This story is a sequel to the Producer's Cut of the 1995 film Halloween: The Curse of Michael Myers. The basic premise is that Michael Myers is possessed by an evil spirit and is being used by a cult to carry out human sacrifices. I think I wrote it in such a way that you can understand it if you haven't seen the movie, but idk. I tried.
October 21, 1996
A cold, crisp wind blew up Franklin Avenue, pushing dead leaves along the pavement and across front yards. The trees lining the sidewalks blazed a fiery mixture of orange, red, and yellow, and the tang of wood smoke lightly scented the chilly air. A man in a sweater and jeans raked his front yard, a pair of headphones connected to a yellow and black Walkman clipped to his belt covering his ears. Gangs of boys and girls rode bikes and chased each other from yard to yard, their laughter trailing behind them and echoing between the houses. At the end of the street, a group of middle school boys played a game of hockey, two metal trash cans on their sides serving as the goals. Every so often, one would yell "Car!" and they would quickly move out of the way. On the opposite end, just down from 1216, three lanky high schoolers in sunglasses and backwards baseball caps pulled tricks on their skateboards.
It was Monday evening and the sunlight was beginning to wane. Soon, the streetlights would wink on and mothers would call out their back doors for their kids to come home. In her second story bedroom, Lucy Loud watched the scene with a strange combination of longing and revulsion. A short girl with black hair that covered her pallid face, Lucy wore a flowing black shirt beneath a black vest in conscious imitation of her hero Nancy from The Craft. When she was in public, she wore a spiked collar and a jumble of necklaces - crosses, pentagrams, SS bolts for maximum shock value. At home, she took those off because the way they swung and dangled annoyed her. She was perched on a window seat with her legs up and a book open in her lap.
Lucy wasn't like other kids. She was quiet, bookish, and thought deeply. Maybe too deeply. Part of her wanted to loosen up and run around like the other kids, but another part of her didn't. It wanted to read, learn, and observe. Sometimes Lori, her older sister, said she was an old woman trapped in a kid's body, and even though it was meant as a barb, Lucy agreed. She was like an old woman trapped in a kid's body, caught between worlds, fitting into neither, an outcast in both. She had friends at school who shared her angst, but here, on Franklin Ave, she was alone, a rare black rose in a field of lilacs.
These truths, however, were not what was bothering her. She had something else on her mind. Something darker.
Last night, Sunday, she was at her friend Haiku's house. Haiku was a goth like her (Lucy hated that term) and when they got together, they conducted seances, tried to communicate with the dead, and hunted ghosts. People mistook them for simply morbid, but their interest in the occult was rooted in curiosity. Death and things that go bump in the night were a mystery and Lucy wanted to figure that mystery out, to pull back the curtain and see what was really on the other side.
For years, that truth eluded her.
Then, last night, something finally happened.
They were kneeling across from each other, a ouija board between them. They pressed their fingers to either side of the planchet and asked if anything was there. The piece began to move of its own accord, as if controlled by some outside force. Panic gripped Lucy's chest, and when she tried to stop it, the planchet wrenched out of her hand. She and Haiku both pulled back with gasps of horror and watched it move and dance across the board in a perfect zigzag pattern.
"It's spelling something," Lucy said.
Haiku grabbed a pad of paper and a pencil and jotted down the letters.
H.
E.
S.
C.
The planchet raced up, down, left, and right.
Then, like a body giving up the ghost, it fell still, leaving both girls shaky and afraid.
"What did it say?" Lucy asked.
Haiku gulped and showed her the pad.
HES COMING.
Lucy looked around the room. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and a shiver coursed down her spine. The room had been warm when they started, but now it was cold, and even as Lucy watched, the light overhead flickered/
Something was here.
"Who?" she heard herself ask. Her voice sounded small, afraid. "Who's coming?"
A cold draught of stale wind with no source washed over her, rustling her hair. The curtains stirred. The light grew so bright it stung Lucy's eyes, then it exploded, startling Haiku into a scream.
