Author's Notes: Whew, I've pumped this chapter out in record time because I wanted to establish all of this in the previous chapter. Can you believe this chapter, the previous chapter, and the next chapter were almost one chapter combined? I'm glad I decided to split them up.

My own eagerness as well as your feedback has really encouraged me, so thank you all for reviewing! Please let me know what you think.

If you are seeing this again, please take time to skim through chapter 2 and this one once more as I have heavily revised it, otherwise chapter 4, which is forthcoming shortly, will not make sense! I have changed the current setting from October 31, 1999 to October 19, 1999 to reflect plot changes I have made in chapter 4 to make this story much more linear.

THREE

"See the animal in his cage that you built
Are you sure what side you're on?
Better not look him too closely in the eye
Are you sure what side of the glass you are on?"
- Right Where it Belongs - Nine Inch Nails

Bread pops out of the toaster as the bacon sizzles loudly in the frying pan nearby. Darlene hums along to the CD player she keeps in the kitchen window as she spreads butter over the four pieces of toast, hearing her husband busy himself behind her before departing for the day, kissing her quickly with the newspaper in hand.

Jamie enters the kitchen, making a beeline to the cabinet where they keep Coco's food. The cat follows behind, trotting happily knowing it's her meal time. With a click of the can, she peels it open to dump her food on a dish, setting it before her. Jamie watches the cat chow down for a moment before grabbing the coffee pot to pour a mug.

Darlene frowns, glancing Jamie's way. "Trouble sleeping again?"

"I think it's because it's almost Halloween again, mom," Jamie says with a sigh, sitting at the table with her small hands cupped around the porcelain mug. "It's always like this, you know that. The nightmares."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I dreamed that my uncle was eating a rat like it was a Big Mac and I tasted every single morsel. That's what kept me up, if you want to know.

Instead, Jamie shakes her head. "Just a nightmare. I have one of my long appointments with Dr. Elrod today at eight, I think I'll talk about it with her. It was a pretty vivid one."

"Could be a side effect of the Vistrail?"

"I haven't taken those in a few days, so it's not that. Just my head."

"Time doesn't heal all wounds, sweetheart," Darlene sets a hand on Jamie's shoulder, kissing her dark head. Her fingers brush through her hair. "I'm making egg whites. Do you want some? Can't survive on coffee all day."

Jamie nods with a smile, wrapping her arms around her mother and tucking her face into her neck.

Darlene smiles, breaking away to busy herself with the skillet of bacon. Rachel enters the kitchen, hair still damp from her bath, and bends to kiss Jamie on the cheek. Jamie beams.

"Where's dad?" Rachel asks, stealing a piece of toast before sitting beside Jamie.

"He left about fifteen minutes ago to get coffee and cigarettes with Uncle Frank," Darlene explains, setting a plate of egg whites, bacon, and stewed tomatoes before Jamie. Jamie reaches for her fork, nodding in thanks before digging in. The visceral image of Michael eating the rat suddenly fills her mind's eye and she nearly spits out her juicy bite of her tomato, but swallows forcibly.

She takes a bite of an egg white and thinks more of Michael-of his bad eye in the dingy red hue of his cell, staring at the wall. Looking past it. Looking right at her as the heavy metal door opens, where a man in black awaits.

"Jamie?"

Jamie looks at Rachel, blinking away the image in her head.

Rachel continues, "I asked if you wanted to get dinner with me and Lindsey later, after class. We're getting sushi-I know it's your favorite."

Jamie shakes her head, sipping at her coffee.

"I think I'm gonna catch up for my midterms in the library. I have a few videos to watch for my ASL class."

Rachel smiles, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. "All you do is stay locked up in that library, or in your room. Always doing homework. You need to make time for yourself, to have some fun."

Jamie shrugs, picking at her breakfast with her fork.

"How can I transfer out of Haddonfield Community College this semester if I don't have good grades?"

"Making Dean's List last semester and-hell, graduating high school early isn't good enough to do that?"

Jamie bites her lip, allowing a small smile to tug at her lips.

"I know what day it is-and how you feel about it," Rachel says. Jamie feels herself go tense as her older sister continues, "but it's been ten years now, Jamie. He's been in there for ten years. He's never getting out, and you can't let him keep ruining your life."

The younger girl stands, grabbing her backpack off the floor beside her and a piece of her toast with an egg white and tomato assembled on it.

