Halloween IV: The Ultimate Edition

by Nicholas

  Hell, he didn’t need them. All the reading he ever did was of the Good Book anyway, besides the Reader’s Digest and the National Enquire, and he knew the Lord’s Word by heart, cover to cover, verse by verse.

  At least, on his good days.

  From now on, those glasses belonged to Doctor Loomis. That’s it, the old reverend devised, I’m gonna walk right into that there station, let ‘em know the good doctor left his glasses in my cab, and ask for his whereabouts so ’s I can deliver them proper back into his hands.

  Whether the plan worked or not, it was up to Jesus.

  He discarded his whiskey and emerged from the cab. As he shut the door of his vehicle, he gave the abandoned tow truck a second glance. Gripping the spectacles, he made his way across the street and towards the entrance of the police station. A sole sheriff’s sedan sat in the parking lot as he passed it. He arrived at the front door and entered the station.

  Inside, Deputy Pierce rose up from his desk to the front counter to immediately meet him. “Can I help you?”

  “Maybe you can help me,” the reverend spoke, adjusted his clergy collar and let out a raspy cough. “Um, I was good enough to give Doctor Loomis a lift into town, officer, and I believe he left his glasses behind. Could you be good enough to allow me to return them to him? Where abouts do you suppose he’s gone off to?”

  “If you’ll just leave them with me,” the deputy replied, “I’ll see to it the doctor gets them.”

  “If ya don’t mind, I’d like to return them personally,” Sayer told him.

  “The town’s in a state of emergency,” said the deputy. “Leave them here, I’ll tell him you dropped them off, don’t worry. A good motel’s up the road, a quarter mile. I’ll tell him you’re staying there if you wish to meet up with him. Can’t tell how long he’ll be, though. This is one helluva night. It’s all I can do for you.”

  “You can tell him that,” the reverend said, “but

  I’ll keep these for him myself. You understand.” “Suit yourself.”

  Sayer nodded to him, clutching the glasses, and solemnly bade him farewell. The face of the Apocalypse would have to wait, he figured, but he knew fate would inevitably cross their paths.

  Someday.

  It was his destiny.

  It was It’s destiny.

  A motel, a quarter mile up the street. It was all he had going for him now, and a night’s lodging would do him good.

  Turning, he made his way to exit into the night. He opened the door, stepped outside.

  There, directly before him, stood the face of the Apocalypse.

  Sayer gasped.

  The eyes behind the chalky white mask stared down upon him, emotionless, cold.

  The glasses fell from the reverend’s hands, dropping onto the ground. Taking a step away from the abomination, the heel of his shoe met with them, crushing them. His screams echoed into the cool breeze and, for a moment, no one heard them until it was too late.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The smoke filled pool hall and bar lounge was filled to capacity with the town’s usual beer bellied personalities, sucking down beers and shooting eight balls in exchange for a chance of good luck at earning a little sum of money. It was a typical setting for a town such as Haddonfield, where everyone knew how many teeth everyone else had and didn’t really give a shit either way. Friends were friends, and enemies were enemies, and the only enemies in Haddonfield were the out—of-town truck driving brawlers who came into Haddonfield to pick fights, and the winter weather. But now, at this time, they had neither. There were no strangers tonight. Well, perhaps there were a few, but remained virtually unnoticed amid the bar noise and the laughter. There was a woman in skimpy clothes who always had a fancy for the jukebox, which was at the time blurting out Bruce Springsteen. As the Boss sang about dancing in darkness, she attracted the attentions of a young, mustachioed man who offered to buy her a beer and called her Charlene. Across the way, a middle—sized man in overalls knocked over his half-full bottle of beer onto the pool table. He pulled out a flimsy handkerchief from a pocket and frantically wiped away the liquid before it could be completely absorbed by the blue-green felt padding.