As quickly as it started, it was over. The presence was gone and they were alone again.
The encounter had been playing at the corners of Lucy's mind all day, and though she had actively sought the consul of the spirit world, she was afraid. That morning, she woke with a terrible sense of foreboding that grew as the day wore on. Something bad was going to happen.
But what?
She had been sitting here watching for hours, sure that she would see the impending doom if only she waited. What she saw, however, was only a normal autumn day,
Until the station wagon arrived.
Lucy knew every car that belonged on Franklin Avenue and was familiar with most of the ones that regularly passed on their way elsewhere. The blue station wagon with the metal rack on the roof was new, and the moment Lucy saw it creeping down the street, her heartbeat picked up. She hysterically willed it to pass, to go somewhere else.
Instead, it turned into the driveway directly across the street.
Lucy's stomach rolled.
1209 Franklin Avenue, a two story split-foyer with beige siding on the second floor and brick on the first, had sat empty ever since July, when the Carpenter family moved to Ann Arbor.
Now someone was there.
The driver side door swung open and a thin, goofy looking man in his early to mid twenties got out. He was dressed in a dark blue sweatshirt and jeans. He was tense, nervous, and darted his eyes suspiciously around like he was afraid the wrong person might see him. A little boy about Lucy's age got out of the back and a tall, thin woman with curly red hair climbed out of the passenger seat. She opened the back door, leaned in for a moment, and then came back with a little boy in her arms. He couldn't have been more than one.
The man unlocked the front door and ushered his family in before going back to the car. He opened the hatch and took out two bulging suitcases. He slammed the door and glanced over his shoulder.
His eyes locked with Lucy's.
For a moment they stared at each other, then, looking scared, the man hurried inside, casting one final look back.
When he was gone, Lucy let out a pent up breath she wasn't aware of holding.
He's coming.
Was that him?
Lucy didn't think so. The "he" of the planchet was menacing, deadly even. The man across the street was neither of those things. He was scared out of his wits.
Of what?
She didn't know. She also didn't know how she knew this, but she was certain that, threat or not, he was somehow connected to what happened with the ouija board.
Sighing, Lucy got up from the window seat and started to pace around the room. The dread in her stomach was worse now, like lead, and when she tried to take a deep breath, her lungs refused to expand. She stopped at the window and peered out at the house across the way. No light shone in the windows and a siege atmosphere seemed to enshroud it. Whoever those people were, they were hiding from something.
Something awful.
He's coming.
Who was he, though?
Lucy didn't know, but she was going to find out.
Abandoning the suddenly oppressive solitude of her room, Lucy went downstairs. Lynn, Lincoln, Lana, and Bobby sat on the couch, cheering as Mankind and Stone Cold Steve Austin battled The Undertaker and Marc Mero on Monday Night Raw. Bobby pumped his fist and wrapped his arm around Lincoln's shoulders, pulling him in for a bro hug. Bobby came over to watch wrestling every Monday night. Usually, Lori started watching the show but lost interest ten minutes in and retreated to her room to talk on the phone. In the kitchen, Mom sat the roast on the stove and began to carve it. "Lucy, can you set the table?"
Silently, Lucy got a stack of plates down from the cabinet and set the table. She was so lost in thought that she didn't realize she wasn't alone until something rammed into her lower back, startling her so badly that she screamed. "Out of the way, sister," Lola spat, "it's juice box o'clock." The little princess went into the kitchen and Lucy took a deep breath.
This ouija board stuff was making her jumpy.
When the table was set, everyone came in and gathered around. Bobby and Lincoln joked about someone named Golddust, Leni prattled about the fall fashion, Luan talked about her dream of one day creating a website on the World Wide Web, and Luna divided her attention between her food and a grunge song she was wiring "in honor of my man Kurt Cobain."
"Lucy, you're so quiet tonight," Mom said.
