Halloween IV: The Ultimate Edition

by Nicholas

  If his coworker hadn’t been out of weed, he wouldn’t have had to resort to those “mystery pills” he took from him. Norm had no clue what those red pills were, nor what to expect from them. They were something new, something mysterious, as Glen put it.

  They were kicking in big time.

  He dared not gaze into his mirrored reflection for too long, lest the grey-brown hairs on his month’s growth of beard start spreading across the rest of his face.

  That was it; he was going to find Glen and march right over to him, tell him he’s having an extended lunch break, maybe extend it into tomorrow. He’ll apologize, and offer to bring Glen a Big Buster pastrami on rye from the other half of his father-inlaw’s desert wilderness empire: the café next door. After all, it was Glen who offered him this hallucinatory surprise, and it was Glen who therefore had to understand.

  He abandoned the wash area, determined to carry out the proposal. The rusty-white Plymouth Belvedere upon his right appeared to melt like warm vanilla ice cream as he stepped past it.

  I can do this, he insisted to himself and to the garage door he approached. The door was closed and chained down into latches cemented into the floor, and as he halted the small rectangular door windows fell within his line of sight.

  He peered out one of them.

  He spotted a figure outside, standing between the service pumps.

  He stared.

  The figure looked like a mummy. A mummy, dressed in a tattered white hospital gown, standing there, staring straight back at him.

  Goddamn Halloween crazies, he muttered aloud, scratching at his own wolf man bearded reflection in the glass.

  Another glance at the service pumps revealed the mummy-like figure was no longer there.

  Norm turned away.

  A sound distracted him. Something metallic clanked and echoed inside the garage like a tin can kicked purposely, and it was at that moment when Norm realized the garage had been silent the whole time after he’d returned.

  He focused his gaze on the employee’s side entrance door. It hung open, though Norm couldn’t remember if he’d shut it or left it that way.

  Another sound.

  “Hey Norm?” It was Glen’s voice, from the other half of the garage. “You there? How ‘bout a nine-sixteenths socket over here?”

  Relieved just then from a feeling of mounting unease, Norm couldn’t think enough to summon an answer. He backed away from the garage door, trying to refocus on his original plan. A stack of red metal toolbox drawers towered between him and the other half of the garage, and he sidestepped to avoid its menacing build.

  It wept at him.

  Norm wanted nothing to do with that hallucination, until after his next few steps when he found himself face to face with yet another the figure he’d spotted at the service pumps outside.

  The shape glared down upon him through thick bandages wrapped around its face and head. It was garbed in no more than a generic hospital gown, soiled and weathered and torn. The arms at its sides were massive; limbs of tissue so hideously scarred that it was a wonder they weren’t wrapped in bandages also. His right hand gripped a long, steel rod.

  Norm had time enough to question the reality of the situation, and the shape allowed him time. Was this real?

  “Glen, is that you?”

  With a sudden upward thrust of the shape’s arm, Norm’s surreal mental trip at once came to an end, and as the shape’s blow thrust him into an eternity even more surreal, his final thoughts drifted into a stifled hush:

  I don’t have to be stuck in this shithole no more.

  Norman Dale’s body now hung from the top of the steel rod like a flag, the toes of his shoes teetering above the cement floor. The rod had impaled him upwards through the spot beneath his jaw and above his throat, as far into his brain as to play peek-a-boo through his skull out the top of his head.

  The shape lowered the victim and, with the heel of one mud-caked bare foot, slid the carnage off the rod.

  “Norm, are you there? Did you hear me?” The shape turned.

  Glen slid out from the underbelly of a station wagon, looked up from beneath the front bumper. The shape stepped into view, towering above him. It raised the bloody rod for a moment long enough for Glen to let out a scream, then plunged it into his lower abdomen. It let go of the rod, stepped back in fascination as the service mechanic spasmed and writhed and grew still.

  It lifted its gaze to the tow truck resting at the far side of the station wagon. It turned, studied the lifeless body at its feet, then turned towards the other corpse, eyeing the coveralls the mechanics both wore, sizing them up.

