by Nicholas
Inside the cell, the woman continued tending to the shape in the corner. Pulse. Pressure. Breathing was slow and steady.
This was the man--the thing that had murdered all those people. She’d heard about it; heard the stories.
But they were all just that---stories. The same as reading a newspaper or a magazine. And here lay the story incarnate, right before her eyes. She gazed down upon it, upon those bandages. Pure evil, someone had told her before she departed from Smith’s Grove. Pure evil behind those bandages, those scars behind those bandages.
She forced her eyes away. Satisfied with the patient’s condition, she called out behind her, “All right, let’s move him out.”
Just as she turned away, a naked hand slipped out from beneath the gurney sheet. The attendant, startled upon hearing the rustling, quickly spun around. Her hand went tremulously to her chest as if to ensure the restraint of her heart.
The hand had simply fallen off the gurney. She had been checking the patient, checking the IV needles, and the hand eventually slipped because it had been disturbed.
That was all.
That was it.
(Actually, it was more like she had been disturbed.)
The hand was now hanging there, limp, deformed by tight shiny pink burn scars, webbed with ropy keloids of knotted flesh, and it was doing nothing else.
So, having placed herself back into the comforting analgesic of her senses, she was ready to move the patient.
****
Outside, the attendants rolled the gurney with the comatose body up the pavement to the rear of the opened bus as the driver and the hefty security guard who hated smoke watched on. The attendants snapped up the wheels and locked them, lifting the gurney into the back until it disappeared. After doing so, the male unexpectedly backed into Doctor Hoffman, who had escorted them outside.
The woman, her mind growing all the more curious about this dark human monstrosity, asked the doctor if there were any living relatives.
“A niece living in his hometown,” replied the doctor. “Too young to act as legal ward.”
After they strapped the gurney in place, the woman announced that it was locked and loaded, and that they were ready to rock and roll.
“‘Night, Doc,” the male said.
The doctor looked them over one final time as the team prepared to leave.
“Drive carefully,” he told them.
And with that, the transport bus drove away, disappearing down the rain-washed country road and into the night.
Chapter Two
Sunday was a medium-sized black Labrador that enjoyed spending time during the early hours of the morning up and about, scrounging around throughout the house for anything interesting or edible overlooked by the human beings before they went to sleep hours before. He loved the quiet almost as much as the times when the family would be up and about and playing with him and Rubber Porcupine, only in a different way. At night, when they were asleep, he enjoyed the fact that there were no watchful eyes to see what little mishap he could get into. But tonight something was a trifle different, although not unlike the past few mornings. Someone was up and about, and the black Labrador sensed it. There was a stirring somewhere downstairs, probably in the livingroom. Sunday had been sitting next to a large window at the end of the hall upstairs, watching the rain, watching the lightning strike in the horizon, illuminating the area where it sat. Now he padded across the carpet, past the master bedroom where the heads of the household soundly slept. Down the staircase he went and into the livingroom to where the movement was on the lap of the couch.
It was the little girl.
He liked the little girl very much, ever since she suddenly became a part of the family not long ago; a welcomed new face. Sunday didn’t mean to startle her as he jumped and landed at her side. Now he had found a hand to lick and one that would pet him in turn.
The six-year-old girl had been sitting there for some time now, surrounded by a brigade of pillows, occasionally gazing out the window into the dark, rain- filled street, gazing at the lightning, unafraid, much as Sunday had done. Her thoughts were not languishing tiredly as could have been supposed; her thoughts were numerous and upon many things. Thoughts of her past. Thoughts of her present. Tired, weary, melancholy thoughts of a time gone by and a time she could never again bring back. Only memories, faded and distant memories that made lonely little girls cry.
“Hey, kiddo…….” A familiar voice. “It’s four in the morning.”
She turned away from the window to gaze upon Rachel. She knew Rachel only wanted to help, but her presence only brought another flood of remembrances to mind. Rachel always tried to pretend she was her big sister, but little Jamie knew perfectly well she wasn’t. In fact, she didn’t even have a real family like Rachel did at all. Rachel had told her once that she herself was a lonely six—year-old at one time, and that even now she was a lonely seventeen—year-old. But Rachel didn’t know what loneliness was, really, did she?
All Jamie could tell her was that she couldn’t sleep.
There went Rachel’s eyes, getting all big again, like she was going to say something smart and loving.
“What is this, four nights in a row? You going for a record here? Six-year-old insomniac’s hall of fame?”
Then the words just came out. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted the words to come out, but there they were. “Do you love me, Rachel?”
“Oh, serious questions tonight,” she said quietly, trying to be a bit humorous at reassuring her. She too was petting the dog. “Of course I love you.”
“Like a sister?”
“Jamie……”
“Like a real sister?”
Rachel sighed. She paused for a moment to think, attempting to search for the right words. If only she could get Rachel to understand. If only they both could get some sleep. “You know we’re not really sisters, Jamie. You know we can’t help that. But that doesn’t mean that just because we’re not real sisters I love you any less.”
Jamie’s gaze returned to the window; went back to the rain.
“Sure it does,” she muttered.
