1968 - October 31st - 11:45pm
In the quiet moments of the 11th hour, Haddonfield sat still against the night. The Illinois-based slice of Americana offered no clues as to the whereabouts of its 3,000 residents, save for the rows of cut-and-pasted single family homes that dotted the landscape. Few had their lights on, and fewer still were alive with noise, but all were united in their inability to detect the true horrors that could occur when the world grows quiet, and the moon gives light to its creatures.
At the farthest end of her subdivision, in one such home desperately in need of a fresh coat of paint, square in the middle of a living room whose floor was equal parts trash and carpet, reclined Mrs. Elrod: the home's lone occupant. Her legs fought through discarded beer cans and unmade laundry in search of a comfortable position, but quickly gave up, slumping back at the foot of her recliner chair- only to repeat the process a second and third time, both to the same result. Comfort was a commodity for the young and supple, she would tell herself, but whether she was reaffirming this or simply convincing herself, she couldn't say- she found it to be true all the same.
She heaved a wad of black phlegm from her throat (courtesy of her daily pack of menthols), loaded it onto the flattest part of her tongue, and promptly shot it out onto the paper plate resting on her lap. She knew smoking would be the death of her, but if she'd known she'd spend every waking moment struggling to rid her lungs of the tar that coated it, she might have stopped, but that window closed a decade or two ago.
To an outsider, Mrs. Elrod may have seemed lonely surrounded by walls meant to shelter a whole family, but those who knew her recognized her as the sort of woman who loathed company and conversation- especially from children. Mr. Elrod was the single person whose presence she needed, but a foolish decision (one born from a mid-life crisis) left him torn and smeared across 40 feet of asphalt and chewed between the wheels of a semi-trailer.
To fill the void left by the man whom she devoted her life to, Mrs. Elrod turned to the bottle- initially as a means to cope but later as a means to forget. Truthfully, it never helped with either, but in the end a sober life wasn't a life worth living, and Mrs. Elrod's self-preservation proved too strong to allow her to quit.
Despite the attention she seemingly gave to the television, inside of her mind was empty, numbed from the bombardment of serialized dramas, infomercials, and various shopping networks begging for some poor sucker to drop their paycheck on meaningless knickknacks. This- the emptiness of her mind- was her sanctuary, her escape from the office and the oppressive remarks her boss makes about her hair, her demeanor, her work ethic- complaints she knew her male colleagues weren't given. This was her chance to be the judge- to flick through her handful of channels and deem them worthy of watching.
It was also her only chance to feel as if time hadn't moved on- maybe if she pretended the last decade was a nightmare, she'd eventually wake up.
Another drag from her cigarette and a quick sip of her ol' reliable and she was back to channel surfing, and all thought of Mr. Elrod was shoved to the back of her mind, trapped in a cerebral cage along with every other thought too overwhelming for her breaking mind to process.
"-dead tonight in Haddonfield after a night of fun and festivities." the TV set screamed, grounding her from her drunken stupor.
In her adventures across cable TV, she'd stumbled upon a live news report, covering some heinous crime that had occured on the street she lived on; Lampkin Lane. In fact, she could see the reporter was just outside of the Myers' household, which Mrs. Elrod knew to be visible from her bedroom window and less than a five-minute-walk away.
She sat up- her cracked leather chair creaking like a taut rope, a hiccup escaping from her gut- and twisted the TV set's volume control to the farthest setting it would permit.
"Again, for those just tuning in- three dead tonight in Haddonfield as part of a spree killing. Eighteen-year-old Judith Doyle and six-year-old twins Abraham and Josiah Vincent were found murdered by Warren County police tonight in an upstairs bedroom of this Haddonfield home," the reporter, Robert Mundy, made a half-hearted gesture to the household behind him, "Cause of death for all three appears to be loss of blood brought on by various stab wounds across the three victims' bodies. Right now, the culprit is believed to be eleven-year-old Michael Audrey Myers, who was being babysat by the eldest decedent. Authorities confirm he's been taken into custody and is awaiting questioning-"
1973 - October 31st - 8:12pm
"Trick or Treat!" a trio of teens in ghoulish garb cried out- their voices bouncing through the hospital hallways like pebbles down a well.