"Jamie-"

"I'm running late, anyway. You know how the traffic is," she says quickly, "I'll see you later. Love you, mom. Love you, Rachel."

Rachel stands, holding a hand out to her. Jamie moves away from her, making a beeline to the front door with Coco hot on her heels. She nudges the cat out of the way as she opens the door, grabbing her keys off the rack before opening the screen and quickly shutting it behind her.

Darlene sets her plate down beside Rachel's as Rachel sighs, sitting back in her seat.

"You know how she gets when you bring it up," Darlene admonishes, not unkindly, setting a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "But she knows you mean well. Just give her some space."

Rachel nods, exhaling once more as she pinches the bridge of her nose between her fingers.

"I know," Rachel says, "I just feel like an asshole now but-I'll just talk to her later."

"That's probably a better idea, let her cool off," Darlene holds up the coffee pot. "Want some coffee?"

"Please. I need it, especially today."

The first thing Jamie does as soon as she gets into her used car is pull out of the driveway and down the street. Knowing she's not thinking coherently, reeling from Rachel's words in the kitchen, she drives the opposite direction of Dr. Elrod's office-there's enough time to do what she has in mind anyway without cancelling the appointment, as her traffic excuse had been haphazard at best-and merely follows her own muscle memory thereafter. It's only when she parks her car that she allows herself a moment to catch her breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth, in and out, in and out, in and out, like Dr. Elrod always tells her-and she finds herself clawing at the arm of her seat as she hyperventilates.

A rough hand covers hers-calloused and rough and scarred. She gulps in a breath of air, gaze panning slowly from the big hand that covers hers, up the dark blue coveralls, to look at the boogeyman himself. You're just like me.

And I'm just like you.

She screams. When she blinks, he's gone, and she's left to catch her breath again, throat raw. Quickly, she jerks her keys out of the ignition and locks the car door behind her after she slams it shut, shrugging her jacket closer to her form as she pulls her bag closer too, heading into the walkway of the cemetery as gusts of wind blow hard enough to almost move her bodily. Colored dead leafs crunch under her boots as she steps over them and she looks around, eyes darting to catch along her surroundings. A jogger running on the other side of the plots, an elderly couple carrying a big bouquet of roses. No one else. She exhales, shaking her head, and heads to the plot she knows by heart.

HERE LIES THE BELOVED MEMORIES OUR MOTHER AND DAUGHTER, LAURIE STRODE.

"Hi, mommy," Jamie says softly, over the gusts of wind that send her long dark hair flying into her face. She tucks it behind her ear and bends, touching over the glossy granite. She'd only been five when her mother had gone for a drive with her father and had never come back-the memories she has in comparison to her life with the Carruthers family are bleak. She remembers the ash blonde of her mother's cropped hair, remembers the way she used to laugh in the seldom occasion she did and remembers the way her eyes used to go distant whenever October rolled around.

Jamie knows why, now.

"I haven't visited you in awhile," Jamie says with a sigh. "I didn't think to bring you anything. I'm sorry. I just-I feel like anytime I think I take a step forward, I'm shoved back 'til I fall on my ass. Sorry, I know you hate cursing-I remember that about you-but I'm so tired."

She feels tears stinging at her eyes and she swallows the thick lump in her throat.

"I've been having dreams about him, again. Like it used to be. It stopped, and it started again," she says, softer now, as if afraid someone will overhear. "I-I don't know why. I feel like you're the only one who would get that besides-besides Michael. I know you never liked saying his name, but I'm learning that I have to. That's what my therapist told me."

Her head shakes, and she wipes away the tears that have begun their descent down her ruddy cheeks without her permission. Sniffling, Jamie laughs.

"I don't know what it is, mommy. And I'm scared. I'm as scared as I was when I thought he was going to kill me in that old house, and he hasn't stepped a foot outside of Smith's Grove in ten years," she says. "I-just think I carry him with me. Like a bad habit. I always have but now-it feels like it used to, and I'm terrified because no one gets it. Dr. Elrod says it's-just in my head, but I know it's not. I know it's not."

A pause as she looks around, folding her arms to hug her slight frame.

"So, no matter how many times I've made the Dean's List, no matter how many kids I tutor or mentor, no matter what-I feel like I'm always going to be the same as him. Like when I attacked mom. Is that why you never wanted me to know about him? About Judith? About all of it?" she sighs. "I wish you were here. I love Rachel and Mom and Dad but I just-Rachel gets it. But not like you would."

