"Uncle!"
Jamie was too young to know how to poker-face, the fear-ridden expression clearly written on the eight-year-old child's small, pale face as adrenaline coursed through her veins, making her feel as if her throat threatened to rip itself from its designated, anatomical place. Every fiber in her being told her to run, to hide—but, instead, she continued to remain laying inside of the coffin, frozen and fear-struck as the knife that threatened to impale her dangled dauntingly above her. Jamie made her bed, and now she would lie in it; more than prepped to be buried in her sparkly pink fairy dress in a coffin too big, yet too small to contain the grandiose size of her fear she's carried with her all these years. There was only one thing Jamie could do in this situation; pray that he wouldn't kill her.
"Mr. Boogeyman?"
Jamie could barely breathe, and her voice came out forced and quivering almost as if someone was choking her. The eight-year-old's heartbeat was like an equestrian horse galloping, determined to complete the final lap and place first overall. All the child wanted to do was curl up into a ball and wait for someone, anyone to save her; but, no one would because no one was there... it was just four walls and a roof, Jamie, and him—Michael Myers, himself; her long-feared, dreaded, and unnerving uncle. The only one who could save Jamie Lloyd in this situation was none other than Jamie herself.
The shape stood before her with knife in hand, and Jamie was more than aware that that hand was ready to use the knife to impale at any sudden shift or movement. The young girl needed to act carefully, and most importantly, intelligently, if she wanted to survive this very Halloween night.
Jamie watched the masked figure carefully as she aggressively swallowed the knot in her throat in an attempt to disregard her fear, but it was still there—the fear always was after the car accident that stole her mother's fragile life, leaving Jamie knowing that Michael had a new goal now; however, the eight-year-old needed to have courage and act in a faith of bravery with the provided moment at hand—Michael wasn't going to hurt her—at this instance, at least, for he was unmoving. The only sign of life that repeatedly emerged from the figure was heavy, labored breathing from behind the mask.
What was behind the mask?
"Let me... see?" Jamie slowly pointed a figure towards her own face, gently tapping her cheek as she trembled. "...See?"
A momentary silence ensued, other than the shape's great deal of volume from breathing, before Michael hesitantly drew back the knife and slowly began peeling back the mask, revealing his face that had once remained unseen to the eight-year-old child. What Jamie saw was not what she previously predicted; instead, she saw a sadness in Michael's eyes, for the brown tints were too glossy. Jamie's brown hues wandered the man's face, her eyes slowly looking him once over, then again, and again; for his hair was a dirty blonde shade, but his eyes were nearly identical to hers—much of his appearance was, and it was almost as if she was staring into a reflection of her own, which was something she couldn't and could never do with the current family she called her own.
Jamie was aware that being lonely and alone were very much two different things, and for once, she didn't feel the isolation of not having a biological family.
"You look... just like me."
And soon, she watched a tear emerge and roll down the shape's—her uncle's—face, and she reached out to touch him—to comfort him—like she wished someone would have done for her after all the years of living in fear... of living alone.
What an unfortunate mistake.