"Draw a monster. Why is it a monster?" ~ Janet Leigh
"When is a monster not a monster? Oh, when you love it." ~ "Start Here" by Caitlyn Siehl
Following the events of 1989, moving out of Haddonfield had, at first, been all the Carruthers family wanted to do. They'd had to disconnect their landline until they changed their number, but that'd done little to help the phone that rang off the hook, let alone the hate mail and the death threats. Despite it all, Richard and Darlene refused to let Jamie feel like any of it was her fault even if that's all she felt. Moving out of their old house but staying in Haddonfield was a better option-the new house carried none of the weight of the old one and Jamie didn't wince every time she passed the bathroom to go to her bedroom anymore.
Effectively, the new house was a new start. In addition to that, the team of doctors and therapists that Darlene assembled started coming in and out like the front door was a revolving one. Jamie felt like a broken doll whose shattered pieces were haphazardly glued together-her life had required a certain amount of maturity since she'd attacked Darlene, but she was remarkably old for her age. By fifth grade, she felt like she was an old woman.
Fifth grade also meant the impending force of middle school and it meant pleading with Darlene-mom, now, that word came easier than ever-for some sort of normalcy. Normalcy meant going to Haddonfield Junior High, even if she didn't know if she would ever be ready for it. It's all she'd ever wanted-to be like any other kid her age, like any other kid her age. But she'd been marked, and for that, she'd never get it.
It'd taken her a long time to understand that. She didn't understand that the summer after fifth grade, when she'd been sitting on the floor of Dr. Elrod's office, skin chilled from the air conditioning from her t-shirt and shorts. The atmosphere of Dr. Elrod's space was anything but the typical, stuffy environment of most therapist offices, which Jamie appreciated.
Dr. Elrod sat in her chair watching Jamie, the tape recorder on the table between them rolling.
"How are you, Jamie?" Dr. Elrod asked.
"I'm fine," Jamie murmured, toying at the laces of her blue high-top sneakers and not looking at Dr. Elrod directly. She's always had tell-tale signs-the lack of eye contact's always been one.
"You seem like you're somewhere else," Dr. Elrod mentioned casually, pen tapping against her legal pad, "like you're with me physically, but your mind's not in the room. Am I right?"
"Kinda," Jamie admitted, climbing to sit on the chair, leaving the outdated magazine she'd been pretending to read on the floor, "I've just been thinking about school. I really want to go to a regular middle school, like the other kids. But my mom tells me I'm not ready."
"You and I have talked about that, haven't we?" Dr. Elrod asked, "I think we both know why that isn't a good idea."
"It's all I want, though," Jamie insisted, "like, I think if I pretend long enough, maybe-I can be normal."
"You are normal, Jamie," Dr. Elrod insisted, "you've just been through so much. Children are cruel. You shouldn't live your life in fear, but I don't think you're ready for that environment just yet. You said you liked your school in Russellville."
"I do like school-but I know it's not a normal school. I know it's not."
"So what if it's not? It doesn't have to be. You're being challenged there. You like it there. Your parents like you there, and I like you there. You really want to go to Haddonfield Junior High just because the other kids are doing it?"
Jamie huffed, then, after a moment, shook her head once, staring down at her shoes.
"What else is bothering you, Jamie?" Dr. Elrod asked, "it doesn't look like it's just the middle school stuff. Do you have something else on your mind you want to talk about?"
Gnawing at her lower lip, Jamie pushed her fingers through her long, dark hair, looking from her shoes to the window, beyond the window. She imagined a shape watching her but there was nothing there, nothing besides the green grass and blossom trees on the sidewalk below where doctors and nurses walked together in the ebb and flow of daily life.
"I've been thinking of my aunt."
"Your aunt?"
"Judith," Jamie said, "Michael's sister. My mommy's sister."
"Ah," Dr. Elrod said carefully, "what's made you think of her lately?"
"I just think of Michael stabbing her. What could've-what could've made him do that? He was so little. But then I realize I did that too," she swallowed, "I guess-I just wish I met her. I wish I knew more about my mommy than all the stuff I remember, like how afraid she was. I wish I knew more about Michael, too."
"What do you think there is to know about Michael?"
That'd been the key word–Michael. Always.