She didn’t notice it at first, and when she did, she paid it no mind; there was a new object in the street across the way, through the rain and the haze. All she knew was that is looked like a large van. She could not see the insignia of Smith’s Grove imprinted on the side, but she noticed briefly that the rear doors were opened and the vehicle itself was void of movement and silent.
She was distracted. Rachel was turning her around to face her.
“Jamie,” she told her, “I know you miss your parents. It hasn’t been that long ”
“It’s been eleven months,” she cut her off.
Another sigh from Rachel. The dog rested its head on the little girl’s lap. “Your mom used to baby- sit me when I was your age. I bet you didn’t know that.”
“You’re lucky,” Jamie said. “I wish she could do the same for me.”
Rachel then took the little girl into her arms and embraced her in a moment of silent thought, lovingly. Then, “Come on, kiddo. Back to bed.”
By the hand, Rachel led a weary Jamie up the stairway and to the threshold of Jamie’s bedroom, followed by a contented Sunday. She then knelt down and gave the little girl a soft kiss on the cheek.
“Sleep tight, sweetie,” Rachel said. “French toast for breakfast. Night—night.”
And with a slight pat on the head, she closed Jamie’s bedroom door and left her once again to her thoughts.
The same old room surrounded her, every detail a symbol of her new family’s attempts to make her their own, to make her feel like one of them nestled under their wings. Various doll faces stared back at her from shelves against the wall and from the top of her pink dresser. An assemblage of toy rhinos and penguins and bears and horses congregated around her light blue and red toy box near to her bed, and across from them were plush vegetables and fruits with inquisitive expressions as if having form
ed their own clique at the foot of the bed. There were Sesame Street wall hangings, the characters being of the same sort embroidered onto her pajamas and pompom slippers. There were clowns in the rocking chair near her closet.
She felt a tremendously cold chill which drew her attention to the bedroom window. It was open, and the wind and drizzle were blowing into the curtains and onto the carpet, dampening them. Jamie scurried across the room and drew the window shut.
Lightning flashed once as she turned toward the bed; if her gaze had been directed toward the window, she would have seen the reflection of the figure that had entered her room, a tall figure behind her illuminated for but a moment’s time after which returning into the darkened shadows.
She was not alone.
Moving past her dresser, Jamie opened the double doors to her closet. There was a tan shoebox before her on the floor near an assortment of tennis shoes, and she reached for it and removed the top.
More memories. This time, the memories were materialized in photographs--pictures of times gone by: a photo of her mother, Laurie Strode. On the back, in faded pencil, were the words MOM AT SEVENTEEN. There was a birthday card from four years ago--WITH LOVE FOR OUR LITTLE GIRL. There was a picture of Jamie, two years ago, riding her father piggyback at the Great American amusement park. Here was another picture, all of them together having a barbeque with the Hammets, their neighbors, her father posing as the Master Chef of the Grill, reddened chicken breasts flaming beside him over coals. Yes memories--nothing but memories.
One more flash of lightning. Above her, to her left, unnoticed, was the figure, the shape--within the confines of her closet. The brilliant flash revealed its face, rows of whitened streaks surrounding two hollow cavities where the eyes should be, as if it were encased within bandages...
Again, Jamie did not see the figure; at the moment when she very well could have, there was now darkness.
Jamie returned the shoebox to the litter of tennis shoes on the floor, then turned and went for her bed. Kneeling, she pulled the covers down further to slip inside and before she did, she clasped her hands somberly and prayed a simple prayer, a slight rendition of what her true parents had once taught her.
“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. God bless Mr. and Mrs. Caruthers. God bless Rachel, God bless Sunday, God bless me, and God bless Mommy and Daddy in heaven. Amen.”
And with that, she began to rise to slip under the covers.
Suddenly she was distracted. There was a shuffling sound--something stirring. It stopped just as suddenly as it had begun. She realized that it came from the closet. She turned and gazed into its emptiness.
Silence.
She continued her gaze.
Nothing.
Jamie rose to her feet completely and stepped toward the opened closet door. Hesitantly, she peered closer into the black obscurity of clothes and boxes.
A fallen rag doll.
She returned it to the top of one of the boxes. Satisfied and somewhat relieved, she turned once again to the bed. But she closed the closet doors, just to ease her mind.
Yet another sound.
Again she turned, and this time she beheld the inner emptiness of the closet as the door opened just a crack, then yawning wider as if in an ambiguous introduction to an entity about to make a grand appearance. She remembered Mr. Caruthers reading to her a few days ago from the funny papers something about a closet of anxieties.
But there was still nothing.
A different sound. Branches against the window glass; the maple tree outside.
Scratch…….scratch…..
She gazed back at the hollow abyss before her. It beckoned her, called for her, teased her. Sighing, she stepped up to it to close it once more.
That was when she heard the breathing.
All of a sudden something grabbed her-- grabbed her ankle; she felt the muscular grip tighten and pull.
It came from beneath the bed.
She screamed.
She stumbled as the monstrous hand pulled her down, causing her to topple onto the hard carpet, landing on her arm. She shrieked in pain. She kicked and writhed frantically, but her efforts were useless and seeming only to heighten her assailant’s efforts. Her mind was racing in a merry—go-round of circles amidst the panic. She was being pulled under…..under….
