Disclaimer:
Almost all the characters in the following story are the sole property of companies and
persons other than the author. Their use herein should be considered no challenge to that
ownership whatsoever. Please don't sue.
Note:
The author considers everything that happened in Halloween: The Curse of Michael
Myers and Halloween: H20 to be pure fantasy and not inclusive to the Halloween timeline. If
you saw the films, you'd understand why.
Comments are demanded.
Samhain
An X-Files/Halloween story
by jimmy4eyes
jimmy4eyes@yahoo.com
One
1.
Oxford, England
November 2, 1989
11.21pm
A rumble of thunder woke Sam Loomis before anything else.
He lay in the dark of the bedroom. Somewhere outside the shutters, faraway lightning
flickered. Another peal followed, very slowly. Rain still pattered on the sill, but the storm was
dying out. It was too hot. Abby turned the furnace up again.
Sam stared at the ceiling. Beside him, Abby continued to sleep, undisturbed. Her
breathing was gentle, like the rainfall. It should have soothed him back into his dreams. Instead,
he listened to the night and did not go back to sleep.
Something's wrong.
He was not a believer in premonition. Sensations of foreboding, phone calls from dead
family members and all that nonsense. His father would have a different opinion, probably, but
then he'd spent the last twenty years of his life locked into orbit around a psychopathic madman.
Some of it had to rub off eventually, right?
Even so, his heart felt heavy. It wasn't fatigue. Something else, then. Soul-tiredness. The
quintessential "bad feeling." Of course it made him think of his father. Disagreeable things often
did.
Abby's breathing hitched, changed rhythm. She stirred beside him. A hand crept out from
beneath the covers, grasped his bare shoulder gently. "You're cold," she said to him. She was
still half-asleep.
"It's all right." Sam covered her hand with his own. Small, delicate hand. Delicate
enough to make his own look strong. Mother always said he had the hands of a musician, not a
working man. No wonder he took to academics so easily. Written in the genes. "I'm fine."
"Should I turn the furnace up?" Abby asked.
Sam smiled. "No, please. Don't. It's all right."
"Why are you awake?"
"Why are you?" Sam asked.
Abby rolled onto her back. Golden-blonde hair spilled into her face. She brushed it away,
rubbed her eyes sleepily. Like always, she wore a nightgown of flannel. The furnace up and a
flannel gown. Sam didn't know how she could stand it. "Don't analyze me, Doctor Loomis. You
woke me."
"I didn't make a sound."
"You woke me," Abby insisted.
"All right," Sam said. "I woke you. Now back to sleep."
"What time is it?"
Sam glanced at the clock. "Almost half-past."
"You'll be tired for classes in the morning."
"I don't have classes in the morning. Nothing tomorrow. Go to sleep, dearest."
Abby was clearly awake now. The bed shook as she bunched her pillow beneath her
head, half sat up to look right at Sam. "Are you having nightmares again?"
"No," Sam said. "Honestly. I just. . . woke."
Lightning flickered. A long moment passed before the thunder. Abby shivered. "I never
liked storms. Did I tell you that?"
"On our first date," Sam said.
They laughed a little at that. "The infamous first date," Abby said. "Why did you ever
agree to see me again after that, Mr. Loomis?"
"Because then I never would have married, Mrs. Loomis," Sam said. He hugged her
close. "It'll take more than a shower to separate me from you."
"That depends on how many showers you miss," Abby said, and nudged him in the side.
"Or isn't that what you meant?"
Sam laughed. "That's not what I meant."
They kissed. Abby smiled at Sam, then shrieked. "Stop tickling! Good Lord!"
"I'm not doing anything," Sam said. He continued to tickle her.
"You bloody reprobate!" Abby said. "I'll get you for--"
The phone rang in the next room. All the house's stillness was shattered.
They stopped in mid-tussle. Sam pulled the covers aside, slipped out of bed. He wore
striped boxers and nothing else. The floor was cold under his feet.
"How can you stand to be half naked in this chill?" Abby asked.
"It's like Africa in here, darling," Sam replied. "I'll be right back."
"Are you expecting a call?"
"No." Sam padded out of the bedroom, down the hall to the study. The phone rang
insistently. He picked it up on the sixth ring. "Loomis residence. It's quite late."
The phone line crackled. Sam heard ghost voices on the line. International call.
"Samuel?" a woman's voice asked.
Sam's heart skipped. "Mother? Where are you? What's happened?"
Sniffling on the other end. Dora Loomis-Caldwell's voice was ragged, barely
recognizable. She'd been crying quite a lot. "Samuel, I have bad news for you."
"Mother, what is it?" The bad feeling returned. Unsettling in his stomach. Pressure
behind the forehead. "Speak to me."
"Samuel. It's. . . it's your father."
"What about him?"
"He's dead."
2.
Haddonfield, Illinois
November 16, 1989
Sam stood in the short foyer of the house. He wore his only suit: a dark silk one that only
saw use during faculty functions. Or funerals. A black band was tight around his right arm. A
mourning band. He'd never worn one.
Mother and Abby were outside. This wasn't for them.
It was dark and small inside the house. Through one side of the foyer, his father's study
was clearly visible. Heaps of papers, haphazardly-stacked books. Sketches adorned the walls. On
the other side of the foyer, the living room. A few photographs on the mantel. A half-burned log
waiting inside.
The lawyer was somewhere else, doing something. Sam couldn't remember the man's
name. Some kind of Irish-sounding appellation. Grady, or something. Nevertheless, he'd return
soon.
Sam wandered into the living room.
All the photos were old. Sam recognized Mother, much younger. In some of the pictures,
a child Sam Loomis, Jr. appeared. Black-haired and thin. Nose too big. Much like himself today.
"There you are," the lawyer said. He appeared in the foyer. A stack of papers were
clutched under one arm. He brandished another. It was official-looking, backed in stiff blue
paperboard. "Catching up?"
Sam turned away from the fireplace. He felt almost guilty. "Yes," he said.
A few pieces of furniture here. Rocking chair with a blanket. A low coffee table laden
down with texts. An overstuffed Victorian chair, the upholstery on the arms worn off. The
lawyer followed Sam's gaze around the room. "It's lived-in," he said. "Doesn't have a bad value,
either. Shouldn't have any problem selling it."
"What?" Sam blinked. He'd almost drifted off somewhere else. The image in his mind
wasn't the room: it was the zoo. Do you want a balloon, Sammy? his father asked him. Dora,
let's get him a balloon. "I'm sorry. What?"
"I guess you want to sell it," the lawyer said.
"It's mine then, is it?" Sam asked.
The lawyer nodded and smiled. "You were his sole beneficiary. Official reading of the
will isn't until tomorrow. Twenty-four hours after the funeral, and all that. However, I don't
expect anyone to contest his wishes. Even if he was a little. . . odd."
Sam looked at the lawyer. "What do you mean?"
The smile faded. "Well, Dr. Loomis had a reputation in Haddonfield for eccentricity.
Because of, well, because of the trouble."
"Trouble," Sam said levelly.
"Uh, yes. You know, um. . ." The lawyer hesitated, as if the words were difficult to
speak. His face reddened. "You do know, don't you? I mean, the FBI's been crawling all over
town for weeks."
"I know about Michael Myers," Sam said.
A cold silence descended on the living room. The lawyer's face froze. Sam recognized
the look: fear. Neither of them spoke. From the study, a grandfather clock sounded the half-hour.
"I'll have the paperwork sent to your hotel," the lawyer said at last.
"Thank you," Sam said.
"Is there anything else?" the lawyer asked. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet.
"No," Sam said flatly. "Thank you very much, Mr. Grady."
"Graby," the lawyer corrected.
"Yes, thank you. You've been a great help."
The lawyer put a set of keys on the stand by the door. "There you go," he said. A moment
later, he was out the front door. It slammed behind him. Sam watched him go through the front
window, straight past Mother and Abby to his car without a word.
Sam left the living room, picked up the keys. Two. One for the front door, the other for
the back. He paused before leaving, cast a look back at the study.
So many papers. The office looked like a whirlwind had gone through it.
He entered the study. Father had a roll-top desk with a manual typewriter on it. A page
was still on the roller, partially written on. A three-inch column of yellowing paper sat to the
right of the keys.
Sam picked them up, flipped them over to see the first page.
THE CASE OF MICHAEL MYERS:
Studies in Personified Evil
by
Dr. Samuel L. Loomis, Sr.
3.
Schofield, Illinois
October 29, 1996
5.57pm
The neighborhood was small and unassuming. A row of similar, white-painted houses
with charcoal-colored roofs. Across the street from them, long fields. In the planting season,
there would be corn. Now there was fallow ground.
A swarm of police cars were parked on the driveway and part-way on the front lawn of
the house. By the curb, three Medical Examiners' vans sat heel-to-toe. Yellow POLICE LINE
tape surrounded the area at a distance of thirty yards. Outside of it, a handful of onlookers. A
television remote van there, too. A pair of techs put together a stand-up while the reporter went
over notes.
The rental Taurus approached the line. A cop stepped out into the street and waved it to a
stop. Behind the wheel, Dana Scully rolled down her window.
"This a crime scene, ma'am," the cop said.
Scully showed her ID. Beside her, in the passenger seat, Fox Mulder flipped open his
own. "Special Agents Dana Scully and Fox Mulder. We're with the FBI," Scully said. "You
were supposed to expect us."
The cop nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry. Sheriff Blaine will be glad to see you. Park
anywhere. I'll get the tape."