Before Lucy could reply, Lynn snorted. "She's always quiet. She's too good to talk to us mere mortals."
Lucy rolled her eyes. "I only talk to people I like. Which is why I don't talk to you."
Lynn opened her mouth and showed Lucy her food.
"Girls, knock it off," Dad said.
His word was final, and Lynn and Lucy left each other alone.
When dinner was done, Lucy scraped her plate into the trashcan and went back upstairs. Full dark had fallen and the only light came from the glow of the street lamps.
The house across the way was dark.
The car was gone.
Lucy had a feeling that the man and his family was still in there, and the flutter of a curtain in a second story bedroom confirmed her suspicion.
Who are you? she thought. And why are you here?
Lucy watched 1209 for a long time that night.
Tommy Doyle sat the AR-15 across his lap and began to disassemble it, his fingers working with a mindless certainty born of repetition. He had done this a thousand times over the past year and he would probably do it a thousand times more.
It was late and Tommy was sitting in a kitchen chair in the living room. A fire crackled in the hearth and shadows danced on the wall like pagen revelers. The first thing he and Kara did when they got inside was to cover the windows with sheets of plywood Tommy had delivered the previous day. That way no one could see in. If you were just passing on the street, the house would appear dark, deserted. Next, they installed new locks on all the doors: Bars, latches, deadbolts, and even security chains; anything to stop or slow an intruder. When Kara put the kids to bed, Tommy stripped down to his wife beater and brought out the guns, cleaning and checking each one.
All were loaded.
It had been a year since he, Kara, and the kids had escaped from the bowels of Smith's Grove Sanitarium, and they hadn't known a moment of peace since. Michael Myers, the bogeyman made flesh, was still out there.
And so was the Thorne Cult.
When he was eight-years-old, Tommy ran screaming into the night from a white-faced monster. He thought he knew terror, but then, last year, he uncovered the terrible truth. Michael Myers wasn't the monster, the people who worshipped the evil within him were. Michael Myers was a vessel, a victim himself. A dangerous victim whom Tommy would kill on sight, but a victim nevertheless.
Michael Myers had long been a menacing figure in Tommy's memory, a dark force more creature than man. At some point, Micheal had been a normal little boy much like Kara's son Danny, but the Curse of Thorne was laid upon him and he became what he was today - a mindless, heartless demon whose only purpose was to kill every member of his own family. He could not be stopped, he could not be bargained with, he couldn't even be killed. He came with single-minded fury and no matter where you hid, he would find you.
And he was coming for them.
Last year, Jamie Lloyd, the final surviving member of Michael's bloodline, gave birth to a baby boy before dying at the hands of her uncle. Tommy found the baby and named him Steven, then met Kara Strode and her son Danny. Kara's aunt and uncle had adopted Laurie Myers, Michael's sister, years before, and her parents lived in the old Myers house, becoming, in essence, members of Michael's family. Danny was plagued by nightmares and heard disembodied voices ordering him to kill, just as Michael had before him.
With the help of Dr. Loomis, Michael's old psychiatrist, Tommy had uncovered the truth. Every year, to protect themselves from the wrath of Thorne, the spirit of death, disease, and madness, the tribe would place a curse on one child in the village. Thorne would possess the child and then murder its entire family. This sacrifice would appease Thorne, and he would spare the rest of the tribe. Michael Myers was one of those unlucky children of Thorne. The curse had festered in his soul for thirty-three long years and now, it had to be passed on.
To Danny.
The ritual called for Michael to murder Steven, his last living relative, while Danny murdered his mother. The curse would transfer from Michael into Danny, and the whole saga - the death, pain, and misery of Thorne - would begin anew.