  It was time to get busy.

  Chapter Seven

  After driving for a few miles off the interstate, surrounded by nothing but desolation as dust and brambles and tumbleweeds rolled in the warm breeze as he passed, Doctor Loomis came upon a single roadside gas station/cafe. As he pulled up to the unleaded fuel pumps and stepped out of the sedan, he discovered that the place was just as desolate and weatherworn as the miles of wasteland surrounding him. There didn’t appear to be a soul around, and Loomis at first suspected whoever was here were all inside, or his presence would summon someone, an attendant most likely, and everything would be fine.

  But everything wasn’t fine. He sensed it as soon as his shoes met the dusty asphalt.

  Nevertheless, he proceeded to fill the sedan’s tank up with gas. As he did, he surveyed the area. Still no one came out to assist him. No one came out for any reason.

  There was a vacant lot next door; nothing but a chainlink fence surrounding the same desert inside as there was outside. He expected there to be a dog of some sort within the boundaries of the fence, but as he gazed closer, his eyes momentarily blinded by the sun, he saw nothing.

  Behind him stood a three door mechanic’s garage, one door was open, disclosing a racked, weather—beaten blue station wagon, the series of rectangular windows on the other doors revealed nothing but darkness. Still, there was no movement save for the rustling of papers within the center garage, and the steady rap rap rap of what the doctor presumed to be a remote screen door on the other side, loosened by the wind.

  The gas pump nozzle clicked off; he was finished pumping gas. The meter read nine dollars, and the doctor counted the money within his wallet and drew out a ten. He then proceeded toward the open garage.

  Still, there was no one in sight.

  He halted. There was movement now, from behind the station wagon.

  “Hello,” he called out. He waited.

  There was no answer.

  He must have been seeing things within the garage; for as he carefully peered inside, he found that no one was there. The wind gently swept through the garage’s interior, rustling block and tackle chains hanging to his right on a wooden beam.

  “Hello?” he called out again, this time louder. Still not a soul.

  Cautiously, he stepped past the station wagon and into the shadows, eyes searching, finding an old, Plymouth Belvedere and a glass doorway at the end of a row of tool-lined shelving.

  He called out a third time. “I said, hello. Is there anyone here....?”

  His gaze went to the opening of the garage, out into the area of the pumps where his sedan rested. He turned, and suddenly his face knocked dead center into dangling human legs and feet. Frantically, Loomis fought blindly at whatever was before him, arms waving impulsively, until he stumbled back and beheld what was hanging before him.

  It was a body; nude, hanging among block and tackle chains, motionless---pale.

  Dear Jesus.

  He stared upon the corpse, himself motionless, stunned---disbelieving. There was silence again, silence save for the steady creaking of the wood beams from the body’s weight as it slowly rotated above. He turned. There, upon the floor, not far away from a rolling red tool chest of drawers, was another body, clothed in bloodied mechanic’s coveralls, sprawled as though tossed there in a discarded heap.

  Loomis began
to regain his footing; he was shaking from the sudden shock. He quickly exited the garage and entered through the glass double doors of the cafe. A door chime announced his panicked entrance, and he wavered over to the edge of the counter, gasping. He found that the diner was just as deserted as it had appeared on the outside. There was a long line of empty booths and tables, and the counter was empty save for unfinished portions of breakfast on white plates.

  People had been there. But what happened to them? Well, that was something Loomis intensely feared.

  A Hank Williams tune was sounding forth from an old transistor radio behind the counter. Loomis moved forward toward its direction, quietly and heedfully.

  “Is anyone here?”

  It took another step for him to see the waitress, stretched out across the floor, obviously strangled, cold eyes staring thoughtlessly into nothingness.

  “God in heaven.”

