October 26. 1996
They watched the post office for days, shifts changing as needed. A car was posted across the street around the clock and cultists on foot walked the area with orders to observe and report back, but not to engage. Tommy Doyle was inconsequential on his own, Loomis told them; Steven, Danny, and Kara were the ones they wanted. That was not entirely true. Michael Myers had been programmed to kill every member of his family. Steven was his son, conceived with his own niece, and Danny and Kara lived in the old Myers house, becoming, in a way, part of his family. Tommy, as caretaker of Steven and protector of Kara and Danny, was, Loomis supposed, also family now, and would need to be killed before the ritual. It wouldn't spoil things if he were killed sooner, say, by a shot to the back of the head, but Loomis would worry about that later. One step at a time, you know. Steven and the last surviving Strodes were the real prize and Loomis needed Tommy to lead him to them.
If Tommy came to Chicago with them in tow, Loomis and his people would take them. It would be easy enough, even in such a populated city. He doubted Tommy would risk dragging Kara and the kids with him, however, so they would need to follow him back to their hiding spot.
For more hours than he could count, Loomis sat in the hotel room he shared with Sheldon looking at the walls, the staticky television screen, or the blank page. Wherever Loomis travelled, he brought his typewriter, and over the past several months, he had been working on a book about the Thorne Cult. It would never be released to the public, of course, but it would serve as an in-house chronicle of the group's history and aims. Sheldon set the typewriter up at the desk facing the window overlooking the street below, and Loomis sat at it for hours writing in fits and spurts by lamplight, a tiny pair of reading glasses perched on his crooked nose. When he was a younger man, Loomis could easily produce ten thousand words in a single sitting. Now he could write barely three thousand before needing to lie down. On the cold, rainy afternoon of October 26, he sat before the typewriter and pecked at the keys with his forefingers.
Any modern person, steeped in the rational philosophy of the civilized New World, would openly scoff at the idea of curses and predestination. I, too, once dismissed tales of witches, black magic, and ancient, midnight rituals. Those belonged in fairytales and Machen stories, I believed. I was a man of science and logic whose entire life was founded on order. I disregarded the notion that anything else could exist and turned my nose up at people who claimed otherwise. They were mad, I thought, or too imaginative for their own good.
I was wrong.
I do not understand the inner workings of curses and magic. I have tried. I know, however, that both are real and that the modern world we have built for ourselves is not all there is. I am still a man of order and have been studying and pondering the nature of magic and how it functions, and I have my theories, though none of them quite satisfy me. Perhaps the Old People who inhabited the green hills of the British Isles once knew, but I doubt it. They understood magic the way we understand microwave ovens and television sets: You push a button and something happens. I do not understand how a mess of tubes and wires convey picture and sound, I only know that it does. Likewise, the majority of Druids likely never understood how a set of rocks and spells could affect the world around them, they just knew that they could.
One of my theories is that what we understand as magic is an ordered and scientific manipulation of the earth's naturally occuring energies. Magic is, therefore, a natural element that can be studied and replicated in a laboratory setting. Remember that the amenities we take for granted today would seem like witchcraft to earlier peoples.
That does not explain the god we worship, however. There are many supernatural elements to the Thorne rituals that science cannot explain, that I cannot explain. I know for a fact that those elements are present and I know that the dreams I have had are true. Sacrificing a young child to the spirit of Thorne and allowing them to become what Michael Myers has become is terrible and I grapple with it every single day. What will happen if we do not perpetuate the curse, however, is even worse. I have seen the most dreadful future in my dreams and I want to avoid it...for the greater good.
Few would understand. We, Thorne, are not evil. We do not want to do the things we do, but we do them because they must be done. No soldier in war wants to maim and kill, or to be maimed and killed, but he does so because it is what needs to be done. We want to live our lives in peace. That is the reason for the curse.
The curse of Michael Myers has been active since October of 1963, thirty-three years. The longer it nests in a single host, the longer it remains unfulfilled, the angrier Thorne grows. If the curse is not passed on soon - perhaps even this year - only God can tell what will happen.