She exhales, standing at her full height after kissing her hand and pressing it against the worn picture at the top of Laurie's headstone, shrugging her bag over her shoulders to head away from the plot and stopping in her tracks. Remembering when she'd come here three years ago to the date, when she was on her way home from school and asked the gravekeeper where the Myers family plot could be found. She'd booked it out of there before she could look at the headstones, terrified that he was watching her, that he was digging another grave for her like he had back in the attic.

Now, she heads there like muscle memory too and doesn't stop until she sees Deborah Myers' face staring back up at her from a framed picture. She can see her mother in Deborah, the pretty blonde hair and wide smile. She bends down once more, careful not to disturb any of the wilted bouquets of flowers that decorate the plot, and reaches a hand out to touch over the dusty engraving of her name.

"You're my grandmother. I know that now. My mother never told me about you-she had no idea who you were until she was-until she was my age, actually," Jamie says softly. "I-I've done a little research about you and Uncle Michael and Aunt Judith, in the library basement. They don't have a lot of the newspapers anymore, because they wanna forget. I can't blame them, but I can't forget it. I bet you couldn't either. You lost your baby-Judith. When she was my age, too. Then you lost Michael. I bet that must've really hurt. People say all kinds of mean things to me, about being evil, about the boogeyman being my uncle. It hurts a lot, too, and it's not like it's our fault."

She feels her lip quivering when she looks over Judith's headstone, aged as it is, too. She reaches out a hand to touch but pulls back before she can make contact, feeling like the breath's been knocked out of her, somehow.

"I'm sorry. I know-what it feels like, to do what he did to you. And I'm sorry, Aunt Judith," she whispers, hanging her head. "It's not our fault that we were born into this bloodline. It's not Michael's, either. Maybe it's-maybe he can be saved. Or helped. I want to believe he can, despite all of this."

She looks over their graves for a long moment-longer than she realizes, because her vision goes all blurry from reading over their names-and she stands, exhaling softly. When she looks up, her heart jumps, barely making out the beige coat in the distance, watching her.

Jamie steels herself and then approaches.

Dr. Sam Loomis puts out his cigarette when she gets too close, stomping over the butt with his shoe.

"Good morning, Jamie," he says, sounding unsure. She offers a small smile, wary. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"Hi, Dr. Loomis," she says, shoulders falling from her facade of confidence. "I-I just-I was visiting my mom. And I-thought I should visit them, too. We're family. Everyone reminds me of it, every day, so why not."

Dr. Loomis takes the sight of her in-after ten years of not laying eyes on her, she's very much the same. Small, slight in stature and barely touching five feet, the same big doe eyes that spoke volumes of her innocent naivety. Little Jamie Lloyd's innocence may be gone, stolen from her by the boogeyman himself, but he wonders if any of the little girl he remembers is still there-the same little girl who'd stopped Michael Myers in his tracks and convinced him to take off his mask and reveal himself to her.

"It's very kind of you to visit," he decides. "By all means, they're not your family."

"You and I know better than that, Dr. Loomis," Jamie says, head shaking, inhaling a cold gust of air sharply as her eyes go a little wide, glancing back up at the old man, dread punching her in the gut. "Is that why you're here, Dr. Loomis? Because he's-"

Dr. Loomis shakes his head.

"Michael hasn't left the bounds of Smith's Grove in ten years, Jamie. He's locked away, behind too many locked doors to count. That's not why I'm here."

"So you've visited him?"

He exhales, and shakes his head.

"This period of my life is over, Jamie. I've tried to put this behind me, as I imagine you've tried to as well. I've retired from medicine-you were, in fact, my last patient."

Jamie huffs out a laugh, sniffling. "Some patient I was, huh?"

That gets a small chuckle from the old man, slight as it is. Jamie smiles a little, despite herself, then goes solemn.

"I-I think I should get going, Dr. Loomis. My parents would have my neck if they knew I was here, you know."

Dr. Loomis nods, keeping one hand clutched around the handle of his cane and the other in his pocket. Jamie turns away after no response beyond that, arms wrapped around herself as she heads back toward her car.

"Jamie, wait."

She looks back toward him. He looks as tense as she feels.

"Just-take care now, Jamie."

"Thank you," she says back, sincerely. "You too, Dr. Loomis-and, if I don't see you for it, happy Halloween."

There's a knowing, whimsical glint in their shared gaze before she breaks it, leaving to walk back to her car. Dr. Loomis watches her before approaching the headstones to get a look at them himself.