Scully guided the Taurus underneath the tape as the cop held it up. Mulder looked out his
window. "Hell of a place for a massacre," he said.
"It takes all kinds," Scully said. She parked the car in front of the lead ME van, killed the
engine. "Even the heartland."
Mulder unbuckled his seat belt. He spared a glance at the faces of kids and other people
watching the house. Everyone was bundled against the early winter chill. Apple cheeks all
around. "Place like this, they should all be home carving jack o' lanterns. Not looking for dead
bodies."
They got out of the car together. Over by the TV van, the reporter gestured wildly for her
crew to get a shot of Scully and Mulder crossing the lawn to the house.
A short man emerged from the front door as they approached. His Smoky hat was down
low, shading his brow completely. A dark slab of mustache decorated a flat, roughly-hewn face.
He wore a sheriff's badge. His nametag said BLAIN. "You them?" he asked.
"I believe so," Mulder said. He extended a hand. "Fox Mulder. This is Dana Scully.
Thanks for calling us in."
Blaine shrugged, didn't take Mulder's hand. "Figured we might as well. You'd be around
soon enough." He turned his back on them. "Come on inside and see the mess. That's what
you're here for."
Scully looked at Mulder. He raised an eyebrow at her and said nothing.
The inside of the house smelled like cinnamon and raw meat. Scully knew the odor: the
freshly dead. Flashbulbs popped, recharge-whined in the family room up ahead. People crowded
everywhere.
Four bloodstained white sheets covered bodies on the floor. They were arranged in an X,
heads pointed toward each other in the center of the room. Placed at their feet were clay saucers,
a hand-width across. Cones of incense still smoldered on them. The cinnamon-stink was stronger
here.
In the center of the X, a bowl filled with ashes. Flakes of delicate black. Mulder leaned
over it, dipped a pinkie into it. He sniffed the ash residue. "Rose petals," he said. "Burned rose
petals."
"Mother and Father," Sheriff Blaine said. He pointed. "Two kids. Boy and a girl. The
Parkinsons. Good family. Good people. Never thought anything like this would happen to them."
Scully knelt by an adult body, lifted the sheet. Ugly wounds on the neck. Raw and open.
Mulder turned around, surveyed the room. "Who found the bodies?" he asked.
"Next door neighbor's boy. Lyle Marks. Come to see why Jim Parkinson missed football
practice."
The next body was the same. Scully noted identical wounds on the neck. She moved on
to the next. The next. All the same. "Mulder," she said. "Come look at this."
Mulder broke away from the Sheriff. "What is it?"
He knelt beside Scully. She lifted the sheet away from the dead body of a young girl. The
wounds showed raw and red on her throat, livid against the pallor of her skin. Mulder made a
pained face. "These wounds appear on all the victims. And look at the carpet."
Mulder put his hand on Scully's, eased the sheet back down. He motioned toward the
next body. The father. Scully uncovered the man. Mulder's expression relaxed. "Bloodstains," he
said. "That's commensurate with a slashed throat."
"Not wounds this deep," Scully said. "Sheriff, where were the victims killed? Not here,
am I right?"
Blaine stood over them. "No. They were all over the house. Dragged here afterward.
Least, that's what the county coroner's telling me."
Scully nodded. "That seems right. How much blood loss where the killings took place?
Are there large amounts of arterial blood? Spray patterns on the walls or ceiling?"
"Uh, no."
Mulder met her gaze. "Not enough blood," he said.
"We'll have to check to be sure," Scully said.
"What are these, Sheriff?" Mulder asked. He pointed to the back wall of the room. Two
paintings were removed. They rested neatly against either end of a plaid sofa. In their place, two
designs had been sketched in blood. Precise. Neat lines.
"Not sure. Graffiti, looks like. Not letters."
Mulder stood up. "They're runes."
Scully covered the body. "Celtic runes?" she asked.
"Yeah." Mulder turned full-circle again. His eyes fell to the floor. "And look. On the
floor. You can barely see it because the carpet's so dark. There's one on the floor."
The sheriff stepped back sharply. Four nearby policemen stopped in mid-task to stare at
the floor. Scully looked, too. "I don't see anything, Mulder."
"It's there," Mulder said. He strode around the room, pointed down. "The lines are
scattered from people walking through, but the pattern's still there. And there. And there."
Scully's eyes found the thin line Mulder indicated. The carpet was dark, rust-brown,
almost black. A whisper of powder traced a straight line, mussed by cop feet, at an angle to the
bodies. One corner a sharp angle. Down to another, and another. "More ashes?" she asked.
"Looks like it," Mulder said.
Scully tested the consistency of the ash with her fingers, sniffed it. "This isn't from rose
petals."
"Ash," Mulder said.
"Yes," Scully said. "But not rose petals."
"No. Ash ash," Mulder said. "It's a ritual burning. For closing a magical circle."
"So what's this design?"
"A triangle," Mulder said. "On a flat plane. See? The line goes off here and here. Another
rune."
"Meaning what?" Scully asked.
"More Satanic crap," the sheriff said.
"Not Satanic," Mulder said. "Druidic. This is a Druidic rite of murder."
"A what?" Blaine asked.
"Mulder," Scully warned.
Mulder turned to Blaine. "This killer has a knowledge of Druidic rites of death. I don't
know all the details, but the major symbology matches up. Someone performed a specific ritual
here."
Blaine sighed. "What kind of ritual?"
"I don't know." Mulder looked at the wall, the two runes.
"Mulder," Scully said.
Mulder's eyes were distant. Brain working. Thoughts in-progress.
"Mulder!" Scully repeated, more sharply.
He snapped out of it. "Yes?"
"Let's look at the rest of the house."
"Good idea," Mulder said. "Thanks for your help, Sheriff. We can take it from here."
They left Blaine staring at their backs, a strange look on his face.
4.
St. Mary's Home for Girls
Haddonfield, Illinois
6.30pm
"Jamie, where are you? It's time to set the table for supper!"
Sister Harriet's voice carried up from the first floor of the house, down the long hallway
to the far bedroom and to Jamie Lloyd's ears. It even broke through the medium-loud noise of
Green Day pumping through the speakers of her boom box.
. . . sometimes I give myself the creeps. . .
Jamie lay sprawled out across her single bed, arms holding a copy of YM suspended over
her. The headline for this article read, "Obsessive Boyfriend Trouble? How to Tell Him It's All
Over." There was a quiz attached.
"Jamie, do you hear me?" Sister Harriet's voice keened.
. . .sometimes my mind plays tricks on me. . .
"I hear you," Jamie muttered. "Old bitch."
"Jamie!"
"I'm coming!" Jamie shouted back. "Keep your hair on!"
. . .it all keeps adding up, I think I'm cracking up. . .
Jamie tossed the magazine aside and sat up in a huff. "Nobody else gets yelled at all
day," she said. Glance around the dorm room. Nothing but empty beds on either side of the long
space. Neatly made, two shelves over the head for personal belongings and a footlocker for
clothes.
. . .am I just paranoid, I'm just st--
"Fine." She killed the music. "I'll set the table."
She bounced on the bed, then got up. Her sneakers lay on the floor. A second's pause to
put them on. The sisters never liked anyone to come to supper without their shoes on. Even in the
dead of summer.
On the way out of the room, she caught sight of herself in the long mirror by the door.
She paused to check her hair. Mousy brown, pulled back into a ponytail and secured with a
rubber band. Nothing to bring the boys running.
"God," she said and turned sideways. Sixteen and still no bosom to speak of. She pushed
her chest out, sucked in her stomach. It was no use. No matter what she tried, she still had the
lanky build of a track runner. Of course, on a good day she thought she had a sort of Kate Moss
look. On a good day. "Yuck."
She tramped down the hall to the stairs. In the other rooms, younger girls were folding
sheets or doing other chores. Always something to do at St. Mary's Home. Jamie thought they
ought to paint, "Idle hands are the Devil's workshop" over the doors on the way in.
"There you are," Sister Harriet said when Jamie entered the downstairs dining room. Two
long tables. Thirty chairs in all. Five for the sisters. Uncomfortable chairs with straight wooden
backs. Antique tables with a billion scratches on them. A wide mirror hung on one wall above
the sideboard. "Where've you been hiding?"
"Nowhere," Jamie said glumly.
"Well, it's almost time for dinner. Get those place settings out. You don't want to keep
Sister Elizabeth waiting, do you?"
Jamie went to the sideboard, got out the placemats. "No, of course not."
"And watch your tone."
"Yes, ma'am."
Sister Harriet lingered for a moment, then vanished into the kitchen. Jamie made a face in
her general direction. "Old bitch," she said again.
First the placemats, then the napkins. The Home's flatware was dull stainless steel. No
real silver in this place. Couldn't trust the girls here with that kind of thing. They were lucky to
get knives.
Jamie worked one side of the table, then the other. She went back for more placemats,
began to set the next table. It was mind-numbing rote work. Like every other chore in the Home.
That was the idea. Grind those old-fashioned values in the old-fashioned way. By turning your
brain into Jell-O.
The mirror was across from her. She glimpsed it out of the corner of her eye as she
worked. It had a gilt frame. Once she'd looked real close at it, and saw that the silver reflective
stuff was rotting away. Some parts of the mirror, around the edges, were black and didn't shine
at all. She didn't know mirrors got old.
She returned to the sideboard for the flatware. Handful of forks in her left, knives in her
right.
She looked up.
He stood right behind her.