Loomis sat back with a weary sigh and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Sheldon was sitting on the edge of his bed and grinning at a cartoon and icy drops of rain sluiced down the window. Loomis reread what he had and pondered it. Parts of it came off as desperate self-justification, but he supposed that that was exactly what it was. Was he trying to convince anyone who might read this that he was right...or was he trying to convince himself?
The latter, he suspected.
It is possible for something to be both right and awful at the same time. He thought of the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Those two bombs ended the war in the Pacific and spared a catastrophic invasion of mainland Japan, an operation that would have killed hundreds of thousands, if not millions, on both sides and would have reduced Japan to rubble. Those two bombs saved everyone a lot of grief, but the impact they had on innocent human life was nauseating to think about.
The world is filled with evil, and sometimes you must choose the lesser evil. Sticking with World War II, Hitler and Stalin clashed on the Eastern Front, two bloodthirsty dictators with an eye toward world domination. Which of them was the lesser evil? Stalin. Hitler was actively murdering millions and invading every country he could ship a few German to. Backing Stalin was distasteful, but it had to be done.
Presiding over the murder of a toddler and the total corruption of a nine year old boy were both things that Loomis did not want to do, but had little choice over. If he balked, he would condemn millions of other toddlers and nine year olds to death. Famine, war, and pestilence would sweep the land. The western world would possibly even collapse and a new Dark Ages would take hold. If he did not take bold, decisive action, he would allow all of that and more to happen, making him possibly a worse monster than Hitler and Stalin combined. He did not want to do this, but he had to, and not doing it would be so, so much worse than doing it.
He had been telling himself that for nearly a year, but it still didn't ease his conscience.
Loomis was about to start typing again when the handheld radio at his right crackled with life. Three simple words followed. "We got him."
Snatching the radio up like a drunk with a bottle, Loomis depressed the TALK button. "You do?"
"He just went into the post office. It's him alright."
Loomis's heart pounded. "Is he alone?"
"Yes, sir."
"Don't let him out of your sight," Loomis ordered. He got shakily to his feet, and Sheldon looked at him. "Get the typewriter and your things," the old man said, "we're leaving."
Tommy Doyle tucked the package from California under his arm and pushed through the exit door. Cold droplets of rain wetted his hair and the shoulders of his olive drab zip-up jacket. He shoved his free hand into his pocket and closed his fingers around the handle of the .38, his eyes darting cautiously around. A line of cars were parked at the opposite curb, and people hurried along the sidewalk. Any one of them could be a threat. At that moment, Tommy felt naked. Anybody walking past or crouching in one of the buildings across the street could see him.
Ducking his head against the rain, Tommy hurried to his car and slid in behind the driver seat. He locked the door, checked the backseat to make sure it was still empty, and pulled his safety belt on. He waited for a car to pass, then pulled out into the street and did a U-turn. From the post office, he followed the rainswept surface streets to the interstate. When he was a few miles out of the city, he would find a payphone and call Kara. He hated leaving her and the kids alone and he'd been a ball of anxiety ever since he left Royal Woods.
On the interstate, he glanced in the rearview mirror. There were five or six cars behind him, all doing various speeds. None looked suspicious but he distrusted them anyway.
Ten miles east of Chicago, Tommy got off the highway and pulled into a gas station. He got out, fished a quarter from his pocket, and power walked to the payphone by the ice chest. He dropped his coin into the slot, dialed, and held the handset to his ear. He looked nervously around but didn't see anything alarming.
Kara answered on the third ring and Tommy relaxed. "Hey, it's me. I'm on my way back. How's everything there?"
"Good," she said. "Steven's napping and Danny's outside playing with that Lucy girl from across the street."
Danny not being in Kara's eyesight made Tommy anxious but he didn't have the heart to say anything. Danny rarely got the chance to make friends and be a normal kid.
"Alright," Tommy said, "I'll be home in an hour or so."
"Be careful," Kara said.
"I will," Tommy replied. "I love you."
"I love you too."
Tommy hung the phone up and got back into the car. He reversed, swung left, and left the parking lot. Back on the highway, a car was sitting in the breakdown lane, its hazard lights flashing orange in the rain. Was Tommy paranoid, or was it one of the cars that had been behind him before he pulled off the highway?