Only Tommy wasn't going to let that happen. He wasn't going to let anything happen to Kara, or to Danny, or especially to Steven. Over the past year, scurrying from one hidey hole to another, Tommy had fallen in love with his new family. Sometimes he would watch Danny and Steven sleep, and the fierceness of his love shocked him. It hadn't been a full year since they came into his life, but he could hardly remember a time when they weren't there, Steven sitting in his lap and sucking his thumb, Danny bouncing around and babbling about his GameBoy. Tommy never saw himself having children, but here he was, loving every second of every day because of them.
And so fucking scared for them that he could hardly sit still.
The black shadow of the Thorne Cult had cast a pall over their lives, corrupting every day with its malignant presence. No matter how happy Tommy was, no matter how much joy he took in seeing Steven toddling around the room and laughing at something goofy his older brother did, that terror was in the back of his mind, nagging him. They couldn't be normal...they couldn't stay in one place too long and they had to be careful. Danny couldn't go to school and he missed having friends. Sometimes he got depressed and just laid there, staring into space.
That hurt Tommy more than anything ever had, and it pissed him off too. He wanted to rage, to scream, to go out, find the cult, and spray them with bullets until they left his family alone. Instead, he sat here taking a gun apart and putting it back together again to make sure it worked if - and when - he needed it to.
Would it ever end?
He didn't know, and that made him feel helpless.
Since last Halloween, Tommy had been searching for a way to defeat both Michael Myers and the cult that created him. He studied yellowed texts on the occult, consulted with experts in black magic and druid folklore, and spoke with pagans who practiced arcane rites. Five weeks ago, he learned of the existence of a rune said to absorb and neutralize evil. Called The Hand of Light - Làmh an t-solais in Gaelic - it was one of the rarest of all runes but plentiful enough that he was able to find a dealer in California who had one in stock. The price was staggering but Tommy was able to come up with it and even now, it was being shipped to a PO box in Chicago.
If it worked - and Tommy prayed to God that it did - it would vanquish the curse once and for all.
But the Thorne Cult would remain.
Shaking his head, Tommy finished disassembling the rifle, then put it back together again. He pulled the trigger, and the bolt slid into place with a loud click. He sat it aside and picked up a 12 gauge shotgun. A hand fell on his shoulder, and he jumped.
"It's just me," Kara said. The hem of her floral print dress swished around her legs as she came around the chair and sat on Tommy's lap. He put the gun away and wrapped his arms around her, her warmth comforting him. "Steven's talking in his sleep again," she said and laid her head in the crook of his neck.
"Yeah?" Tommy asked proudly. "Full words?"
"No," Kara said, "just gibberish. He's like you more and more everyday."
That made Tommy laugh. "He's a chip off the old block."
For a long time, they sat in silence, the only sound the occasional pop of a knot crackling in the fire. Finally, Kara tensed, and before she even spoke, Tommy knew what she was going to say. "Do you think they'll come?"
The last Tommy had seen of Michael Myers, he was frozen in a hallway at Smith's Grove, blocked by an arrangement of runes on the floor. Tommy doubted the runes held him for long. The Thornes had likely unleashed him to find Steven like a bloodhound.
"I don't know," he said. He started to say more, but he closed his mouth. He was tired of talking about the Thorne Cult. He wanted to forget they existed. "They haven't found us yet," he said. "The Thorne constellation won't appear this year. It won't until 2000."
The Thorne constellation - shaped roughly like the letter P, the bump sharp instead of rounded - appeared only on certain Halloween nights. It appeared on the nights Michael Myers came home - 1978, 1988, 1989, 1995 - and filled him with unholy power. That it would not dot the heavens this year meant little. Michael was so close to completing his life's work that he would come on the 4th of July if he had to.
"I don't want to do this until then," Kara said. There was a sad, long-suffering inflection in her voice that broke Tommy's heart.
He hugged her close. "We won't," he said.
To himself, he added, I hope.