"Like–I don't know, what he thinks about," she frowned, face hot but unable to stop, glad she won't be judged here but still afraid to be all the same, "he's a person too."
"That's right. He is," Dr Elrod said, letting Jamie speak.
"And–as much as I know he's hurt me–as mad as I am–I think I still care about him," she sounded more unsure than she'd felt, terrified of being judged, terrified of Dr. Elrod hating her like everyone else in Haddonfield had.
"That's perfectly normal, Jamie. If anything–that shows how loving you are, how good you are."
"That makes no sense."
"Sure it does. He's your uncle, like it or not."
In hindsight, Dr. Elrod seemed satisfied, now that she'd gotten to the meat and potatoes of their session today. Jamie hadn't known better–she was only ten. She only felt vindicated–half-vindicated, half like a traitor, like admitting Michael was her family was somehow betraying the Carruthers. For a child, she was always concerned with what shouldn't have mattered to her, but did.
"Yeah, maybe," she chewed at her lower lip, speaking lower, "I love him. I do. I just–I wish he didn't hurt me, that he didn't kill Tina or Sam or anyone, that he wasn't a monster. Maybe–maybe if he wasn't, we could be together, like a real family."
Tears started to stream down her face. Dr. Elrod didn't move closer or offer her a tissue, like she often did, because there was still further to go.
Jamie sniffed, and, before Dr. Elrod could add anything more, she asked softly, "do you think, somehow, in his own way, that Michael loves me like I love him? Like a real uncle would? He's hurt me so much. Is it possible for someone to show their love by hurting them?"
All of it came out in a rush of air, like she was terrified of being stopped or interrupted before she could get all of the emotion out. By the end of it, she felt like a balloon, emptied of all hot air, breathing heavily.
Instead of being interrupted, or judged, or anything like that, Dr. Elrod crossed over to sit on the table in front of Jamie as she openly wept, harder than she had since she watched Dr. Loomis beat into her uncle like he was little more than a sack of meat and bone. A slender hand grasped Jamie's shoulder and squeezed, and it was all it took to encourage Jamie to lean into her, arms wrapped tightly around her torso as she cried into her chest. She only felt half-guilty for the way her snot would inevitably stain Dr. Elrod's silky blouse, which was so soft against her face it soothed her.
"I can't speak for your uncle, Jamie," Dr. Elrod said softly against her dark, sleek head of hair, "but your capacity to love, your capacity to care–it's what makes you different from him. No one who truly loves you would hurt you the way he has. No matter how much someone loves you, they should never show it through violence or hurt. He's not a monster–he's a human being, and maybe, that makes it that much worse, doesn't it?"
Jamie could only nod, hugging on tighter until she was afraid she'd hurt Dr. Elrod from holding on too tight. However, Dr. Elrod didn't even flinch–she simply held her there. It felt good to confess how she'd felt since that night in the attic, like letting go of cinder blocks weighing her down.
And, now, Jamie waits behind Sheriff Meeker as he unlocks the deadlock to the front door of the Myers House. It's been over ten years since she's been inside. The front porch reeks of rotted wood, covered in a thick blanket of heavy snow. Jamie shivers, even under the weight of her parka, lined with sherpa as it is. When the deadlock finally clicks, Jamie exhales, closing her eyes against a cold gust of wind that stings against her bare cheek and thinks of Michael, of waking up in the hospital room looking for him, of all the craziness of the last few two months.
"After you, Jamie," Meeker says. Jamie steps inside obligingly, listening to the floorboard creak under her weight. The old house feels as claustrophobic as it'd been years ago, perhaps more so now that she's eighteen instead of seven, a solid five-foot-one instead of three-foot-eight. Meeker closes the door behind her but doesn't lock it, stepping into the house after her. Jamie's hand latches onto the railing, leading them up the stairs slowly, as if afraid the steps will break under her and she'll fall into the basement. For a moment, Jamie considers the broken door where the laundry chute sits propped open, as if untouched for the past ten years, but decides to enter Judith's room instead.
Standing by the window, she looks down at the street below, quiet and still as it is in the snow, then glances at Meeker, who looks over the room around them.
"This is it," Meeker says, hands stuffed in his pockets, face somber as always. Jamie sighs, shoulders shrugging.
"Yeah, you're right."
"This is yours, now. All of it."
"Why did you want to take me? Why not my attorney?"