Holding his breath, Tommy passed.
The car got back on the road and started to follow him.
Tommy's heart raced.
Were they cultists?
He sped up and tried to shake the car, but it always wound up right behind him. Maybe he was paranoid, but he couldn't risk it. Ten miles later, he took an off ramp and came out onto a narrow two lane highway. In the rearview mirror, the car followed.
Tommy slammed his foot to the gas and he took off like a rocket, the car's engine letting out a guttural vroom. The car behind him sped up and Tommy's stomach turned.
They were Thorne alright.
How did they find him?
He didn't know, but they were going to unfind him.
Pressing the gas harder, Tommy guided his car along the highway, mounting hills and crossing rivers. He turned off onto a narrow road and gunned it. Now the car was maxed out and shaking. He took another road, and then another. Somehow, he wound up back at the interstate. He got on and headed back toward the city, getting off and pulling into the parking lot of a strip mall. He parked and waited.
They didn't come.
That was too easy, he thought.
Then a terrible idea occurred to him.
What if it was so easy because they already knew where Kara and the kids were?
Heart in throat, he whipped out of the parking space and started back home.
"We lost him," a voice said on the radio.
Loomis, sitting in the back of a car doing the speed limit on the interstate, balled his fist and clenched his teeth. "Damn it," he hissed. He pressed the TALK button. "I told you to stay out of sight," he snapped.
The voice came back. "He knew we were there. But there's no need to worry. One of our men put a transponder on the car. We know exactly where he is."
Loomis's rage turned to excitement. "Where is he going?"
"East still. Into Michigan."
The last Loomis had heard of Michael, he was making his way toward Michigan as well. That must be where Tommy and the others were hiding.
"Follow at a distance," Loomis said. "A great distance."
"Yes, sir."
Sitting back, Loomis let out a pent up breath and glanced at Sheldon, who stared out the slick window with a blank expression on his face. "We got him," Loomis said. A tight smile touched his lips. Whether it was fake or genuine, not even he could say. "This will all be over soon."
Loomis was very much looking forward to this being over. Once the deed was done and the ritual had been completed, he would retire like Terrence Wynn before him. The only way to retire from a position such as this was to pass it onto a man of pure heart and then to die. The logic, Loomis had figured out, was that a man had to be thrust into the position against his will. Any man who sought it would never have the Mark of Thorne and would never commune with him. Men who seek the office, as it were, are to be mistrusted, for they are either corrupt or corruptable. Loomis had considered passing the Mark of Thorne onto Tommy but even if Tommy could be spared, he would likely never do it. He was too emotionally invested in Kara, Steven, and Danny. Once they were killed, he would stop at nothing to exact revenge, and there is nothing more dangerous, irrational, and unpredictable than the wrath of a grief stricken man who has nothing to lose.
That was unfortunate. Tommy was the best man Loomis knew...not that he knew many people. He would have to find someone else, preferably from outside the ranks of the cult.
From Chicago, the car kept east on the interstate, crossing into Michigan an hour before sunset. Loomis got frequent updates from the man with the transponder. "He's been stopped at a town called Royal Woods for nearly an hour," the man said. "Either the transponder came off or that's where he is."
Loomis consulted a Rand-McNally atlas. Royal Woods was a suburban community thirty minutes north of Detroit. There were no pictures or detailed maps of it in the atlas, but Loomis pictured a small, sleepy town much like Haddonfield. It seemed fitting that this would end in a place similar to the one where it began. He was almost surprised that it wasn't ending in Haddonfield itself. Of course, that was out of the question: There was a heavy Thorne presence there and Tommy and the others would be spotted in minutes.
Just after 8pm, they reached the outskirts of Royal Woods. A two lane highway flowed past a wooden sign with golden writing (ROYAL WOODS, A NICE PLACE TO LIVE) and over a narrow creek via a green trestle bridge. The town spread out from Main Street in a grid-like pattern, quaint brick storefronts facing the street. Loomis spotted a bank, a barber shop, and a feed store, all shuttered at this late hour. A few cars moved in the streets, and the neighborhood the driver turned into was decked with festive Halloween decorations: Glowing jack o'lantern grinned evilly from front porches and stuffed scarecrows with button eyes and stitched simpers fluttered in front yards.