Smith's Grove Psychiatric Hospital was no stranger to monsters, (housed within its walls were a select few of the state's worst offenders) but these monsters weren't born from that same depravity. Instead, these monsters were born from the mind's of dreamers and artists: the ghosts and goblins commonly found in late-night creature features, whose monstrosities were keenly observed by children and teens worldwide.
Even this wasn't new to Dr. Loomis- this was the 7th annual Halloween party after all- but the atmosphere was decidedly different. The clean, white walls were once more decorated with Halloween-themed paper crafts (pumpkins, bats, and witches' hats), and hospital administrator Terrence Wynn had taken it upon himself to provide a slew of carnival-style games. The younger patients (the only ones allowed to participate) bobbed for apples and pinned tails on donkeys, in between traveling door to door in search of candy from the staff. They were laughing, singing, dancing- above all they were healing. Still, Loomis recognized something lingering in the air, in the halls, like a bad smell threatening to overwhelm the senses if one were too careless. Where there was a stench, there was something rotten waiting to be found, and Loomis knew exactly what rot had crept in and infected the hospital.
The good doctor met the trick 'r' treaters' excitement with a warm smile and feigned amusement.
The teens' costumes were entirely homemade- no doubt by nurse Chambers- yet had an unmistakable charm in them that Loomis felt was missing in your run-of-the-mill, drugstore-bought, mass-produced Halloween costumes. All three were blanketed in flowing bed sheets, hemmed and stitched in various places to better contour to their bodies, forming the childlike illusions of a ghost, a mummy, and a Raggedy Ann doll respectively. He scooped up a handful of candy from the pocket of his overcoat and divided it between them, letting the pieces fall into their pillow cases with a hard patter, and praised each of them for their terrific outfits. The teens thanked the good doctor before darting off to the next office door, eagerly awaiting new treats and praise.
Loomis knew these teens well- Penny, Sasha, and Jakeem. They had all arrived within the same few months, and had formed a strong bond because of it, a skill Loomis recognized to be essential for surviving behind the prison-like walls of Smith's Grove Sanitarium. It was a skill that he'd wished his own patient had- not for survival's sake, but for proof of his patient's humanity.
Loomis let the office door shut before allowing his jovial smile to fade, revealing the scouring old man that hid beneath. An old man whose warnings had gone unheeded for five years- whose efforts to keep Evil imprisoned had only emboldened it, strengthened it. He slumped forward, his forehead pressing the door tighter against the frame. All around him was the typical decor of a psychiatrist's office- that is to say it was filled with bland furniture, framed accolades, and visual aids used to assist in medical explanations.
Behind Loomis, a young man was seated in front of a barred window, peering through the courtyard's trees and off into an unknowable distance. His standard-issued scrubs were pristine, devoid of the same wear found on the scrubs of his peers, which the staff cited as a sign of good behavior. Loomis knew better- he recognized the young man's inhuman patience as something to be alarmed by. Perhaps, he would think to himself when alone, they just don't want to see it.
The young man's breath came in evenly spaced intervals- when it came at all. He'd sat in that same leather chair, two hours a day, every day for 5 years, while Loomis fruitlessly attempted to wriggle his reaches into the young man's mind for some semblance of emotion.
"I'm sorry, Michael." he lied.
Loomis never took his head off the door as he spoke- unwilling or unable to face his patient. His forehead wrinkled and creased under the weight of his burdens, and his hand slipped into the warm recess of his coat pocket where he traced his trembling fingers along the hammer of a concealed Smith & Wesson revolver.
With self-aware amusement, he continued, "I know how much you enjoy Halloween."
Michael's eyes remained locked onto some far-flung objective beyond the forest outside, his muscles remained completely rigid underneath the all-white scrubs. His fingers, however, gave the slightest tremble- a spark of anticipation for things to come. Perhaps if Loomis could stomach the sight of his greatest failure, he'd have noticed.