….under……a second hand came forth, reaching……
…..and suddenly she managed to break free. With no further thought, she scrambled to her feet awkwardly, her shrieks echoing forth into all directions around her. She didn’t notice the shape of the man rising from the far side of the bed, or the butcher knife which gleamed with the strike of lightning. She went for the door. Her hand reached for the knob, her fingers gripped it firmly, and she pulled the door open.
There he was, before her. It was no use. In the midst of her screams, death was raised in the form of a knife. As it struck, her last thoughts within the haze told her that she would soon meet Mommy and Daddy.
***
….and then the closet door opened. The bedroom light streamed onto her face as she opened her eyes and stared into the desperate faces of Mr. and Mrs. Caruthers. Still, Jamie held tight to the shoebox huddled with her in the corner surrounded by hanging dresses and colored cardboard boxes and dolls. Mrs. Caruthers pushed some of the dolls aside and held the little girl close. She noticed Rachel not far behind, gripping Sunday by his collar.
“Dear God,” Darlene Caruthers exclaimed, hushing the little girl’s cries, consoling her. “It’s all right, sweetheart. A bad dream, that’s all. Just a nasty old dream. I’ve got you. You’re safe. See? Just let it go, honey. Put it out of your mind.”
And as Jamie reached out to embrace her in turn, the shoebox fell, toppling over the tennis shoes, its contents spilling. A back and white photograph, yellowed with age, rested face up. Between the near— white boundaries, a six—year-old boy in a bright clown costume was standing beside his older sister. In the background was a house, jack—o—lanterns aglow on the front porch, orange sky accenting the scenery over the far horizon.
It was Michael and Judith Myers.
It was Halloween, 1963.
Chapter Three
The booming of footsteps echoed down the dreary corridors of the Ridgemont Federal Sanitarium. It was Halloween morning, and the sunshine of the new day streamed through the high windows of the first floor hallways and down upon some of the inner offices. Shadowing the offices, obscuring the sunlight, was the stout silhouette of a man hurrying to pass. His cane accompanied the echoes of every determined, acrimonious footfall. Staffers garbed in white stepped out of the figure’s path, their gazes following, and they were soon joined by others which watched from doorways, faces filled with both curiosity and a grudging respect.
The figure stepped up to the last office in the corridor, the one on the right. On the window of the door the letters read ADMINISTRATOR’S OFFICE. He wasted no time throwing this door open, slamming it against a row of metal file cabinets inside. Doctor Hoffman, startled, gazed up from his payroll reports on his desk and into the virulent eyes of Doctor Loomis.
To Doctor Hoffman, Doctor Loomis was the sort of person who took his work too seriously; seriously to the extent of becoming obsessed with any patient that managed to trigger off some deep, morbid interest Loomis held within himself. To Hoffman, everyone involved would be better off with this whole Michael Myers business if he had simply perished in the flames ten years ago, even better with Mr. Myers. The only evidence of the fire now was the deep, burn scar that looked like a course of runnels trailing down the right side of Loomis’ face. Some minor attempts at plastic surgery had not managed much visible repair of the disfigurement. And for some reason, the man seemed to age twice as fast as a normal human being. He was a determined man, two—fisted in dialogue and imposing in appearance, however old he sometimes appeared.
He marched up to Hoffm
an’s desk and leaned over angrily. His voice was harsh. “Why wasn’t I notified?”
Hoffman stood his ground. “About what?” “You know damn well about what! You let them take It out of here.”
“Doctor Loomis. Michael Myers was a federal patient, and a federal prisoner. Therefore, he was subject to federal law.”
Loomis was furious. “We’re not talking about just another federal prisoner, Hoffman. We’re talking about Evil on two legs!”
“For chrissake,” Hoffman complained, “spare me the speech. I’ve listened to it for a decade. The fact is that your evil monster has been in a nonreversible coma for ten years and in that coma he will stay until his heart and brain say stop.”
Loomis stepped backwards. “He’s been waiting ”
“I’ve said it before…..I think you’re the one who needs mental help. You’re obsessed with this
thing. The staff tells me you stand for hours just looking at him.” He sat up within his chair, leaning forward, as if he were about to rise. “Tell me objectively, Loomis. Is this normal professional medical behavior?”
“Do you know what today is?” The doctor with the cane shouted. “Do you know the date? Every day I look in the mirror. Every day I remember. I tell you. I don’t want anyone to have to live through that night again.”
Hoffman let out a fatigued sigh. “I can see this is useless.”
“Where was he taken?” Loomis demanded. “Smith’s Grove. He’s probably there by now.” “Call!”
“What…..?”
Loomis drew closer to the desk. “Call Smith’s Grove. Set my mind at ease. Fuel your sarcasm. I hope to God I’m wrong about what I feel. Call!”
Why is this man wasting my time? Hoffman thought wearily. Why the hell doesn’t this man just take that goddamn cane of his and his goddamn Michael Myers horror stories andjust leave me alone?
Oh, what the hell.