The wide frame of his chest framed her body. His dark, dark clothes. Some kind of
jumpsuit. And the ghostly white pallor of his rubber face. The Mask. Shock of dull hair. Black
holes for eyes. Doll's eyes.
A blade flashed in his upraised hand.
Jamie screamed. Flatware hit the floor and scattered. She whirled around, lashed out with
her hands. Hurt him? Drive him off? Impossible. But she could--
No one there. The dining room was empty.
She took an unsteady step away, tripped on loose flatware, fell to the floor. Her elbow
smacked wood and skinned. "Damnit!" she shouted.
Sister Harriet hurried into the room. Right behind her, Sister Elizabeth. The iron-gray hair
twins. "What in Heaven's name is going on?" Sister Harriet demanded. "What happened?"
"Nothing!" Jamie snapped. She got off the floor, quickly, brushed at her elbow.
Fingertips came away red. Bloody gash in the skin. "I fell."
Sister Elizabeth stepped forward. Her flat face was grim. It was always grim. "Look at
this mess," she said flatly. "All of these pieces will have to be cleaned. And you've hurt yourself.
Go find the first aid kit."
Her heart was beating too fast, her breath shallow. Without thinking, Jamie fisted her
hands and hit them behind her back. She didn't want anyone to see them shaking. No one else in
the room. Nowhere for him to hide.
"Are you listening to Sister Elizabeth?" Sister Harriet asked sharply.
Jamie blinked. Flash-image of him behind her lids. White rubber flesh. Bottomless pits
for eyes. The same, bizarrely neutral expression, neither angry nor sad. A nothing face. A shape.
"Jamie!"
Wake up! "Yes, Sister," Jamie said.
"Pick those up and take them to the kitchen," Sister Harriet said. "Then clean that cut.
You can wash the dishes after dinner with the E-room girls."
Jamie gritted her teeth. "All right, Sister."
"Go on."
She collected the flatware and took it to the kitchen. Sister Elizabeth gave her a
poisonous look, but didn't waste any more breath complaining. Smart move. Another word out
of her and. . . well, maybe not right away. Later.
In the bathroom, she touched up the cut with alcohol. Jamie winced at the sting.
When she closed the medicine cabinet, she was the only one in the mirror. Nothing but an
empty shower behind her. The towel closet was too small to hold him. Safe in here. Sturdy lock
on the door. All the locks were sturdy. She checked them one by one when she first came here.
How long before she could sleep nights without waking up at every sound? Not the first
year. Not even the second year. How long before she stopped being afraid of the dark? The other
kids laughed at her night light.
"What's the matter, Jamie?" they asked. "Scared of monsters?"
They didn't understand.
Sometimes monsters are real.
5.
They drove past a brightly colored sign by the side of the road: HADDONFIELD,
ILLINOIS -- A FAMILY COMMUNITY! A row of smaller signs, Rotary, VFW and others,
lined the bottom half of the display. Behind them, the sun gave out its last rays of the day and
settled below the horizon.
Scully glanced back at it. The first row of houses approached fast. She slowed to observe
the posted speed limit. "I told you this was the wrong way, Mulder. Schofield is west."
"I know," Mulder said. He leafed idly through a copy of Sports Illustrated. Surprisingly,
it wasn't the swimsuit edition. "I didn't want to stay in Schofield."
"Any particular reason? That is where the case is," Scully said.
"No nightlife." Mulder put the magazine away.
Scully sighed. "Do you know where we are?"
"It's twenty miles out of the way," Mulder said. "That's nothing compared to
Washington traffic. We can be back in Schofield first thing in the morning for the coroner's
report."
"What about a hotel?" Scully asked. "I made reservations in Schofield."
"I know. I canceled them." Mulder grinned at her. "Don't worry. I have friends here. We
can find a place to stay in town."
Children played on lawns in the failing light. The streetlamps were already on. Two
teenagers played Frisbee with a dog. A man coming out to get his evening paper waved at Scully
as they drove by. She half-waved back, felt stupid and stopped. "You have friends who live in a
Norman Rockwell painting?" Scully asked.
Mulder laughed. "A friend, actually. From college."
"An Oxford friend?"
"Yeah, he moved here after his father died. We graduated together. He stayed on staff for
a while, got married. The usual things."
"What's his name?"
"Sam. Sam Loomis."
Scully drove a few blocks. Town center was dead ahead. New England-style buildings. A
church steeple. All the leaves were a riot of fading colors. Her first impression was right: this
place was a Rockwell. "Do you know his address?"
"No," Mulder said. "I thought I'd call him and get directions."
They passed a line of shops. A family emerged from a small grocery store pulling two-
wheeled wire carts. Smiling faces. A happy town. Mulder took out his cell phone, dialed a
number.
"Something weird, Mulder," Scully said.
Mulder held the phone between cheek and shoulder, rummaged in his pockets for
something. "What's that? Clean air?"
"No." Scully looked around. She slowed to take a corner, looked again. "There's no
Halloween decorations anywhere. No pumpkins. None of that. Not even a witch cut-out."
"You mean you don't know?" Mulder asked. He folded his phone up, put it in his pocket.
"No answer. I'll try later."
"Know what?" Scully asked.
"This is Haddonfield," Mulder said. "That doesn't sound familiar?"
Scully thought. Then it clicked. "The Myers killings?"
"On the nose," Mulder said. "Three separate murder sprees over a ten-year span. Seven
years ago, the entire police force was killed during a breakout. The Bureau had thirty agents on
it. I'm surprised you didn't realize we were in 'Halloween Killer' country."
"Nineteen eighty-nine was a year before I joined the Bureau," Scully said. "I heard about
it, but. . . he's still on the loose, isn't he?"
"Michael Myers?" Mulder looked out the window. Three kids on bikes smiled and waved
at him as they passed. He grinned and waved back. "Maybe. From what I understand, he wasn't
exactly a well-rounded gentleman. Seven years in the outside world is a long time for a lunatic."
"It's like something you scare your kids to sleep with," Scully said. "I remember the
stories in the paper. All those families. It was horrible."
"He killed a dozen people the first time he escaped," Mulder said. "Another twenty or so
the second time. The third time, well. . . he makes Ted Bundy look like an Amway salesman."
The joke bounced off Scully. She shook her head slowly. "Halloween. No wonder they
don't celebrate the holiday," Scully said.
Mulder nodded. "Banned. Maybe they'll bring it back in time for the millennium."
Scully shuddered. "Well, what now? Your friend isn't answering?"
"No. Let's stop up there at that restaurant and get something to eat," Mulder said. "I don't
know about you, but I'm starved."
"What do you want?" Scully asked. She steered over, put her blinker on. The few other
drivers moved smoothly around her. No cut-offs. No blaring horns. It almost made her nervous.
"Anything. As long as it doesn't have cinnamon on it."
6.
The sun was gone from the sky. Over the treetops, rust-red and bloated, a harvest moon,
almost full, shone bright. It was a softer light. One better suited to him.
He walked along an old dirt road, kept a steady pace. Silver-capped boot-tips blinked in
the half-glow of the moon. With each step, his spurs clinked. A musical jingle. Like a tiny bell. It
soothed him.
chink. . . chink. . .
A wide-brimmed slouch hat shadowed the man's face into deep night. He preferred it that
way. Bright light hurt his eyes. The gloom was much better. Secrets were hidden more readily in
the dark.
His arms were tired, but it wasn't much farther now. Each hand gripped two plastic bags.
They sloshed when he walked, heavy with liquid. The cuffs of his long, black coat were shot.
Each time his right arm swung forward, the rune sign on his wrist was exposed.
A tattered shape loomed on the road ahead, shielded by trees, concealed by the night.
Broad wooden steps, rotted with disuse. Open windows with shattered panes. Dangling shutters.
A clearing of gravel and weeds on one side used to be a parking lot.
The man mounted the steps. He easily sidestepped the weak spots. This was familiar
ground. Over the entrance, a faded sign read: MCSWEENEY'S ACRES -- A Fine Quality Rest
Home.
Inside it was pitch dark. The man navigated by feel. Down winding, narrow halls. Deep
into the old house. Boards squeaked. The walls settled a little every day. He was careful not to
catch the bags on any splinters or visible nails. Every drop was important.
At last he came to wide room at the back of the house. An old skylight let in the moon's
illumination. Rays of burnt orange light fell to the floor. And on him.
The man never saw him move. He did, but never when the man was around. When food
was left for him, he ate it. At some point he must go out to relieve himself, but the man had never
seen it. The rest of the time, he sat. And waited.
His back was to the man. Moonlight cast a strange aura through the bristly mane of hair
that spiked up from his mask. The bloodless shade of the mask's skin glowed. If he heard the
man approach, he gave no outward indication of it. He was utterly still.
Seven years of immobility. The man did not understand it. But enough was enough.
Tonight it would end. There was work to be done. The gateway must be completed, even with
the cost of blood.
The man put the bags down. They were secured shut, bulged obscenely when they rested
on the floor. Rich, meaty crimson, black in the moon's luminescence.
He circled around, in front of him. No sign of recognition in the black sockets of the
mask. Not a flicker of movement. The man heard raspy breathing behind the rubber face. Steady.
Undisturbed.
Night deepened. The moon rose higher, until it filled the panes of the skylight. Nearly
time. Another festival drew close. The smell of it was powerful to the man. He had to smell it,
too. How could he not? He carried the gateway in his blood.
The man traced a series of runes in the air before him. Transference. Release. Power.
