fifteen minutes of fame. There are two people in this world that care about her and they’re both in this car.”
Flipping through the file she’d assembled on Laurie Strode, Dana said, “She’s financially unstable. Had every job you can think of for the last forty years, from catering to cosmetology. Currently unemployed.”
She closed the file, placed her palm on top of it and gave him a pointed look.
* * *
Finished with the rifle cleaning, Laurie picked up the revolver and stared at it for a moment before releasing the cylinder. Turning the Smith & Wesson upright over her cleaning mat, she shook out the spent shell casings. Two fell out on their own. She palmed the ejector rod to knock out the rest. One live round sat on the mat beside the casings. She picked it up between her thumb and forefinger and felt its potential. Then she fed the bullet into one of the empty chambers and spun the cylinder, abruptly slapping it back into place, the bullet’s position unknown.
She held the revolver in a tight grip, again considering…
Occasionally, she had these dark moments.
When all the practice and preparation ate at her confidence, the darkness suggested a quicker, more effective way to end her continued struggle with fear and doubt—a natural phenomenon considering her situation. That’s what she told herself. Just… ride it out.
After several deep breaths, fear crept in. For a moment, she imagined she wasn’t alone, that the choice was forced upon her, that he was—
The Shape stood before her.
Waiting to strike—
Waiting for her to surrender—
She remained… balanced—paralyzed between—
Bzzzt!
The sound startled her out of the moment, maybe even pulled her back from a precipice. She stared ahead. The Shape was gone. Never there.
Always with her…
She exhaled forcefully, turning her gaze to the four black-and-white security camera monitors. A rental car carrying two uninvited guests. A man and a woman, late thirties, maybe forty, the former behind the wheel, left arm dangling out the open window.
* * *
After pulling up to the mounted intercom, Aaron pressed the button once, and had been about to press it a second time when he heard the hiss of the speaker coming to life.
“Yes?” a female voice inquired.
Laurie Strode. He was sure of it.
Aaron reached out to the “press to speak” button, found it slightly out of reach, forcing him to open the car door and to shift himself with one foot on the ground. If the mounted security camera was live and not a prop, he wasn’t making the best first impression of professional competence.
“Hello,” he said abruptly. “We’re looking for Laurie Strode.”
On the off-chance he might be talking to a house-sitter.
Silence.
Aaron cleared his throat. “My name is Aaron Joseph-Korey and—um… We’re working on a… um… on a podcast.”
Dear God, he thought, am I really this nervous? What’s next, a pratfall?
Fortunately, he hadn’t come alone.
Dana leaned toward the driver’s side of the car so she could be heard over the speaker. “We’re investigative journalists.”
“If you have a moment,” Aaron added. “We’ve traveled a long way to speak with you.”
Crossed continents. Traversed oceans. Well, one ocean, but…
Okay, now I’m babbling mentally.
More silence.
Terrific, he thought. We’re failing miserably. Well, mostly me. Dana’s quite on point. Not that it matters. Not if Laurie won’t even speak with us.
Desperate, Aaron cleared his throat again and thought, Journalistic ethics be damned. “We’ll pay you for your time.”
He glanced at Dana, who arched an eyebrow at him.
“Desperate times, desperate measures and all that,” he said, after temporarily lifting his finger off the press-to-speak button.
Still not a peep from Laurie.
He reached across the car, wiggled his fingers. Dana counted the money in the envelope then placed it in his hand. Aaron held it out the window in full view of the camera.
Dana leaned toward him again, raised her voice, “How does three thousand dollars sound?”
Aaron waited, about to signal a retreat and return to their motel to consider their options, when the gate buzzed and slowly trundled open. As he eased the car forward, relief flooded through him. He glanced at Dana, anticipation rising again now that they’d cleared a significant hurdle and been granted an audience. Dana gave him a look of satisfaction, her insistence on trusting the file validated.
They were a team, one step closer to their goal.
He parked the Ford in front of the farmhouse, and they crossed the front yard together. Had Laurie not answered the intercom, Aaron might have assumed the farmhouse abandoned. Beyond a black pickup truck, overgrown dead bushes and weeds had climbed high enough to reach the white railing of the wraparound porch. The blue siding had he
ld up, but the pale blue paint on the porch steps and landing showed significant wear, exposing bare and rotting wood. Grime streaked the aged, black-shingled roof, currently littered with clumps of dead leaves. At either end of the long roof, Laurie had mounted a pair of large spotlights in wooden frames. Four parallel beams of light would expose anyone attempting to approach the front of the house at night.
A row of bell-shaped wind chimes clinked as they climbed the porch stairs. Noting steel-mesh guards on all the windows, Aaron thought that the house resembled a prison, though this “prison” was designed to keep people out. Or, at least, one specific person.
* * *
Laurie walked to her heavy wooden front door to get a better look at her uninvited guests. Peering through the right narrow vertical panel of decorative obscure glass, she took their measure. They were close to her daughter’s age, though the woman looked several years younger than the man—Aaron something. Even through the distortion of the glass, she could tell they were pleased with themselves. Aaron seemed a bit impatient, fidgeting a bit where he stood. Otherwise, they seemed harmless.
She unlocked the padlock at the top of the door, opened the slide lock below it, turned the lock on the door knob, and finally lifted the horizontal bar securing the middle of the door. Steel-mesh barriers on the windows wouldn’t matter if someone could kick in the door. She opened the door just far enough to confirm they were alone and apparently unarmed, before letting them in.
5
Dana paused before the entrance to Laurie Strode’s house, listening to the woman engage several locks on the door. She nudged Aaron, who was casually assessing the interior of the home through the window, and nodded toward the door. He nodded back, his earlier recorded assessment of her proven correct. She’d holed herself up here, behind a gate, secured windows, and a door reinforced with enough locks to withstand a battering ram.
Even after all her research on Laurie Strode, sole survivor of Michael Myers’ babysitter killing spree of 1978, Dana wasn’t sure what she’d expected upon finally meeting the woman, but she never would have imagined she’d appear so… normal. Naturally, Laurie had aged, gracefully, considering forty years had passed since that fateful night, and she seemed physically fit. She’d been scarred physically and emotionally—perhaps even mentally, though Dana saw no evidence of that.
Halloween Page 3