The transponder led them to 1209 Franklin Avenue, a two story house with a slate roof and an attached garage. The windows were all dark and an air of desolation hung over the place. Loomis sat forward and craned his neck to get a good look at it as they passed. "Nobody's there," he said.
Or were they?
At the end of the street, the driver pulled into the parking lot of a gas station called Flip's and they met up with the other car. A thin black man in a button up shirt and slacks got into the back of Loomis's car and sat beside Sheldon. He pulled out a small device that resembled a Walkman, pulled out a metal telescope antenna, and pressed a button. The screen lit up and in moments, a crude map of the area appeared, green lines on a black background. A tiny red dot sat on top of one of the lines. "That's the transponder," the black man said.
"That's the house we passed," Loomis said.
"Yes, sir," the black man said. "My money says the car he was driving is parked in the garage, out of sight."
Loomis wetted his lips.
"What now, sir?" the black man asked.
Taking a deep breath, Loomis said, "Now we wait for Michael."
Lucy Loud sat on the bed in her older brother's closet bedroom with her hands folded in her lap and watched as Lincoln, Danny, and Bobby played Super Mario 64. On screen, Mario ran through a colorful cartoon landscape filled with sheer cliffs, walking bombs, and smiling clouds.
It was late evening and they had been taking turns playing for nearly an hour, Lincoln first, then Danny, then Bobby and Lucy. At first, Danny was kind of nervous about meeting Lucy's family owing to the sheer amount of people. He quickly loosened up and he and Lincoln got along great. They trash talked one another and laughed over dumb jokes that Lucy either didn't understand or didn't find funny.
Typical boy stuff.
Danny's demeanor had completely changed over the course of the past sixty minutes; Lucy couldn't help thinking of him as having come alive, like a frozen man slowly waking from a long, icy slumbner, first his fingers twitching, and then his extremities. It was a nice change, Lucy noted, and only now did she realize just how much strain Danny was under. No one goes from glum and edgy to laughing and easygoing in an hour unless they're naturally the latter. What she was seeing now was the real Danny, a normal kid. The other Danny was a product of stress, worry, and fear. The change was marked, shocking even, and it occurred to Lucy that whatever he was grappling with, it must be enormous.
Presently, Bobby plucked the controller from Lincoln's hands. "You're gonna die," Lincoln said. "I bet you don't even make it past the bombs."
"You didn't make it past the bombs," Danny pointed out.
"I almost did," Lincoln said, "but Lucy sighed in my ear and distracted me."
The boys all laughed and Lucy rolled her eyes. "I've been perfectly silent this whole time."
"You're worse than Dannarino," Bobby said. "I thought he was gonna be a mute like you, but he's actually alright."
Ah, so Bobby had his own nickname for Danny. That was nice; a sign of acceptance. He only gave nicknames to people he liked. Lucy's was Dracula. It was simple but got the job done.
"I just don't have anything to say to you," Lucy said.
"Except sigh," Lincoln said.
If you can't beat them, join them. "I say that to everyone."
After Bobby guided Mario to his death (he did not, in fact, make it past the bombs) they all went downstairs. Lana and Lynn sat on the couch flipping between Monday Night Raw and Monday Nitro: On one show, Steve Austin guzzled beer and flipped people off, and on the other, Hulk Hogan, Scott Hall, and Kevin Nash teamed up on Sting and Ric Flair.
They found everyone else in the garage helping to decorate for the haunted house. Lola, Luan, and Leni set up a maze of cardboard walls duct taped together and painted black, and Luna and Lisa hung strobe lights in the corners, Luna standing on a wobbly step ladder and Lisa perched on her shoulders."Hold still," Lisa commanded, "or you'll kill the both of us."
"You've heavy," Luna grunted, "what do they feed you in kindergarten these days?"
Lisa's face darkened. "You know very well that I've advanced to the third grade."