Blood. Death. Unity. Hearth.
His head twitched at the last. A tiny inclination of the chin, barely noticeable. The man
smiled to himself in the deep shadow of his face. He always understood the tenet of the Hearth. It
was his credo.
Back to the bags. First the blood of the oldest member. The man pierced the plastic with
one gloved finger. A trickle started. Careful to use each drop, the man walked a rune around him.
Unity. Center of the family. Father-Creator.
When it was done, the man opened a second bag. He sketched a second rune with the
falling drops. The power rune. The one he understood best. Hearth. Warm heart of the family.
Blood of the boy-child, almost a man. Transference. As father to son, so from veins to
veins. Fire inside. Power from male to male.
And the last.
This was the widest rune. It enclosed the rest, gave power to them, lent them its focus.
The man drew this with the blood of the girl-child. The most precious blood. Virgin blood.
Gateway. Passage to life beyond. Channel of the spirits.
The man returned to his place before him. He repeated the runic patterns in the air. With
hands smeared in blood, he flecked him with droplets. Power signs. Demands for strength.
He moved.
Both hands fisted in his lap. The man heard tendons pop. Knuckles whitened. The steady
breath became rough. Shadow covered the shape of his face as the moon shrouded itself with
clouds.
The man's heartbeat quickened. He stood. Slowly. Back straight. They were face-to-face.
Electricity fueled the air. It was time. The stones never lied.
He turned away. Measured steps. In a moment he was gone. The man listened to him
depart until the front steps of the old nursing home squeaked with his passage and left nothing
beyond.
The man drew a last rune. A talisman.
Samhain.
7.
"There he is," Mulder said.
Scully looked up from her plate, out through the front window of the restaurant. She saw
a man approach from across the street. Thin and pale, black hair cropped stylishly short. Hawk-
like nose. Mulder waved to the man and he waved back with a smile.
The restaurant was only half-full at this hour. Today's special was chicken-fried steak
with three side orders. Scully was hardly finished. Mulder polished off his inside twenty minutes
and ordered two desserts.
The man entered the restaurant. A cowbell tinkled on the door.
"Sam," Mulder said. He got up to meet the man.
"Mulder," Sam Loomis said. They shook hands vigorously. Sam looked over at Scully.
"And who is this lovely lady?"
Scully stifled a smile. Sam had very intense, dark eyes. Handsome in an English kind of
way. His accent was pleasant, almost soothing. "Dana Scully," she said. "I'm Mulder's partner.
Pleased to meet you."
"Thank goodness you are," Sam said. He shook her hand, too, but very gently. "Mind if I
sit down? I haven't eaten all day and, frankly, I'm starved."
"No, sit," Mulder said. He made room for Sam to get into the booth on his side.
Sam waved away a menu. "I don't need it. I've been here a hundred times. This is the
only decent restaurant in town." He made an aside to Scully. "Mulder always could sniff out the
best food."
"I noticed," Scully said. Mulder looked embarrassed.
"Lana," Sam called, signaling the waitress. "I'll get the usual."
"Curly or regular fries, Sammy?" the waitress called back.
"Curly."
"All right, honey."
Sam smiled happily. "When did you get into town? Why didn't you call ahead?"
Mulder's expression turned serious. "We're here on work, actually."
"Work?" Sam's face turned noticeably whiter. "Not Michael?"
"Myers?" Mulder chuckled. "No. This was in Schofield. A multiple murder."
"Ah," Sam said, and visibly relaxed. "Good to hear. About Michael, I mean. Not the
murders. You know, we all get a little. . . edgy when you mention his name."
"Did you ever meet him?" Scully asked.
Sam shook his head sharply. "No, I didn't. He'd moved on before I came here. My father
died here in '89. After the last attack."
"I'm sorry."
"So was I," Sam said, and nodded ruefully. "He was good man."
Silence grew around the table. Sam smacked his thigh and smiled. "Well, that's certainly
put a damper on things, hasn't it? Not to worry, we won't talk business until well after dinner.
Perhaps not even then."
"Where's Abby?" Mulder asked. "I thought she'd come with you. Haven't seen her in a
while."
Another bright smile. "Ah, yes. Abby. Well. She left me three years ago," Sam said.
"Last I heard, she was back at Oxford. Reading for her Doctor."
"That's too bad. You should have called," Mulder said.
"Actually, I did. You were in Iowa at the time. Some kind of girl-missing case. The
woman who took my call said it was another one your 'lights in the sky' files. I left a message."
"When I get back, I'll fire my maid," Mulder said.
Sam waved his hands. "But enough of this gloom and doom. I'm glad to see you. We've
got a lot of catching up to do. And I'd like you to have a look at some of my father's papers, if
you have the time. Very interesting stuff I'd like your opinion on."
Mulder cast a look at Scully. "Someone who wants my opinion. How nice."
"What did you father do?" Scully asked Sam.
"He was Michael Myers' therapist," Sam said.
"Michael Myers had a therapist?" Scully asked.
Sam shrugged. "Not the most popular job. Twenty years of work on the case study. I've
spent the time since he died collating, studying and trying to complete what I can on my own, but
it's a daunting task. The research he's done is exhaustive. I'd like to publish it someday."
"Dr. Loomis, Sr. got the Myers case by accident," Mulder said.
"Yes, and after a short while, it became his life," Sam added. "Mine, too, now. I get a
stipend from various sources to continue my research. It isn't a fortune, but it's enough to live
on. And I find the work very rewarding."
"Did Dr. Loomis have any insight into Myers' condition?" Scully asked.
A strange half-smile quirked Sam's face. "Perhaps a little too much insight," he said.
"Doctors are expected to keep a certain amount of intellectual and psychological distance from
their patients. I'm afraid that wasn't the case here."
"Your father became part of the case?" Scully asked.
"You could say that. He was killed apprehending Michael in '89."
Lana, the waitress, brought two steaming plates of food. The cook had built a hamburger
five inches thick, dripping with cheese, bacon and mushrooms. A mound of fresh curly fries
piled on the next plate.
"Fantastic," Sam said. "Thank you ever so much, Lana."
"Sprite?" the waitress asked.
"If you would be so kind," Sam replied. "Thank you."
Mulder watched Sam douse the entire concoction in steak sauce. "You still eat like a
college student," he said. "What does that do to your insides?"
"Eating's my vice," Sam replied. "Though you can't tell. I don't think I'll ever put any
weight on. Of course, don't single me out for bad habits, old friend. You still looking at dirty
books?"
A red color rose to Mulder's face. Scully couldn't resist a smile.
Sam didn't have to look. "I thought so. You know, Dana, it was like an adult bookshop in
our room at Oxford. Racks of the stuff. I used to sell the old ones to make extra spending
money."
Mulder rubbed his eyes. "So that's what happened to my favorite leg magazine."
Sam laughed. "I knew you'd still remember that."
His good humor was infectious. They all cracked.
"It's good to see you, Mulder," Sam said at last. "It's been too long."
8.
It was dark inside the parked Fairlane. A little light came from the radio in the dash,
playing rock and roll softly. The fat harvest moon was hidden behind the clouds. Outside it was
cold, but inside Sherry and Tim kept the windows fogged.
They kissed. Tim fondled her through the front of her sweater, but didn't push it. That's
what she liked about him: he listened to what she wanted and didn't get "carried away," like
some other guys she could mention.
Maybe they would go all the way tonight. Sherry didn't know for sure. It wouldn't be the
first time for her, but she thought it might be for him. Would it be like the rest of it? Would he
wait for her? Think of her?
He kissed her again. They touched tongues. Soft. Warm.
This could be a good time to find out, Sherry thought.
"I love you," Tim said.
"I love you, too," Sherry replied. And she meant it. So they were only seventeen. You
could know what love was when you were seventeen. Look at Romeo and Juliet. "I do love you,
Tim."
He pulled away from her. "Do you think maybe. . . you know, maybe we could. . . I don't
know. I thought we might. . ."
Cloud cover broke outside. Moonlight turned the fog on the windows into a billion tiny
crystals of fire. This far outside of town, without any streetlamps, it was bright enough to read by
the glow of the stars, sometimes.
"I think we could," Sherry said. "But we have to be careful. I want to, but we have to be
careful. I don't want to rush into anything."
"I love you," Tim insisted. He moved for her.
Sherry held him back. "Tim, wait. Let's go slow."
Tim's face fell. "All right."
The clouds shuttled across the sky overhead. New light cast across the window at Tim's
back. A shadow blotted out the space right behind him. It moved.
"Oh my God!" Sherry screamed.
"What?" Tim turned in his seat, struggled with the interfering steering wheel.
The glass of the window smashed in. A hand lunged through the broken pane, seized Tim
by the throat. His shouts cut off sharply, gagged by a tight grip. Cold air knifed through the
warm interior of the car.
Sherry shrieked, hammered ineffectually at the door lock on her side.
Tim made a gurgling noise. Sherry glanced back, saw blood streaming over the fingers
lodged in his throat. Torn skin and ruptured tissue.
She got the door open, fell onto the dirt road outside. Tears filled her eyes. Her breath
came in gagging sobs. No other sound emerged from inside the car.
No looking back. No more. She scrabbled to her feet. The skin on her hands was
lacerated from the gravel. Headlong into the darkness. Only Tim knew this place. She didn't
know where the road led, where it emerged, nothing.
She was lost.
And he was right behind her.
She didn't have to see his face to know him.
Michael Myers.