  Loomis stepped back again, his feet faltering and causing him almost to stumble backwards, his hand brushing against the cash register at his side. The machine clamored, and this startled him even further, causing him to jump. His breath was heavy. His hand reached for his chest, his heart pounding rapidly, and he felt that at any time it would beat its way out of his body, striking the inner reaches of his chest cavity until it was free, finally to silence. Another thought: perhaps, at the slightest wrong turn, at any given moment, someone else would do it for him.

  Someone he knew.

  Someone he feared.

  Once, five years ago, a patient had become hysterical in a psychiatric ward and hurled himself at the doctor. He had no other choice than to use his cane in self defense. It had become a sort of impulse. He realized he had left his cane within the sedan. No matter.

  In his coat pocket was a gun, a nickel—plated, 9mm Smith and Wesson. He pulled it out. For what he was up against, what he feared was still there, perhaps in that very diner, he knew that this gun would prove just a useless as the cane. His eyes searched for the slightest movement---ears for the softest sound. His hands were shaking as he held the gun, unsure as to whether he would be quick enough if he came in contact with

  A telephone. There was a telephone under the counter. A trembling hand felt for it, his eyes never leaving the area before him. Then he looked down and saw to his disappointment that the receiver had been crushed. It was as if someone had simply lifted it and broke it within his grasp.

  Dammit!

  Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something. A figure. It was standing at the diner’s far end in the shadows. Loomis swung around, pointing the gun feverishly.

  There was no one there.

  A door stood opened where he thought the figure had been. There was a sign indicating with a red arrow where the restrooms were. Another sign indicating public telephones. A silent video game with a cardboard sign taped over the coin slots reading OUT OF ORDER.

  Blinking, Loomis crossed over to the open door. Carefully, he peered inside and discovered a dimly lit hallway leading into a series of back rooms, two of which were marked WOMEN’S and MEN’S. Mounted onto the wall across from them to the right were two pay phones, the receivers torn away. Frustrated, the doctor turned and stepped back into the main room. What he saw then made him freeze. Terrified, he could say nothing; he barely let out a single breath, his heart nearly ceased its frantic beating.

  There It was.

  It was just standing there, motionless, occupying the space where the body of the strangled waitress lay; where Doctor Loomis had been only a few minutes before. Hospital gown now absent, the shape now wore mechanic’s coveralls. His face was shadowed, yet Loomis could feel his cold gaze---that awful, hideous gaze.

  Loomis held his gun up at eye level, attempting relentlessly to aim, his finger trembling against the trigger, his arms far from rigid.

  Silence.

  Then, finally, Loomis spoke. “Why now? No answer.

  Loomis continued, a nervousness in his voice. “You’ve waited ten years. I told them to let you burn. I knew this day would come.”

  The shape stood, remaining there, silent and still. The diner was so incredibly tomblike at that moment that the doctor could detect the figure’s steady, oppressive breathing, even from his distance.

  “Don’t go to Haddonfield,” Loomis demanded, lowering his gun. “If you want another victim, take me. But leave those people in peace.”

  Yet another moment of silence. Then, finally the dark shape turned and walked away toward the door of the kitchen.

  At once, Loomis again raised his gun. “Goddamn you, Michael!”

  The overwhelming silence of the diner was now interrupted by the booming thunder of three rapid shots. Michael was down, fallen behind the counter.

  Loomis waited.

  Nothing.

  Quickly, he raced over to the counter. Brushing aside dishes and glassware, he cautiously leaned over the side.

  Michael was gone; there was only the body of the waitress.

  His first impulse was to continue into the kitchen itself, as this was the only direction Michael would have gone to. Still, he would have heard something; a shuffling, perhaps. It was as if the thing could disappear and reappear at wil1; as if he were a ghost. But the bodies were evidence he was no ghost. His second impulse was simply to turn and get the hell out of there, and he did so without further hesitation.