Lori stood to one side with a clipboard in one hand and her lips pursed in thought. She tapped the eraser of a pencil against her chin and made a long, contemplative hmmm sound. She looked up, saw Bobby, and smiled. He took her in his arms and pecked her lips. Lucy, Lincoln, and Danny cringed. "You should hear them on the phone," Lincoln told his new friend. "It's enough to make you gag."
"Need any help?" Bobby asked.
Lori thought for a second. "Actually, you guys can tackle the yard. I have a bunch of stuff around here somewhere."
Inside of ten minutes, Lucy, Lincoln, Bobby, and Danny were setting up foam tombstones and hanging ghosts made of plastic bags from trees, bushes, and other surfaces. Lincoln and Bobby horsed around and called each other homos - a slur that grated on Lucy every time she heard it - and Lucy stuck with Danny. She wracked her brain for a way to bring up her suspicions and finally settled on one. "I didn't think you could relax," she said as she jammed a tombstone into the grass.
"What do you mean?" Danny asked.
"You just seem really tense all the time," she said, "like you're on the run from something."
Danny got really quiet.
"I don't mean to pry, but...just, you know, you seem like there's something on your mind."
For a moment, Danny stared down at the tombstone in his hands. "Kind of, I guess."
Overhead, a bank of wispy gray clouds sailed past the skeletal face of the moon, and a cold wind washed over them, stirring the trees. Lucy waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn't, she asked, "What is it?"
He jammed the tombstone into the ground. "You wouldn't understand."
"Try me," Lucy said.
Danny took a deep breath, considered, and shook his head. "I can't."
"Okay," Lucy said, "then can I tell you something?"
"What?" Danny asked.
Now it was Lucy's turn to take a deep breath. She didn't know how he would react to this; he'd probably get weirded out and run away, and she wouldn't be able to blame him. "A couple days before you moved here, I was at my friend Haiku's house. We were playing with a Quija board and something happened."
She told him about the planchet racing across the board on its own and spelling out HE'S COMING. "Then I had a nightmare," she said, "about this guy." She hesitated and rubbed the back of her neck. "He was wearing a white mask."
Danny looked at her. It was clear from the expression on his face that he knew what she was talking about. "I think it was Michael Myers," she added.
The boy went pale and suddenly crossed his arms over his chest as though a chill had descended upon him. He turned slightly to face away from Lucy and a fierce wind blew out of seemingly nowhere, its presence like a bad omen. "You're hiding from Michael Myers, aren't you?" Lucy asked.
Another gust of wind blew, and a shiver went down Lucy's spine. She remembered the strange and ominous draft that swept through Haiku's closed bedroom, and how the overhead light exploded in a shower of sparks. She had felt a presence there with them, and she had been sure that if she squinted just right, she would see a shadowy form.
Just when she was starting to think that Danny wasn't going to reply, he said, "Yeah."
Though Lucy had suspected as much, hearing it in so many words stopped her heart in her chest. She was certain now that the ouija board was warning her about Michael Myers. He was the one who was coming.
Danny told her as much of the story as he could, but there were gaps here and there where he didn't know something. Lucy listened in amazement as he explained the curse Micheal Myers was under, and how it was intended to be passed onto him. "Tommy knows more than I do," Danny said. "He's really smart."
"I want to talk to him," Lucy said.
"I'll see if it's okay," Danny said.
As if on cue, Danny's mom's voice rang through the night. She stood on the front step of 1209 Franklin with her arms crossed over her chest and her hair whipping in the wind. "I'll see you tomorrow," Danny said.
"Alright," Lucy said. Then she added: "Be careful."
"I will," he said.
He hurried across the street, and his mom ushered him into the house. Though she was 500 feet away or more, Lucy imagined she could hear the door closing with dread finality, like a coffin lid. She processed the information she had learned and her head spun. Michael Myers, the most famous serial killer in American history was actually possessed by an evil spirit summoned by a cult of modern day Druids...and he was on his way to Royal Woods. Her first instinct was to be afraid for Danny and his family, but then it occurred to her that she and her family were in danger too. She was in this up to her neck, and when Michael Myers came, she could be a target.
No wind blew, but Lucy shivered anyway.