Almost all the characters in the following story are the sole property of companies and
persons other than the author. Their use herein should be considered no challenge to that
ownership whatsoever. Please don't sue.
Note:
The author considers everything that happened in Halloween: The Curse of Michael
Myers and Halloween: H20 to be pure fantasy and not inclusive to the Halloween timeline. If
you saw the films, you'd understand why.
Comments are demanded.
Samhain
An X-Files/Halloween story
by jimmy4eyes
jimmy4eyes@yahoo.com
One
1.
Oxford, England
November 2, 1989
11.21pm
A rumble of thunder woke Sam Loomis before anything else.
He lay in the dark of the bedroom. Somewhere outside the shutters, faraway lightning
flickered. Another peal followed, very slowly. Rain still pattered on the sill, but the storm was
dying out. It was too hot. Abby turned the furnace up again.
Sam stared at the ceiling. Beside him, Abby continued to sleep, undisturbed. Her
breathing was gentle, like the rainfall. It should have soothed him back into his dreams. Instead,
he listened to the night and did not go back to sleep.
Something's wrong.
He was not a believer in premonition. Sensations of foreboding, phone calls from dead
family members and all that nonsense. His father would have a different opinion, probably, but
then he'd spent the last twenty years of his life locked into orbit around a psychopathic madman.
Some of it had to rub off eventually, right?
Even so, his heart felt heavy. It wasn't fatigue. Something else, then. Soul-tiredness. The
quintessential "bad feeling." Of course it made him think of his father. Disagreeable things often
did.
Abby's breathing hitched, changed rhythm. She stirred beside him. A hand crept out from
beneath the covers, grasped his bare shoulder gently. "You're cold," she said to him. She was
still half-asleep.
"It's all right." Sam covered her hand with his own. Small, delicate hand. Delicate
enough to make his own look strong. Mother always said he had the hands of a musician, not a
working man. No wonder he took to academics so easily. Written in the genes. "I'm fine."
"Should I turn the furnace up?" Abby asked.
Sam smiled. "No, please. Don't. It's all right."
"Why are you awake?"
"Why are you?" Sam asked.
Abby rolled onto her back. Golden-blonde hair spilled into her face. She brushed it away,
rubbed her eyes sleepily. Like always, she wore a nightgown of flannel. The furnace up and a
flannel gown. Sam didn't know how she could stand it. "Don't analyze me, Doctor Loomis. You
woke me."
"I didn't make a sound."
"You woke me," Abby insisted.
"All right," Sam said. "I woke you. Now back to sleep."
"What time is it?"
Sam glanced at the clock. "Almost half-past."
"You'll be tired for classes in the morning."
"I don't have classes in the morning. Nothing tomorrow. Go to sleep, dearest."
Abby was clearly awake now. The bed shook as she bunched her pillow beneath her
head, half sat up to look right at Sam. "Are you having nightmares again?"
"No," Sam said. "Honestly. I just. . . woke."
Lightning flickered. A long moment passed before the thunder. Abby shivered. "I never
liked storms. Did I tell you that?"
"On our first date," Sam said.
They laughed a little at that. "The infamous first date," Abby said. "Why did you ever
agree to see me again after that, Mr. Loomis?"
"Because then I never would have married, Mrs. Loomis," Sam said. He hugged her
close. "It'll take more than a shower to separate me from you."
"That depends on how many showers you miss," Abby said, and nudged him in the side.
"Or isn't that what you meant?"
Sam laughed. "That's not what I meant."
They kissed. Abby smiled at Sam, then shrieked. "Stop tickling! Good Lord!"
"I'm not doing anything," Sam said. He continued to tickle her.
"You bloody reprobate!" Abby said. "I'll get you for--"
The phone rang in the next room. All the house's stillness was shattered.
They stopped in mid-tussle. Sam pulled the covers aside, slipped out of bed. He wore
striped boxers and nothing else. The floor was cold under his feet.
"How can you stand to be half naked in this chill?" Abby asked.
"It's like Africa in here, darling," Sam replied. "I'll be right back."
"Are you expecting a call?"
"No." Sam padded out of the bedroom, down the hall to the study. The phone rang
insistently. He picked it up on the sixth ring. "Loomis residence. It's quite late."
The phone line crackled. Sam heard ghost voices on the line. International call.
"Samuel?" a woman's voice asked.
Sam's heart skipped. "Mother? Where are you? What's happened?"
Sniffling on the other end. Dora Loomis-Caldwell's voice was ragged, barely
recognizable. She'd been crying quite a lot. "Samuel, I have bad news for you."
"Mother, what is it?" The bad feeling returned. Unsettling in his stomach. Pressure
behind the forehead. "Speak to me."
"Samuel. It's. . . it's your father."
"What about him?"
"He's dead."
2.
Haddonfield, Illinois
November 16, 1989
Sam stood in the short foyer of the house. He wore his only suit: a dark silk one that only
saw use during faculty functions. Or funerals. A black band was tight around his right arm. A
mourning band. He'd never worn one.
Mother and Abby were outside. This wasn't for them.
It was dark and small inside the house. Through one side of the foyer, his father's study
was clearly visible. Heaps of papers, haphazardly-stacked books. Sketches adorned the walls. On
the other side of the foyer, the living room. A few photographs on the mantel. A half-burned log
waiting inside.
The lawyer was somewhere else, doing something. Sam couldn't remember the man's
name. Some kind of Irish-sounding appellation. Grady, or something. Nevertheless, he'd return
soon.
Sam wandered into the living room.
All the photos were old. Sam recognized Mother, much younger. In some of the pictures,
a child Sam Loomis, Jr. appeared. Black-haired and thin. Nose too big. Much like himself today.
"There you are," the lawyer said. He appeared in the foyer. A stack of papers were
clutched under one arm. He brandished another. It was official-looking, backed in stiff blue
paperboard. "Catching up?"
Sam turned away from the fireplace. He felt almost guilty. "Yes," he said.
A few pieces of furniture here. Rocking chair with a blanket. A low coffee table laden
down with texts. An overstuffed Victorian chair, the upholstery on the arms worn off. The
lawyer followed Sam's gaze around the room. "It's lived-in," he said. "Doesn't have a bad value,
either. Shouldn't have any problem selling it."
"What?" Sam blinked. He'd almost drifted off somewhere else. The image in his mind
wasn't the room: it was the zoo. Do you want a balloon, Sammy? his father asked him. Dora,
let's get him a balloon. "I'm sorry. What?"
"I guess you want to sell it," the lawyer said.
"It's mine then, is it?" Sam asked.
The lawyer nodded and smiled. "You were his sole beneficiary. Official reading of the
will isn't until tomorrow. Twenty-four hours after the funeral, and all that. However, I don't
expect anyone to contest his wishes. Even if he was a little. . . odd."
Sam looked at the lawyer. "What do you mean?"
The smile faded. "Well, Dr. Loomis had a reputation in Haddonfield for eccentricity.
Because of, well, because of the trouble."
"Trouble," Sam said levelly.
"Uh, yes. You know, um. . ." The lawyer hesitated, as if the words were difficult to
speak. His face reddened. "You do know, don't you? I mean, the FBI's been crawling all over
town for weeks."
"I know about Michael Myers," Sam said.
A cold silence descended on the living room. The lawyer's face froze. Sam recognized
the look: fear. Neither of them spoke. From the study, a grandfather clock sounded the half-hour.
"I'll have the paperwork sent to your hotel," the lawyer said at last.
"Thank you," Sam said.
"Is there anything else?" the lawyer asked. He shifted uncomfortably on his feet.
"No," Sam said flatly. "Thank you very much, Mr. Grady."
"Graby," the lawyer corrected.
"Yes, thank you. You've been a great help."
The lawyer put a set of keys on the stand by the door. "There you go," he said. A moment
later, he was out the front door. It slammed behind him. Sam watched him go through the front
window, straight past Mother and Abby to his car without a word.
Sam left the living room, picked up the keys. Two. One for the front door, the other for
the back. He paused before leaving, cast a look back at the study.
So many papers. The office looked like a whirlwind had gone through it.
He entered the study. Father had a roll-top desk with a manual typewriter on it. A page
was still on the roller, partially written on. A three-inch column of yellowing paper sat to the
right of the keys.
Sam picked them up, flipped them over to see the first page.
THE CASE OF MICHAEL MYERS:
Studies in Personified Evil
by
Dr. Samuel L. Loomis, Sr.
3.
Schofield, Illinois
October 29, 1996
5.57pm
The neighborhood was small and unassuming. A row of similar, white-painted houses
with charcoal-colored roofs. Across the street from them, long fields. In the planting season,
there would be corn. Now there was fallow ground.
A swarm of police cars were parked on the driveway and part-way on the front lawn of
the house. By the curb, three Medical Examiners' vans sat heel-to-toe. Yellow POLICE LINE
tape surrounded the area at a distance of thirty yards. Outside of it, a handful of onlookers. A
television remote van there, too. A pair of techs put together a stand-up while the reporter went
over notes.
The rental Taurus approached the line. A cop stepped out into the street and waved it to a
stop. Behind the wheel, Dana Scully rolled down her window.
"This a crime scene, ma'am," the cop said.
Scully showed her ID. Beside her, in the passenger seat, Fox Mulder flipped open his
own. "Special Agents Dana Scully and Fox Mulder. We're with the FBI," Scully said. "You
were supposed to expect us."
The cop nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry. Sheriff Blaine will be glad to see you. Park
anywhere. I'll get the tape."