  Outside in the warm breeze, he walked across the dusty expanse, the sounds of his soles on grit echoing throughout until they met the asphalt across which stood the service pumps and his sedan. His eyes scanned around, behind him and to his sides, expecting to see something, waiting for something to happen. The mechanic’s garage was nothing but a shadowy cavern. Thoughts swept through Loomis’ mind, making him paranoid to his circumstances. The figure could suddenly appear from the mouth of the garage, or surprise him from behind. What a wonderful trickor-treat that would prove to be. Or he could be--- did he leave his car unlocked? Yes, of course he did. As he drew closer to it, he slowly raised his gun, knowing, however, it would most likely do him no good.

  Suddenly there was a sound; it came from behind him. It was the sound of a car door slamming. He turned. It came from the garage, echoing, ringing in his ear, then---silence.

  “Michael!” he called out amidst the quiet. His voice joined the echo of the car door in a reverberating dance with the flurry of the wind. His gaze went to the side of the building, the space between the chain link fence.

  Suddenly, Loomis pivoted back to the front of the garage as the boisterous sounds of a truck engine emanated from within garage on the right. Loomis plummeted out of the way as the tow truck burst through the closed door of the far left garage. Glass and wood splinters flew in the truck’s wake, taking to the air and hurdling in every direction, some soaring into the doctor’s side, sending him headfirst into the gravel in a space near the chain link fence.

  There was no time to lie there. There was no time to be stunned like a rabbit in shock. The doctor scrambled to his feet and ran, just as the truck thunderously collided into the station’s fuel pumps and in turn crashing into the Ridgemont sedan, octane spewing forth from all directions, sparks spreading through the air like fireworks. Occasionally turning back to witness the violent swamp of flames, Loomis continued to run. Suddenly the pumps explode into a brilliant, burning flash of black and luminous orange, flames scorching and consuming the ruptured housing of the garage and adjoining diner. In turn, underground tanks began to detonate, the destruction rocking the surrounding ground. The sedan burst into flames.

  Loomis fell to his knees. He gazed up in the direction of the catastrophe, an arm flung helplessly against the brilliant flashes, shielding his eyes; he attempted to shut himself out from the deafening flame roar and the concussive explosions shattering the remainder of the diner, first blowing out the windows, then in turn bringing the entire foundation to instant ruin. Meteors of wood showered in fragments around him, and he managed a feeble barrier arou
nd his head and face with his coat. He then brought the coat down from his eyes, his face pasty white with fear. Intense fear. His body racked with shivers. Suddenly he was no longer bent over in the dust....

  ....he was no longer bent over....

  ....there was no longer any dust....

  ....there was just simply....

  Flames, intense, burning flames….

  ….and he could smell the charred flesh his own charred flesh, as the men in long heavy coats surrounded him, working over heaps of fire, and for a moment he swore he was

  In hell. Oh, Jesus. Oh, God. I’m in hell….in hell….

  ....and as they pulled him out, he was still burning, helplessly burning

  ....and then he was back again, back within the surrounding dust and debris, but he could still hear voices. At first he could not recognize the voices, but then his mind somehow blotted out the rest, and he could here something familiar, something crying out relentlessly....

  …….don’t save him, for chrissakes, don’t.

  And he realized to his horror that it was his voice he was hearing, his voice long ago; his memories, distant and remote.

  But the flames were there, the flames of the present; the dust was there, staining his face and hands. Yards away, a telephone line junction pole burned, its base shattered by the explosion. Suddenly, the entire pole toppled over, away from the exhausted and terrified doctor. Phone lines began to rip loose and dangle, spurts of electricity danced and quivered on asphalt and gravel.

  The tow truck was nowhere in sight; but for that matter, Loomis didn’t bother to look. He knew where It was headed. He knew what would happen tonight.

  As he sat up, he rubbed his eyes from the momentary blindness caused by the intensity of the burning fumes and the smoke. Then he stood up. Determined, he walked on in the direction of Haddonfield.

  He knew what he must do. He knew what someone must do. Anyone. For if the police and the people from Smith’s Grove or Ridgemont do nothing, blinded by their own absurdities and their own discernment, the town of Haddonfield would see a horror the likes of which no one had even seen in ten years, because this time the horror would be much greater.