  Earl Ford was the bartender. His son, Mel, had recently turned legal age and now assisted him, and occasionally there was Hughy who helped him on busy nights like this, but tonight Hughy was sick with the stomach flu. This was Earl’s joint, and that was what the tattered baseball bat read in bold, black lettering up above the half-sized swordfish on the wall behind him. Earl was pretty close to forty-five, but his true age was somewhat of a mystery because he always liked folks to keep guessing. It was a belief among some that ol’ Earl never really knew his own age, or that he somehow forgot. His face was like that of a bulldog, and he had the body of a professional wrestler, but he, in fact, despised wrestling with a passion. He would often tell people he didn’t quite rightly know why he hated it so, but perhaps it was the fact that the matches were so damn fake. Besides, wrestlers looked like a bunch of fags out there on the mat, and the audience looked like a bunch of drunken Nazis. At least, that’s what he thought.

  Tonight was an ordinary night, or at least it had been, until something caught Earl’s attention on the television. He was often distracted by the 22—inch television, always watching for Ernest commercials or commercials with Joe Isuzu, but this time what attracted his attention was something quite different. He stepped over to the set and raised the volume. A news anchorwoman was explaining something which seemed to be urgent. Hell, of course it was urgent; anything that said SPECIAL BULLETIN in the background was unusual and urgent. And from what Earl’s ears picked up, it sounded like the woman was talking about evacuating the streets.

  What the hell?

  “By order of the Sheriff’s office,” the anchorwoman continued, “all citizens of Haddonfield are asked to clear the streets.”

  Still, the bartender could not hear. Goddammit.

  “Everybody shut up a goddamn minute!” he yelled out, and the bar quieted, heads turning. Still, some people just could not hear straight. “I said, goddammit, everyone shut up!”

  Silence. The anchorwoman continued.

  “….remain indoors until further notice. All businesses are asked to close as soon as possible. Stay tuned to the station for updates.”

  A tall man, Orrin Wesley, called out, “What’s all that shit, Earl?”

  That was exactly what Earl was about to ask Meeker himself, or whoever the hell was at the office. Immediately, he moved to the bar’s wall mounted phone. He picked up the receiver and dialed hurriedly.

  “Who you callin’?” another man asked.

  Earl replied, “Police station. I ain’t closing down without a good goddamn reason.”

  Everyone waited. All eyes in the bar rested on Earl. In the background, a few men continued to quietly resume a game of pool, ears open. After a few lingering moments, Earl angrily hung up the phone. He proceeded to remove his bar smock.

  “Well?” Orrin asked.

  “It just rang,” was all Earl would reply.

  Within the next minute the entire place was ringing with the sounds of chairs moving and shoes brushing against the wooden floor. Voices of curiosity added to the commotion as the crowd proceeded to follow the bartender out into the front of the bar, through the single front door, past the DON’T DRINK AND DRIVE sign, and out onto the asphalt of the car crammed parking lot.

  Yet another follower rushed up to the bartender from within the crowd, asking where the hell he was going and why the hell everyone was following him, knowing full well he was just as dumbfounded as everyone else about the sudden urgency of the news report.

  “We’re goin’ to see Ben,” Earl told him angrily. “Phone never just rings at a police station. No way, no how.”

  Everyone piled up into their respective vehicles... .pickups, four—wheel drive Blazers, Jeeps, Broncos, and the like, all covered with enough dirt to pave a small street. Earl’s Chevy was the firs
t the kick up a wave of dust, and he led the way as the others filled the street from behind.

  One hell of a night, all right.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Guests exited Justin Fallbrook’s palatial home, all dressed in their finest attire, some half drunk, others having had little or none to drink, but all having enjoyed the party. They were walking to the rows of cars parked along the side of the street, wondering what the urgency was in the news flash. Some had attempted to call the police station, but got no answer. Still, they would comply with the warning, and perhaps call the station later from their own homes.

  Richard and Darlene Caruthers stepped across the walkway down the front lawn; one of the couples who had apparently very little to drink.