1973 - October 31st - 11:28pm
Now alone in Loomis' office, illuminated only by a single, garish, strobing fluorescent bulb and hidden by the cacophony of screams that ravaged the halls, Michael drifted forward like a phantom, closing in on his target with unnatural calmness. He'd been here before- done this before. His hand curled around the handle of the chef's knife- his thumb bracing his fingers so as not to let it slip- and his eyes never once moved from their fixed gaze. Memories of his sister flooded the caverns of his mind- her rosy fragrance listing underneath his nose, her milky skin ruined by countless lacerations and free-flowing rivers of red. With steady hands and evenly paced breath, Michael rocked his arm back, winding up for the attack- SCHLICK!
Outside the office, an orderly called out for help as she tried to quell the profuse bleeding from Penny's neck, while another rushed to preserve what little greymatter was left inside of Jakeem's open head from spilling out onto the slick, sanguine-covered hospital floors. A third orderly, who had been carrying Sasha's upper half against his fat belly in search of Dr. Wynn, came crashing down when he unexpectedly found her lower half with his feet- her head burst open underneath the weight of the man, forcing from him an agonized shriek and several subsequent sobs.
Inside the office, Michael's knuckles spasmed as he felt his target shutter under the force of his hand: a lonely jack-o-lantern atop Loomis' desk. His fist flexed with incredible force and again he reared his arm back- again he struck the effigy- SCHLICK!
Michael briefly flicked his eyes to the right, studying his arm as if looking to improve his form, before letting it sink into the pumpkin once more- SCHLICK!
SCHLICK!
SCHLICK!
SCHLICK!
When his hands finally loosened from the knife, the pumpkin was little more than orange rind shards, pulp, and seeds- its innards stained his hands and sleeves, creating a shocking contrast to the ivory clothing and walls that kept him shackled. It was a dark work of art that only Michael could understand- a macabre fancy he coveted like a thief to a diamond.
Outside the office, Michael could hear the crazed yells of his doctor, "Where is he? Where has the evil gone!"
Michael never needed to see Dr. Loomis- let alone hear him- to know when he was nearby. He knew Loomis had been upstairs only moments before, locked in a physical embrace with nurse Chambers, pretending the world couldn't hear their hushed, honeyed words. He knew everything that took place within the walls of his home- or maybe he knew nothing at all. Even to Michael, his mind seemed like a trap, an enigmatic creation that held clues to riddles he didn't care to ask.
"Here, the footprints lead this way!" another orderly called out in response to Loomis' pleas.
"Stand back." Loomis was on the other side of the door now.
BAM-BAM
Twin gunshots ripped through the air and the doorknob dropped to the floor, crumpled and red hot from the impact of the bullets. The door flew open to reveal the old fool and several more orderlies, all ready to pounce on the perpetrator, but vengeance would not win today- Michael was long gone. Through an open window, the smell of Illinois grain fields wafted in, bringing with it a sharp draft. The curtains billowed inward like the stretched out arms of a bed-sheet ghost, begging for someone to wear it. Dancing trees swayed to and fro as if to celebrate the young man's newfound freedom.
"He's gone! He's gone from here!" Loomis cried out into the night air for all to hear- a warning for the world, one he begged wouldn't go unheeded.
Loomis had spent five years convincing the hospital administration of Michael's inhumanity, of his need to kill. He spent five years bartering for safer holding conditions, stricter enforcements, and more vigilante observation.
Loomis had wasted five years trying to imprison Evil, but in this moment he kneeled before Evil's proclamation.
Streaked across the far wall in equal parts blood and pumpkin guts was a single phrase, scribbled with fervent care and darkly beautiful penmanship: COMING HOME
"The Evil is gone from here." Loomis sobs.
No sooner had Loomis jammed his revolver into his mouth, than the orderlies wrestled him to the ground, prying it from his iron grip.
"The Evil is gone!"
Screeching tires ripped through the night air, revealing to the staff Michael's means of escape.
"The Evil is gone-"
The good doctor repeated this again, and again, and again, until his sobs choked him and his voice failed under the weight of his mistakes.