Scully guided the Taurus underneath the tape as the cop held it up. Mulder looked out his
window. "Hell of a place for a massacre," he said.
"It takes all kinds," Scully said. She parked the car in front of the lead ME van, killed the
engine. "Even the heartland."
Mulder unbuckled his seat belt. He spared a glance at the faces of kids and other people
watching the house. Everyone was bundled against the early winter chill. Apple cheeks all
around. "Place like this, they should all be home carving jack o' lanterns. Not looking for dead
bodies."
They got out of the car together. Over by the TV van, the reporter gestured wildly for her
crew to get a shot of Scully and Mulder crossing the lawn to the house.
A short man emerged from the front door as they approached. His Smoky hat was down
low, shading his brow completely. A dark slab of mustache decorated a flat, roughly-hewn face.
He wore a sheriff's badge. His nametag said BLAIN. "You them?" he asked.
"I believe so," Mulder said. He extended a hand. "Fox Mulder. This is Dana Scully.
Thanks for calling us in."
Blaine shrugged, didn't take Mulder's hand. "Figured we might as well. You'd be around
soon enough." He turned his back on them. "Come on inside and see the mess. That's what
you're here for."
Scully looked at Mulder. He raised an eyebrow at her and said nothing.
The inside of the house smelled like cinnamon and raw meat. Scully knew the odor: the
freshly dead. Flashbulbs popped, recharge-whined in the family room up ahead. People crowded
everywhere.
Four bloodstained white sheets covered bodies on the floor. They were arranged in an X,
heads pointed toward each other in the center of the room. Placed at their feet were clay saucers,
a hand-width across. Cones of incense still smoldered on them. The cinnamon-stink was stronger
here.
In the center of the X, a bowl filled with ashes. Flakes of delicate black. Mulder leaned
over it, dipped a pinkie into it. He sniffed the ash residue. "Rose petals," he said. "Burned rose
petals."
"Mother and Father," Sheriff Blaine said. He pointed. "Two kids. Boy and a girl. The
Parkinsons. Good family. Good people. Never thought anything like this would happen to them."
Scully knelt by an adult body, lifted the sheet. Ugly wounds on the neck. Raw and open.
Mulder turned around, surveyed the room. "Who found the bodies?" he asked.
"Next door neighbor's boy. Lyle Marks. Come to see why Jim Parkinson missed football
practice."
The next body was the same. Scully noted identical wounds on the neck. She moved on
to the next. The next. All the same. "Mulder," she said. "Come look at this."
Mulder broke away from the Sheriff. "What is it?"
He knelt beside Scully. She lifted the sheet away from the dead body of a young girl. The
wounds showed raw and red on her throat, livid against the pallor of her skin. Mulder made a
pained face. "These wounds appear on all the victims. And look at the carpet."
Mulder put his hand on Scully's, eased the sheet back down. He motioned toward the
next body. The father. Scully uncovered the man. Mulder's expression relaxed. "Bloodstains," he
said. "That's commensurate with a slashed throat."
"Not wounds this deep," Scully said. "Sheriff, where were the victims killed? Not here,
am I right?"
Blaine stood over them. "No. They were all over the house. Dragged here afterward.
Least, that's what the county coroner's telling me."
Scully nodded. "That seems right. How much blood loss where the killings took place?
Are there large amounts of arterial blood? Spray patterns on the walls or ceiling?"
"Uh, no."
Mulder met her gaze. "Not enough blood," he said.
"We'll have to check to be sure," Scully said.
"What are these, Sheriff?" Mulder asked. He pointed to the back wall of the room. Two
paintings were removed. They rested neatly against either end of a plaid sofa. In their place, two
designs had been sketched in blood. Precise. Neat lines.
"Not sure. Graffiti, looks like. Not letters."
Mulder stood up. "They're runes."
Scully covered the body. "Celtic runes?" she asked.
"Yeah." Mulder turned full-circle again. His eyes fell to the floor. "And look. On the
floor. You can barely see it because the carpet's so dark. There's one on the floor."
The sheriff stepped back sharply. Four nearby policemen stopped in mid-task to stare at
the floor. Scully looked, too. "I don't see anything, Mulder."
"It's there," Mulder said. He strode around the room, pointed down. "The lines are
scattered from people walking through, but the pattern's still there. And there. And there."
Scully's eyes found the thin line Mulder indicated. The carpet was dark, rust-brown,
almost black. A whisper of powder traced a straight line, mussed by cop feet, at an angle to the
bodies. One corner a sharp angle. Down to another, and another. "More ashes?" she asked.
"Looks like it," Mulder said.
Scully tested the consistency of the ash with her fingers, sniffed it. "This isn't from rose
petals."
"Ash," Mulder said.
"Yes," Scully said. "But not rose petals."
"No. Ash ash," Mulder said. "It's a ritual burning. For closing a magical circle."
"So what's this design?"
"A triangle," Mulder said. "On a flat plane. See? The line goes off here and here. Another
rune."
"Meaning what?" Scully asked.
"More Satanic crap," the sheriff said.
"Not Satanic," Mulder said. "Druidic. This is a Druidic rite of murder."
"A what?" Blaine asked.
"Mulder," Scully warned.
Mulder turned to Blaine. "This killer has a knowledge of Druidic rites of death. I don't
know all the details, but the major symbology matches up. Someone performed a specific ritual
here."
Blaine sighed. "What kind of ritual?"
"I don't know." Mulder looked at the wall, the two runes.
"Mulder," Scully said.
Mulder's eyes were distant. Brain working. Thoughts in-progress.
"Mulder!" Scully repeated, more sharply.
He snapped out of it. "Yes?"
"Let's look at the rest of the house."
"Good idea," Mulder said. "Thanks for your help, Sheriff. We can take it from here."
They left Blaine staring at their backs, a strange look on his face.
4.
St. Mary's Home for Girls
Haddonfield, Illinois
6.30pm
"Jamie, where are you? It's time to set the table for supper!"
Sister Harriet's voice carried up from the first floor of the house, down the long hallway
to the far bedroom and to Jamie Lloyd's ears. It even broke through the medium-loud noise of
Green Day pumping through the speakers of her boom box.
. . . sometimes I give myself the creeps. . .
Jamie lay sprawled out across her single bed, arms holding a copy of YM suspended over
her. The headline for this article read, "Obsessive Boyfriend Trouble? How to Tell Him It's All
Over." There was a quiz attached.
"Jamie, do you hear me?" Sister Harriet's voice keened.
. . .sometimes my mind plays tricks on me. . .
"I hear you," Jamie muttered. "Old bitch."
"Jamie!"
"I'm coming!" Jamie shouted back. "Keep your hair on!"
. . .it all keeps adding up, I think I'm cracking up. . .
Jamie tossed the magazine aside and sat up in a huff. "Nobody else gets yelled at all
day," she said. Glance around the dorm room. Nothing but empty beds on either side of the long
space. Neatly made, two shelves over the head for personal belongings and a footlocker for
clothes.
. . .am I just paranoid, I'm just st--
"Fine." She killed the music. "I'll set the table."
She bounced on the bed, then got up. Her sneakers lay on the floor. A second's pause to
put them on. The sisters never liked anyone to come to supper without their shoes on. Even in the
dead of summer.
On the way out of the room, she caught sight of herself in the long mirror by the door.
She paused to check her hair. Mousy brown, pulled back into a ponytail and secured with a
rubber band. Nothing to bring the boys running.
"God," she said and turned sideways. Sixteen and still no bosom to speak of. She pushed
her chest out, sucked in her stomach. It was no use. No matter what she tried, she still had the
lanky build of a track runner. Of course, on a good day she thought she had a sort of Kate Moss
look. On a good day. "Yuck."
She tramped down the hall to the stairs. In the other rooms, younger girls were folding
sheets or doing other chores. Always something to do at St. Mary's Home. Jamie thought they
ought to paint, "Idle hands are the Devil's workshop" over the doors on the way in.
"There you are," Sister Harriet said when Jamie entered the downstairs dining room. Two
long tables. Thirty chairs in all. Five for the sisters. Uncomfortable chairs with straight wooden
backs. Antique tables with a billion scratches on them. A wide mirror hung on one wall above
the sideboard. "Where've you been hiding?"
"Nowhere," Jamie said glumly.
"Well, it's almost time for dinner. Get those place settings out. You don't want to keep
Sister Elizabeth waiting, do you?"
Jamie went to the sideboard, got out the placemats. "No, of course not."
"And watch your tone."
"Yes, ma'am."
Sister Harriet lingered for a moment, then vanished into the kitchen. Jamie made a face in
her general direction. "Old bitch," she said again.
First the placemats, then the napkins. The Home's flatware was dull stainless steel. No
real silver in this place. Couldn't trust the girls here with that kind of thing. They were lucky to
get knives.
Jamie worked one side of the table, then the other. She went back for more placemats,
began to set the next table. It was mind-numbing rote work. Like every other chore in the Home.
That was the idea. Grind those old-fashioned values in the old-fashioned way. By turning your
brain into Jell-O.
The mirror was across from her. She glimpsed it out of the corner of her eye as she
worked. It had a gilt frame. Once she'd looked real close at it, and saw that the silver reflective
stuff was rotting away. Some parts of the mirror, around the edges, were black and didn't shine
at all. She didn't know mirrors got old.
She returned to the sideboard for the flatware. Handful of forks in her left, knives in her
right.
She looked up.
He stood right behind her.