  “Let’s drive home first,” Darlene said. “Rachel said they wouldn’t be out long.”

  Richard looked around and spotted who he was looking for. “There’s Justin. I better say goodnight.”

  “Richard….”Darlene called after him, but he was already on his way to speak to the man.

  He called out to his wife behind him, “I’ll take two seconds.”

  He went over to Justin Fallbrook, a man in his late forties, and a very wealthy man at that. He was in the process of bidding an older couple goodnight.

  “Justin,” Richard spoke out to him.

  Mr. Fallbrook turned. In a kindly but nonetheless worrisome voice, he said to him, “Richard, I’m so sorry you can’t stay for dinner.”

  “I hope you understand,” Richard said.

  “No apologies,” he replied. “Children come first in my book, too. Look. I’ll see you tomorrow morning on the third floor. Nine sharp. Okay?”

  Richard was momentarily stunned. With a mixture of delightful surprise, he exclaimed, “Third floor?” At first, he wasn’t sure he quite understood, then the reality crept over him and he wholeheartedly welcomed it. “I got it?” He felt like a little kid.

  Behind him, Darlene was calling him. “Richard, come on.”

  Richard was overcome with both relief and tremendous joy. This was something that he had worked very, very hard for. Very hard indeed. “I got it!” he cried.

  Darlene came up behind him and clenched his arm. The door to their car was opened, and it didn’t take too long for the two to make it inside and drive away, their car intermingled with the flow of traffic the news report had created from the Fallbrook party.

  And all the way home, Richard kept repeating, “This was one hell of an evening, let me tell you.”

  Chapter Twenty

  An open lot dotted with the lofty, darkened configurations of towers marked the presence of the Haddonfield Transformer Station. A network of city power cables sprawled out into the night in all directions like hundreds of giant, many-legged spiders in their blackened webs.

  A utility truck was parked beside a main circuit junction box, and nearby there was a lone utility worker carrying out routine maintenance on opened power panels. As he wearily continued to work, taking an obscure sort of electrical tool and placing it into the trail of brightness flooding from his pocket flashlight, he brought his gloved fingers around multitudinous wires and switches and carefully went about his adjustments. He paused for a brief moment and removed from his pocket a package of Wrigley’s, opened the wrapper, and popped a stick between his teeth.

  Suddenly he looked up.

  There, not far from his truck, stood the darkened shape of a man. It began to move, taking a few dilatory steps across the expanse of the lot, passing close by in shadow.

  “Hey,” the worker shouted. “Hey, shit—for— brains! This is city property. No trespassing.”

  The shape continued to walk. Frustrated and angry, the worker moved away from the junction box and stepped into the shape’s path. The shape continued toward him until the man reached out his hand, planting it firmly into the figure’s chest and stopping him cold.

  “Are you deaf? Or are you just stupid?” Absolutely nothing from the shape. It stood motionless, facing the worker. “I could have you arrested, asshole.” Still, there was no response. The worker could hear the breathing sounding in slow, hissing emissions from behind whatever the hell this man was wearing over his face---something like a large, distorted white mask. The worker continued with the Halloween freak.

  “You are one dumb son of a bitch,” he exclaimed, finally. The thing before him was giving him the chills; this was way too strange, and here he was, out there, alone amidst the low humming of the power cables. “All right, I’m on the radio to the police right now. Don’t even think about leaving.”

  The worker went back toward his truck. Behind him, the shape proceeded to follow. The worker quickly spun around, startled at the shape’s sudden proximity.

  Silence. No one made the slightest movement.

  Until....

  A hand shot out from the obscurity of the shape and clenched the man’s neck. Stunned, there was little time for the worker to struggle. He managed a swift kick, then another---both legs flinging into open air at the thing’s side. In his overwhelming terror, he realized that he was no longer on the ground. He was being held there, fighting helplessly for his life, and it was then, at that very moment, that he knew he was going to die. He could feel the coldness of the shape’s hand, feel the sensation of it seeping through his skin as if his neck were made from a gelatinous putty. He attempted a scream, but the wind inside of him found no means for escape. He feared that at any time his neck would simply snap from the force.