"Because I wanted to talk you out of keeping it."
Jamie laughs, "are you serious? Why would I keep this house, Sheriff Meeker? Why?"
Meeker shoots her a glance, and while he's as stoic as ever, she knows the gravity of what he's trying to urge upon her, how serious he is.
"I know you and him have some kind of bond," and, before Jamie can interject, he holds up his hand so he can finish, "I don't mean that like the other shitbags in this town, alright? I'm not in your situation, but I understand. I lost my daughter. My wife passed away, five years ago. I'm all alone. I don't know what I'd do if I found out another member of my family was alive, I don't know. But what I do know is that you're not alone, alright? You never have been."
Jamie glances at her feet, exhaling a puff of hot air.
"Rachel's in a coma," Jamie says softly, "she has been since I found her. Our parents, maybe they say they don't blame me. But I know better. I know what happened to my mom after it got out that Michael was her brother. I know what happened with her adoptive family. They wanted nothing to do with her. She was marked, just like I am. I know that, now."
"None of what's happened has anything to do with you," Meeker replies, "it's all him. You have to know that."
"It's all him and me, our family. We're the only ones left," Jamie says, "I didn't choose this, any of it. This house, it isn't mine, but I feel like I have some sort of obligation to it, to Michael. I should just bulldoze it to the ground–I went through the worst of it here. So did Judith."
"But you're not going to do anything."
"Not right now," Jamie looks at Meeker, face basked in the shadows of the night, then back at the street below. A toddler on the lawn of the boarding house across the street makes snow angels, smiling and facing the night sky. Snow's already started to fall once more. "I just want to be alone, just for now."
"Okay, Jamie. I just want you to know, you're not alone in this. You don't even have to decide right away, alright? I'll leave you to it, but whatever you decide, I'll support you."
When Meeker steps out, Jamie exhales, sitting on the windowsill for a moment. Upon inhaling, she coughs out dust, sniffing in disgust as she stands once more. The old house smells like mildew and must. It's only when she hears the front door unlock that she leaves the old bedroom, finding the staircase leading to the attic. It feels even more claustrophobic, just like everything in the house does now that she's an adult, even if she doesn't feel like she's grown a day past when she'd laid herself in that coffin as a final sacrifice.
The old bathtub and most of the furnishings from that day are now gone, leaving the attic big and empty. Light peeks in through the broken ceiling and the smell of rotted wood makes her stomach churn as she steps into the center of the room.
One hand covers her mouth and nose, the other reaching out to catch a snowflake in her palm. The cold draft makes her shiver before she backs away into the darkness of the Myers house.
That January, she's accepted to Haddonfield University's honors program. With the scholarship money, she moves out of the Carruthers' house and into a tiny studio apartment downtown, a mere mile walk away from campus. Her attorney tells her the settlement money due to her and Michael's estate won't come for what may be several months to a year, but a full-time job at a diner twenty minutes away allows her to save.
She doesn't call Richard or Darlene, and they don't call her, not even when Rachel's prognosis starts looking worse and worse. Dr. Loomis doesn't call, either, and she doesn't even think of picking up the phone to initiate.
Instead, she works with her lawyer to see him. It's hard, at first, until Michael's doctor agrees to try it out, to see if it'll be either tremendous for his treatment or completely disastrous. There's no way it'll be anything in between.
After all, Michael Myers does nothing by halves.
Snow seems to pour by the time Jamie arrives at Ridgemont Federal Sanitarium after a five hour drive. It's a weekend, so the ebb and flow of visitors around her seems never-ending. It makes her feel insignificant, which she finds she likes.
A pair of orderlies and police officers escort her inside, where Michael's doctor meets her. She's stripped of anything sharp or metal. Her keys, including the Myers house key, are deposited in a plastic tray for later. She's left completely unarmed when she's escorted to the belly of the penitentiary, even without her jacket on her shoulders. Even with her sweater, she feels freezing, like shivers wrack through her form from some sort of imaginary draft despite the lack of ventilation the further down they get.
When she sees his large form in the room through the two-way glass, her breath leaves her for a moment as she takes him in. As if he knows she's there, he looks up in her direction, expressionless. The mask seems to match the face underneath, if that is indeed even his face at all.