When he was a kid in Brooklyn, George Gaetano watched mobsters operate. His first cousin was a member of the Bonanno Family and a couple of his friends hung out with the Genovese. He saw stick ups, shakedowns, and everything in between. The two guys who came into his shop and tied him up that warm October night reminded him of wiseguys. They were organized, methodical, and professional. They weren't street hoods or junkies, they answered to somebody, and that somebody was on his way.
It was a little past midnight and George had been strapped to a chair in the storeroom for nearly an hour. The two men - one a middle aged black guy and the other a boy no older than nineteen - stood on either side of the door, they hands clasped before them. The black wore a black hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and black gloves. The kid wore a black T-shirt, jeans, and, like his friend, black gloves. They didn't answer George's questions, didn't respond to his taunts or namecaming. They just stood there, staring into space.
Like fucking zombies.
George was closing up his store - Gaetano's Precious Gems - when they came in. George knew in an instant that they were trouble. Guys in hoodies and gloves are never good news. The black guy pulled out a gun and stuck it in his face. "Take whatever you want," George told him.
Only they didn't want money.
They wanted something else.
George had been living in Burbank for nearly fifteen years. There was a crime family in L.A., but to the best of his knowledge, they didn't do shit but suck pasta and wish they were in New York. He didn't think his captors were wiseguys, but who knew? California was filled with gangs, cartels, and mafias of various sorts. They could be anybody.
The black guy reached into the oversized pocket of his hoodie and brought out a cellular phone, a black walkie talkie looking affair with a telescoping antenna and a screen that glowed dark green. He pressed it to his ear, listened, and said, "Okay."
"Who's that?" George asked, heart beating.
Ignoring him, the black guy left the room, closely followed by the kid. As soon as the door fell closed behind them, George started to work his bonds. His wrists and ankles were bound with Nylon cord, heavy rope around his torso. The knots were tight, and the more he tried to get free, the more tangled he became, like a fly in a web.
When the door opened and two men walked in, George froze. One was freakishly tall with hard, Frankenstienian features and the glazed eyes of a retard. The other was a frail and stooped old man in a tan overcoat and black gloves. He wore a shaggy white beard that looked as though it hadn't been trimmed in weeks and leaned heavily on a cane. The retard opened a metal folding chair and sat it in front of George. The old man fell onto it with a weary sigh and transferred his cane to his other hand. His skin was rough and leathery, his eyes rhumy and red. "That was quite a walk," he said in a cultivated accent. "Another few steps and I might have fainted."
"Who are you?" George asked.
"I'm Dr. Sam Loomis," the old man said, "and this is my associate, Sheldon."
The retard grinned, baring a mouth full of crooked, yellowing teeth.
"What do you want?" George asked.
Loomis folded his hands on the cane and leaned forward. "I have a few questions I'd like to ask you. This is a very urgent matter and I would appreciate your full cooperation.
Now George was confused. "A-Alright," he said.
"Do you know a Thomas Doyle?" Loomis asked.
George searched his mind, then shook his head. "No. I don't know him."
"Kara Strode?"
Again, George shook his head. "No. No. I...I don't know who they are."
Loomis pursed his lips. "I expected as much. You deal in rare gems?"
"Yeah," George said, "rare, semi rare, not so rare. You name it." His eyes went to Sheldon. A ribbon of drool coursed down his chin and the corners of his mouth were turned up in an idiot smile.
"Runes?" Loomis asked.
For a second, George didn't understand, then he nodded. "Yeah. I've sold runes before."
"To who?"
George shrugged. "A lot of people. They're big business. I just shipped one the other day."
Loomis's bushy eyebrows raised. "What rune?"
Uhhh...God, what was it? He searched his mind. "The, um, Hand of Light."
Something like excitement flashed in Loomis's eyes. "Where?" he asked, passion creeping into his voice. "Where did you send it?"
"Chicago," George said. "There's a book under the counter. It has the address."
Loomis turned to Sheldon. He was positively trembling with excitement. "Bring it to me. Bring me the book."
The big retard went to fetch it, and Loomis watched over his shoulder.