  The shape lifted him even further from the ground and flung his limp body into the circuit junction box, impaling him. Amidst his own blood and flesh sizzling against the flying spark he finally managed a single, agonizing scream.

  Then it was all over.

  His dead body remained quivering there as the shape watched, its head cocked in morbid fascination. The box continued to short circuit around the body, and all around the encompassing area the transformers began to shower a spectacle of sparks. Lightning arcs of rampant power surges began to shatter cables. The station’s transformers began to turn into a forest of flaming brilliance, storms of electricity erupting from all directions.

  The shape continued to walk on. The last of his presence developed into a silhouette against the festivity of powerful light, then it disappeared in the direction of the town and into the night.

  In the streets of Haddonfield, true and ultimate darkness set in.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Throughout the entire town, darkness set in as the electrical power died. Parents rushed their children into cars. Others pulled their kids from the sidewalk and behind closed doors, a sense of undefined panic clouded their faces.

  Panic indeed. It ran rampant through Haddonfield this Halloween night. Panic of not knowing what was going on, panic spawned by what the news people were saying on their television sets intermingled with the sudden power failure. Some didn’t take the mysterious circumstances all too seriously, thinking that the whole thing would all blow over shortly and that the town would be up again on its feet. But there were the others, terrified, not knowing what to do except to heed the final words of the news report and to stick close together with their families behind locked doors, huddled close to burning candles and emergency kerosene lamps.

  Jamie wandered through the darkened streets as the last remaining children were scurried into cars and driven off, including the small band that she had joined. Kyle had been suddenly picked up by his mother, who had scolded him for failing to come when she called him over the first time.

  Now, she was left alone.

  She didn’t understand what was going on. All she knew was that all the lights in all the houses and all the street lamps around her had died, and right before that parents had shown up, grabbing their kids in a frantic rush and taking them home. Something was certainly wrong here, and not Jamie was certainly scared. She looked around for Rachel, but her foster sister was no where to be found.

  “Rachel?” she
cried out once, and once was enough. Her own voice frightened her, perhaps because its echoes made her realize how alone she was in the darkened street.

  Now, there was only wind and silence. She turned and began to cross the deserted street, eyes darting this way and that, searching for any sign of

  Rachel…..or even somebody....as long as it wasn’t……the nightmare man.

  No; please, no. She didn’t want to think about that. Not now, not ever. But there, in the darkness, when everyone suddenly deserts you, a little girl’s thoughts could run wild.

  She’d dare not think of him. She’d dare not think of how she stepped into her uncle at the Discount Mart, how he scared her, how he reached out.”

  Then it hit her. Maybe that was why everyone suddenly went away. Maybe it was because the nightmare man was coming.

  No, Jamie. Don’t think about it. Don’t even. You’re just getting yourself even more scared than ever.

  She was shivering. She realized she had to look for Rachel, and that Rachel was probably looking for her, too.

  Please, God. Don’t let anything happen to Rachel. Please.

  Jamie didn’t know that what she was fearing all along was just behind her, a little way into the darkness along the street’s opposite side, tracking her, watching her every move through the hollow of its mask. Finally, it appeared almost directly behind her, stepping out into the middle of the lane.

  Jamie reached another corner and stopped. The sound of another pair of footsteps continued for another second longer from her rear, then stopped as well. Quickly; the little girl spun around towards the sound.

  There was nothing but emptiness.

  “Rachel?” she called out, her voice cracking. “Is that you?”

  Still, there was nothing. No answer.

  She turned and proceeded around the vacant street, the eeriness of her haunting surroundings growing, aching throughout her mind and tugging on her nerves.

  Stopping in her tracks once more, the second echoing steps continued. They were closer now. Then they halted.