The wide frame of his chest framed her body. His dark, dark clothes. Some kind of
jumpsuit. And the ghostly white pallor of his rubber face. The Mask. Shock of dull hair. Black
holes for eyes. Doll's eyes.
A blade flashed in his upraised hand.
Jamie screamed. Flatware hit the floor and scattered. She whirled around, lashed out with
her hands. Hurt him? Drive him off? Impossible. But she could--
No one there. The dining room was empty.
She took an unsteady step away, tripped on loose flatware, fell to the floor. Her elbow
smacked wood and skinned. "Damnit!" she shouted.
Sister Harriet hurried into the room. Right behind her, Sister Elizabeth. The iron-gray hair
twins. "What in Heaven's name is going on?" Sister Harriet demanded. "What happened?"
"Nothing!" Jamie snapped. She got off the floor, quickly, brushed at her elbow.
Fingertips came away red. Bloody gash in the skin. "I fell."
Sister Elizabeth stepped forward. Her flat face was grim. It was always grim. "Look at
this mess," she said flatly. "All of these pieces will have to be cleaned. And you've hurt yourself.
Go find the first aid kit."
Her heart was beating too fast, her breath shallow. Without thinking, Jamie fisted her
hands and hit them behind her back. She didn't want anyone to see them shaking. No one else in
the room. Nowhere for him to hide.
"Are you listening to Sister Elizabeth?" Sister Harriet asked sharply.
Jamie blinked. Flash-image of him behind her lids. White rubber flesh. Bottomless pits
for eyes. The same, bizarrely neutral expression, neither angry nor sad. A nothing face. A shape.
"Jamie!"
Wake up! "Yes, Sister," Jamie said.
"Pick those up and take them to the kitchen," Sister Harriet said. "Then clean that cut.
You can wash the dishes after dinner with the E-room girls."
Jamie gritted her teeth. "All right, Sister."
"Go on."
She collected the flatware and took it to the kitchen. Sister Elizabeth gave her a
poisonous look, but didn't waste any more breath complaining. Smart move. Another word out
of her and. . . well, maybe not right away. Later.
In the bathroom, she touched up the cut with alcohol. Jamie winced at the sting.
When she closed the medicine cabinet, she was the only one in the mirror. Nothing but an
empty shower behind her. The towel closet was too small to hold him. Safe in here. Sturdy lock
on the door. All the locks were sturdy. She checked them one by one when she first came here.
How long before she could sleep nights without waking up at every sound? Not the first
year. Not even the second year. How long before she stopped being afraid of the dark? The other
kids laughed at her night light.
"What's the matter, Jamie?" they asked. "Scared of monsters?"
They didn't understand.
Sometimes monsters are real.
5.
They drove past a brightly colored sign by the side of the road: HADDONFIELD,
ILLINOIS -- A FAMILY COMMUNITY! A row of smaller signs, Rotary, VFW and others,
lined the bottom half of the display. Behind them, the sun gave out its last rays of the day and
settled below the horizon.
Scully glanced back at it. The first row of houses approached fast. She slowed to observe
the posted speed limit. "I told you this was the wrong way, Mulder. Schofield is west."
"I know," Mulder said. He leafed idly through a copy of Sports Illustrated. Surprisingly,
it wasn't the swimsuit edition. "I didn't want to stay in Schofield."
"Any particular reason? That is where the case is," Scully said.
"No nightlife." Mulder put the magazine away.
Scully sighed. "Do you know where we are?"
"It's twenty miles out of the way," Mulder said. "That's nothing compared to
Washington traffic. We can be back in Schofield first thing in the morning for the coroner's
report."
"What about a hotel?" Scully asked. "I made reservations in Schofield."
"I know. I canceled them." Mulder grinned at her. "Don't worry. I have friends here. We
can find a place to stay in town."
Children played on lawns in the failing light. The streetlamps were already on. Two
teenagers played Frisbee with a dog. A man coming out to get his evening paper waved at Scully
as they drove by. She half-waved back, felt stupid and stopped. "You have friends who live in a
Norman Rockwell painting?" Scully asked.
Mulder laughed. "A friend, actually. From college."
"An Oxford friend?"
"Yeah, he moved here after his father died. We graduated together. He stayed on staff for
a while, got married. The usual things."
"What's his name?"
"Sam. Sam Loomis."
Scully drove a few blocks. Town center was dead ahead. New England-style buildings. A
church steeple. All the leaves were a riot of fading colors. Her first impression was right: this
place was a Rockwell. "Do you know his address?"
"No," Mulder said. "I thought I'd call him and get directions."
They passed a line of shops. A family emerged from a small grocery store pulling two-
wheeled wire carts. Smiling faces. A happy town. Mulder took out his cell phone, dialed a
number.
"Something weird, Mulder," Scully said.
Mulder held the phone between cheek and shoulder, rummaged in his pockets for
something. "What's that? Clean air?"
"No." Scully looked around. She slowed to take a corner, looked again. "There's no
Halloween decorations anywhere. No pumpkins. None of that. Not even a witch cut-out."
"You mean you don't know?" Mulder asked. He folded his phone up, put it in his pocket.
"No answer. I'll try later."
"Know what?" Scully asked.
"This is Haddonfield," Mulder said. "That doesn't sound familiar?"
Scully thought. Then it clicked. "The Myers killings?"
"On the nose," Mulder said. "Three separate murder sprees over a ten-year span. Seven
years ago, the entire police force was killed during a breakout. The Bureau had thirty agents on
it. I'm surprised you didn't realize we were in 'Halloween Killer' country."
"Nineteen eighty-nine was a year before I joined the Bureau," Scully said. "I heard about
it, but. . . he's still on the loose, isn't he?"
"Michael Myers?" Mulder looked out the window. Three kids on bikes smiled and waved
at him as they passed. He grinned and waved back. "Maybe. From what I understand, he wasn't
exactly a well-rounded gentleman. Seven years in the outside world is a long time for a lunatic."
"It's like something you scare your kids to sleep with," Scully said. "I remember the
stories in the paper. All those families. It was horrible."
"He killed a dozen people the first time he escaped," Mulder said. "Another twenty or so
the second time. The third time, well. . . he makes Ted Bundy look like an Amway salesman."
The joke bounced off Scully. She shook her head slowly. "Halloween. No wonder they
don't celebrate the holiday," Scully said.
Mulder nodded. "Banned. Maybe they'll bring it back in time for the millennium."
Scully shuddered. "Well, what now? Your friend isn't answering?"
"No. Let's stop up there at that restaurant and get something to eat," Mulder said. "I don't
know about you, but I'm starved."
"What do you want?" Scully asked. She steered over, put her blinker on. The few other
drivers moved smoothly around her. No cut-offs. No blaring horns. It almost made her nervous.
"Anything. As long as it doesn't have cinnamon on it."
6.
The sun was gone from the sky. Over the treetops, rust-red and bloated, a harvest moon,
almost full, shone bright. It was a softer light. One better suited to him.
He walked along an old dirt road, kept a steady pace. Silver-capped boot-tips blinked in
the half-glow of the moon. With each step, his spurs clinked. A musical jingle. Like a tiny bell. It
soothed him.
chink. . . chink. . .
A wide-brimmed slouch hat shadowed the man's face into deep night. He preferred it that
way. Bright light hurt his eyes. The gloom was much better. Secrets were hidden more readily in
the dark.
His arms were tired, but it wasn't much farther now. Each hand gripped two plastic bags.
They sloshed when he walked, heavy with liquid. The cuffs of his long, black coat were shot.
Each time his right arm swung forward, the rune sign on his wrist was exposed.
A tattered shape loomed on the road ahead, shielded by trees, concealed by the night.
Broad wooden steps, rotted with disuse. Open windows with shattered panes. Dangling shutters.
A clearing of gravel and weeds on one side used to be a parking lot.
The man mounted the steps. He easily sidestepped the weak spots. This was familiar
ground. Over the entrance, a faded sign read: MCSWEENEY'S ACRES -- A Fine Quality Rest
Home.
Inside it was pitch dark. The man navigated by feel. Down winding, narrow halls. Deep
into the old house. Boards squeaked. The walls settled a little every day. He was careful not to
catch the bags on any splinters or visible nails. Every drop was important.
At last he came to wide room at the back of the house. An old skylight let in the moon's
illumination. Rays of burnt orange light fell to the floor. And on him.
The man never saw him move. He did, but never when the man was around. When food
was left for him, he ate it. At some point he must go out to relieve himself, but the man had never
seen it. The rest of the time, he sat. And waited.
His back was to the man. Moonlight cast a strange aura through the bristly mane of hair
that spiked up from his mask. The bloodless shade of the mask's skin glowed. If he heard the
man approach, he gave no outward indication of it. He was utterly still.
Seven years of immobility. The man did not understand it. But enough was enough.
Tonight it would end. There was work to be done. The gateway must be completed, even with
the cost of blood.
The man put the bags down. They were secured shut, bulged obscenely when they rested
on the floor. Rich, meaty crimson, black in the moon's luminescence.
He circled around, in front of him. No sign of recognition in the black sockets of the
mask. Not a flicker of movement. The man heard raspy breathing behind the rubber face. Steady.
Undisturbed.
Night deepened. The moon rose higher, until it filled the panes of the skylight. Nearly
time. Another festival drew close. The smell of it was powerful to the man. He had to smell it,
too. How could he not? He carried the gateway in his blood.
The man traced a series of runes in the air before him. Transference. Release. Power.