"What's this about?" George asked. "The guy who bought it's in trouble?"
Loomis turned around slowly. In the light cast by the bare bulb overhead, his face was craggy and full of shadows. "No, but we are if we don't find him."
Sheldon returned with a leather bound book and handed it to Loomis, who produced a pair of reading glasses from his coat and slipped them on. He opened the book, wetted his thumb and forefinger with his tongue, and turned the pages until he found what he was looking for. "Frank Burris. PO Box 109, Chicago." Loomis turned to Sheldon, and a bright smile touched his face. "We've got him." He struggled to his feet. "We'll go at once." He looked at George and his happiness seemed to damper. He turned to Sheldon, nodded, and left the room.
Giggling like a madman, the retard took a step forward, his big hands coming up. George yelled and started to thrash. When Sheldon grabbed his throat and squeezed, his eyes bulged from his sockets and his heart blasted.
Right up to the moment he died, George Gaetano expected salvation to come.
None did.
Outside, Sam Loomis hobbled to a waiting sedan, a group of men in black forming a protective semi-circle around him. "I want the post office staked out at once," Loomis was saying. "And for God's sake, don't let him see you and don't make contact. Follow him but stay out of sight."
He did not know to whom exactly he was issuing these orders, but it didn't matter; they would be disseminated and carried out regardless; as the head of the Cult of Thorne, he was only slightly less powerful than God himself.
One of the men went ahead and opened the door. Loomis climbed in and scooted to the far side, making a place for Sheldon. A pretty middle aged woman sat behind the wheel, her hands at a perfectly calculated ten and two.
No sooner had Loomis sat down than the car phone rang. He leaned forward, picked the handset up, and pressed it to his ear. "What is it?" he asked.
"We have a Myers sighting, sir."
Last year, when the burden of leading the cult was thrust upon Loomis, Michael Myers walked off into the night, driven by the spirit of Thorne to seek out his last living relatives. He was always two or three steps behind them and if he reached them before Loomis did, got to them before Loomis could take control of him, he would blindly kill them all.
That could not happen.
"Where?" Loomis asked.
"A town called McAllister, Wisconsin. He decapitated a slaoon owner, ripped a cop's spine out, and broke a travelling Bible salesman's head open with a cinderblock."
"Jesus," Loomis muttered.
McAllister was situated in the extreme northeast of the state along the border with Michigan's Upper Peninsula. "He was last seen heading east into Michigan."
Loomis's brow furrowed. "Not south?"
"No, sir."
That didn't make any sense. If Tommy was in Chicago, surely Michael would be heading there. Unless, of course, Tommy wasn't in Chicago. Maybe he was somewhere else.
"Keep tabs on him," Loomis said. "If necessary, throw a few men at him to slow him down."
The words tasted bitter on his lips. How could he so callously order men to their deaths? Anyone who tried to intercept Michael would die. Loomis knew that, but he was commanding it anyway.
It's the right thing to do...even if it doesn't feel like it.
He went back to that man, George Gaetano, and a shiver went down his spine. He pushed that thought away and sat the phone back in its cradle. The door opened and Sheldon got it, ducking to keep from hitting his head. He slouched as much as he could, but the top of his cranium still touched the ceiling.
Sheldon was much like Michael in that he was little more than a tool. He had served Thorne his entire life but did not fully grasp it. He simply did as he was told and that was good enough for everyone involved.
"Chicago," Loomis said to the driver. He could not remember her name.
She put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb. Behind them, a fleet of black cars took off into the night, some heading south, some west, and others still following Loomis. The old man folded his gloved hands on the cane, realized he was still wearing his reading glasses, and quickly took them off.
Things were coming to a head. He could feel it. On Samhain, Michael would sacrifice Steven and Danny would sacrifice his mother. The curse would be passed on and the terrible things Loomis had glimpsed through the mists of time would be averted.
All it would take was the murder of one innocent...and the corruption of another.