"Hello, Jamie," a voice interrupts. Jamie looks up to find Dr. Hoffman, hair grayed and face worn. Despite that, his green eyes seem sharp. He holds out a hand to her, "I'm Dr. Hoffman."
She nods, reaching out to shake his hand.
"It's nice to meet you."
"In all of the years I've known Michael, he's never had a legal advocate. Despite the terrible things he's done, I truly believe that's been a disservice to him all along," Dr. Hoffman says, looking back into the room at Michael once more, who seems no less formidable in his hospital whites. "After so long of being told he was a monster, what else was the boy to do?"
Jamie's brow furrows, struggling to think of her uncle as a young boy while simultaneously deciding that's all he's ever been in there, somehow.
"Anyhow," Dr. Hoffman continues when Jamie doesn't respond, "we'll be out here watching. If he tries anything, we'll be in there right away. But in any case, he's under heavy sedation."
That's when Jamie snorts.
"You think that will stop him?"
Dr. Hoffman raises a brow, "you don't?"
"I don't think anything could stop him until he gets what he wants," Jamie says, "he wants to be here. He wants to see me. If he didn't, he wouldn't have allowed himself to get caught that night. I know him."
"I know you do," Dr. Hoffman says in a tone Jamie can't quite recognize, "which is partly why you're here."
Jamie nods in agreement. The lock on the door buzzes open. She looks back at Hoffman before stepping inside, flinching as the heavy metal door slams shut behind her.
Now, just like in the barn, it's just the two of them. Even while she knows they're being watched, it still feels like it's just them. She slowly approaches the empty chair across from where Michael sits and slides into it, exhaling sharply as the cold metal permeates through her baggy jeans. His eyes instantly flick up to meet hers as he exhales too, mirroring her own sound.
Inexplicably, Jamie smiles.
"Hi, uncle," she says softly, barely audible under the sound of old pipes moving through the building and a distant dripping sound. His expression doesn't change and she's amazed at how still he can be, even while so chained down.
"I don't expect you to say anything back," she says, "for a long time, I couldn't find my voice, either. And I know from that, you don't need words to say something. This was going to be a way for me to say goodbye, to get closure. This was going to be the last time I saw you and then I'd sign away your rights to the state, just like everyone thinks I should do."
She leans in closer. His head cocks, but otherwise, he doesn't move, simply watching her. She swallows thickly.
"You ruined my life, do you know that?" Jamie asks even softer, feeling tears well up in her eyes, "you ruined it before I was even born. In my classes, I learned that trauma can be genetic. After what you did to my mother, I was done for, right?"
Michael lets out another breathy exhale, eyes fixed on her. Jamie swears that he doesn't blink and it only serves to make her heart race, though she can't find it in herself to look away.
"I have–had–a family. A real one, but you made sure to take that away from me," she sniffs, realizes tears are streaming freely down her cheeks once she tastes salt in her mouth, "or maybe I did, I don't know. But now it's just the two of us, me and you. I'm the only person you have in your life. Right now, it's the same for me, too. I'm keeping your house–well, our house now, right?"
She laughs again, tries to wipe away the tears but quickly realizes the effort is futile when they keep coming. The worn lines of her uncle's face become a blur until he's merely a shape, appropriate for him.
"God. I've had so many names–Strode, Lloyd, Carruthers. But the only name that means anything now is Myers," she swallows thickly, "and I'm okay with that, too. One day, you may kill me. Or I could kill you. Killing Wynn helped me figure out I had that in me. But that was to protect us. All I know is–I'm here. You don't have to hurt anyone to find me anymore."
A smile slowly spreads over her features once more, teary as it is. It forms into a gasp when she feels rough fingers touching over her hand. She only hears his chains rustle when she registers the sensation. She quickly glances at the two-way mirror, head shaking minutely, as she glances back at him.
She remembers how violently he'd reacted when she'd barely touched his cheek in the attic. Now, when she leans across the table to touch the raised scars by his left eye, he doesn't even flinch. He merely squeezes her hand in return.
And, for now, that's enough.
Author's Note: This story has been a labor of love. Thank you so much for your kind words, encouragement, and feedback! I'm happy to say it's all over now. Let me know what you think! I don't think I'll be writing a sequel to this unlike "In the Blood", but who knows. I feel like this happy(?) ending is appropriate for these two. It's as happy as ending involving Michael Myers is going to get.