Blood. Death. Unity. Hearth.
His head twitched at the last. A tiny inclination of the chin, barely noticeable. The man
smiled to himself in the deep shadow of his face. He always understood the tenet of the Hearth. It
was his credo.
Back to the bags. First the blood of the oldest member. The man pierced the plastic with
one gloved finger. A trickle started. Careful to use each drop, the man walked a rune around him.
Unity. Center of the family. Father-Creator.
When it was done, the man opened a second bag. He sketched a second rune with the
falling drops. The power rune. The one he understood best. Hearth. Warm heart of the family.
Blood of the boy-child, almost a man. Transference. As father to son, so from veins to
veins. Fire inside. Power from male to male.
And the last.
This was the widest rune. It enclosed the rest, gave power to them, lent them its focus.
The man drew this with the blood of the girl-child. The most precious blood. Virgin blood.
Gateway. Passage to life beyond. Channel of the spirits.
The man returned to his place before him. He repeated the runic patterns in the air. With
hands smeared in blood, he flecked him with droplets. Power signs. Demands for strength.
He moved.
Both hands fisted in his lap. The man heard tendons pop. Knuckles whitened. The steady
breath became rough. Shadow covered the shape of his face as the moon shrouded itself with
clouds.
The man's heartbeat quickened. He stood. Slowly. Back straight. They were face-to-face.
Electricity fueled the air. It was time. The stones never lied.
He turned away. Measured steps. In a moment he was gone. The man listened to him
depart until the front steps of the old nursing home squeaked with his passage and left nothing
beyond.
The man drew a last rune. A talisman.
Samhain.
7.
"There he is," Mulder said.
Scully looked up from her plate, out through the front window of the restaurant. She saw
a man approach from across the street. Thin and pale, black hair cropped stylishly short. Hawk-
like nose. Mulder waved to the man and he waved back with a smile.
The restaurant was only half-full at this hour. Today's special was chicken-fried steak
with three side orders. Scully was hardly finished. Mulder polished off his inside twenty minutes
and ordered two desserts.
The man entered the restaurant. A cowbell tinkled on the door.
"Sam," Mulder said. He got up to meet the man.
"Mulder," Sam Loomis said. They shook hands vigorously. Sam looked over at Scully.
"And who is this lovely lady?"
Scully stifled a smile. Sam had very intense, dark eyes. Handsome in an English kind of
way. His accent was pleasant, almost soothing. "Dana Scully," she said. "I'm Mulder's partner.
Pleased to meet you."
"Thank goodness you are," Sam said. He shook her hand, too, but very gently. "Mind if I
sit down? I haven't eaten all day and, frankly, I'm starved."
"No, sit," Mulder said. He made room for Sam to get into the booth on his side.
Sam waved away a menu. "I don't need it. I've been here a hundred times. This is the
only decent restaurant in town." He made an aside to Scully. "Mulder always could sniff out the
best food."
"I noticed," Scully said. Mulder looked embarrassed.
"Lana," Sam called, signaling the waitress. "I'll get the usual."
"Curly or regular fries, Sammy?" the waitress called back.
"Curly."
"All right, honey."
Sam smiled happily. "When did you get into town? Why didn't you call ahead?"
Mulder's expression turned serious. "We're here on work, actually."
"Work?" Sam's face turned noticeably whiter. "Not Michael?"
"Myers?" Mulder chuckled. "No. This was in Schofield. A multiple murder."
"Ah," Sam said, and visibly relaxed. "Good to hear. About Michael, I mean. Not the
murders. You know, we all get a little. . . edgy when you mention his name."
"Did you ever meet him?" Scully asked.
Sam shook his head sharply. "No, I didn't. He'd moved on before I came here. My father
died here in '89. After the last attack."
"I'm sorry."
"So was I," Sam said, and nodded ruefully. "He was good man."
Silence grew around the table. Sam smacked his thigh and smiled. "Well, that's certainly
put a damper on things, hasn't it? Not to worry, we won't talk business until well after dinner.
Perhaps not even then."
"Where's Abby?" Mulder asked. "I thought she'd come with you. Haven't seen her in a
while."
Another bright smile. "Ah, yes. Abby. Well. She left me three years ago," Sam said.
"Last I heard, she was back at Oxford. Reading for her Doctor."
"That's too bad. You should have called," Mulder said.
"Actually, I did. You were in Iowa at the time. Some kind of girl-missing case. The
woman who took my call said it was another one your 'lights in the sky' files. I left a message."
"When I get back, I'll fire my maid," Mulder said.
Sam waved his hands. "But enough of this gloom and doom. I'm glad to see you. We've
got a lot of catching up to do. And I'd like you to have a look at some of my father's papers, if
you have the time. Very interesting stuff I'd like your opinion on."
Mulder cast a look at Scully. "Someone who wants my opinion. How nice."
"What did you father do?" Scully asked Sam.
"He was Michael Myers' therapist," Sam said.
"Michael Myers had a therapist?" Scully asked.
Sam shrugged. "Not the most popular job. Twenty years of work on the case study. I've
spent the time since he died collating, studying and trying to complete what I can on my own, but
it's a daunting task. The research he's done is exhaustive. I'd like to publish it someday."
"Dr. Loomis, Sr. got the Myers case by accident," Mulder said.
"Yes, and after a short while, it became his life," Sam added. "Mine, too, now. I get a
stipend from various sources to continue my research. It isn't a fortune, but it's enough to live
on. And I find the work very rewarding."
"Did Dr. Loomis have any insight into Myers' condition?" Scully asked.
A strange half-smile quirked Sam's face. "Perhaps a little too much insight," he said.
"Doctors are expected to keep a certain amount of intellectual and psychological distance from
their patients. I'm afraid that wasn't the case here."
"Your father became part of the case?" Scully asked.
"You could say that. He was killed apprehending Michael in '89."
Lana, the waitress, brought two steaming plates of food. The cook had built a hamburger
five inches thick, dripping with cheese, bacon and mushrooms. A mound of fresh curly fries
piled on the next plate.
"Fantastic," Sam said. "Thank you ever so much, Lana."
"Sprite?" the waitress asked.
"If you would be so kind," Sam replied. "Thank you."
Mulder watched Sam douse the entire concoction in steak sauce. "You still eat like a
college student," he said. "What does that do to your insides?"
"Eating's my vice," Sam replied. "Though you can't tell. I don't think I'll ever put any
weight on. Of course, don't single me out for bad habits, old friend. You still looking at dirty
books?"
A red color rose to Mulder's face. Scully couldn't resist a smile.
Sam didn't have to look. "I thought so. You know, Dana, it was like an adult bookshop in
our room at Oxford. Racks of the stuff. I used to sell the old ones to make extra spending
money."
Mulder rubbed his eyes. "So that's what happened to my favorite leg magazine."
Sam laughed. "I knew you'd still remember that."
His good humor was infectious. They all cracked.
"It's good to see you, Mulder," Sam said at last. "It's been too long."
8.
It was dark inside the parked Fairlane. A little light came from the radio in the dash,
playing rock and roll softly. The fat harvest moon was hidden behind the clouds. Outside it was
cold, but inside Sherry and Tim kept the windows fogged.
They kissed. Tim fondled her through the front of her sweater, but didn't push it. That's
what she liked about him: he listened to what she wanted and didn't get "carried away," like
some other guys she could mention.
Maybe they would go all the way tonight. Sherry didn't know for sure. It wouldn't be the
first time for her, but she thought it might be for him. Would it be like the rest of it? Would he
wait for her? Think of her?
He kissed her again. They touched tongues. Soft. Warm.
This could be a good time to find out, Sherry thought.
"I love you," Tim said.
"I love you, too," Sherry replied. And she meant it. So they were only seventeen. You
could know what love was when you were seventeen. Look at Romeo and Juliet. "I do love you,
Tim."
He pulled away from her. "Do you think maybe. . . you know, maybe we could. . . I don't
know. I thought we might. . ."
Cloud cover broke outside. Moonlight turned the fog on the windows into a billion tiny
crystals of fire. This far outside of town, without any streetlamps, it was bright enough to read by
the glow of the stars, sometimes.
"I think we could," Sherry said. "But we have to be careful. I want to, but we have to be
careful. I don't want to rush into anything."
"I love you," Tim insisted. He moved for her.
Sherry held him back. "Tim, wait. Let's go slow."
Tim's face fell. "All right."
The clouds shuttled across the sky overhead. New light cast across the window at Tim's
back. A shadow blotted out the space right behind him. It moved.
"Oh my God!" Sherry screamed.
"What?" Tim turned in his seat, struggled with the interfering steering wheel.
The glass of the window smashed in. A hand lunged through the broken pane, seized Tim
by the throat. His shouts cut off sharply, gagged by a tight grip. Cold air knifed through the
warm interior of the car.
Sherry shrieked, hammered ineffectually at the door lock on her side.
Tim made a gurgling noise. Sherry glanced back, saw blood streaming over the fingers
lodged in his throat. Torn skin and ruptured tissue.
She got the door open, fell onto the dirt road outside. Tears filled her eyes. Her breath
came in gagging sobs. No other sound emerged from inside the car.
No looking back. No more. She scrabbled to her feet. The skin on her hands was
lacerated from the gravel. Headlong into the darkness. Only Tim knew this place. She didn't
know where the road led, where it emerged, nothing.
She was lost.
And he was right behind her.
She didn't have to see his face to know him.
Michael Myers.