He stares at Judith's name for a long moment before turning away himself, ambling back to his own car, knowing more than anything in the world where he belongs.

The drive to Smith's Grove takes about an hour and a half, even on the back roads. Loomis doesn't hesitate or tremble once in the entire drive, stopping only for gas before embarking on the rest of his trip. Terrence is as receptive to his presence as always-one of the few old friends he can truly say he's kept in his long life. There's been one common denominator since he started his medical profession-and it's sitting stowed away in the belly of Smith's Grove.

It's as much of a labyrinth as he remembers it-the walk down to the maximum security adult ward, and it's as dark underneath as he remembers. He can feel Michael's presence, somehow, through all of the floors and doors that separate them, swears their hearts beat the same now that he's so close to him once more.

"I've had the orderlies escort Michael to the visiting room," Terrence says when they're on the elevator, heading down. He sounds good-natured. "So a visit to the basement won't be necessary today. Maybe you won't catch a cold, today."

Loomis smiles, though it doesn't reach the old man's eyes. Terrence glances sideways at him.

"I thought you were going to retire and write those memoirs of yours, Sam," Terrence says. "Not that I'm complaining-I miss your insight, around here. But I worry about your heart, you know that. Especially after everything that happened back in '89."

"Don't worry about me, Terrence," he says. "I've avoided this, for all of these years. After I healed, I convinced myself that this was the last thing I needed. But it's what I needed the most, I think, and what I need to do now, Terrence."

"You sound so final."

Loomis chuckles.

"Blame the old age, it's made me cynical," Loomis responds, then adds, quieter, "among other things."

"Really, Sam," Terrence says. "What's brought this on? This spontaneous visit?"

The elevator gate opens. Terrence holds the door open to allow Loomis to amble out, to which he gives a nod of thanks. Terrence follows suit beside him.

"I visited Haddonfield this morning. For the first time in ten years, Terrence," Sam says, hushed and solemn. "I drove by the old house, where I had my stroke, where I captured him. I visited Judith Myers' gravesite next and I found Jamie Carruthers there, too. It stirred something in me. I don't know what drove me to visit-nostalgia, perhaps, because I lost the only purpose I think I had in life for twenty-five years. A very long time. But I wanted to get a look at him, one last time, perhaps."

Terrence reminds silent for a moment and nods. "That's understandable, Sam. Perhaps we could say this is therapeutic for you, then?"

Loomis guffaws.

"I'll agree with you, only if you agree not to psychoanalyze me in return, Terrence," Sam retorts as they approach the security personnel who guard the visiting room. "Spare me that, please."

"I guess we have a deal, then."

Loomis reaches into his holster on his waist, emptying his gun and setting it in the bin, alongside the silver flask in his pocket, his favorite lighter, and his money clip. In exchange, he's given an allotted visitor's badge to clip onto his lapel, and escorted by Terrence and two of the armed security guards into the room.

He has to pause to look at Michael. Most of his hair gone now, a blonde and silver stubble dusting over his cheeks and chin. The old burn scars near his left eye-the same glazed over eye where Laurie Strode had jabbed him so smartly with a coat hanger-match the burns over Loomis's own arms and cheek. Skin grafts could only redeem so much for the two of them, it seems, and they seem even more in symmetry with each other, like two parallel lines. The white asylum pajamas make him no less intimidating, hiding none of his broad stature and the power beneath his skin.

"You have a visitor, Michael," Terrence says in that warm tone of his. "I surely don't need to make any introductions here, do I?"

Michael doesn't look at Terrence or Loomis, simply staring ahead. Loomis exhales.

"I'll leave you to it, Sam," Terrence says, gaze flicking from his patient to his old friend. "You hit the button under there, if anything should happen-and the security guards will be in here faster than you can even blink."

"Thank you, Terrence. I'm sure it won't be long."

Terrence nods, exiting the room and leaving him and the Shape together once more.

Loomis approaches the chair adjacent to Michael, pausing a moment to look over him once more before pulling it out to sit. The metal scrapes over the cement floor, the poor acoustics of the room making the unpleasant sound echo.

Michael doesn't seem to be affected.

"It's been nearly ten years, Michael," Loomis says, "ten years, since I helped apprehend you. And I've been told you've made no progress, no effort to communicate with anyone, in all of that time. That you've reacted to nothing."

Pause.

Loomis smiles wryly.

"Do you know who I found at your mother's grave this morning? At Judith's?" Michael's good eye twitches at his older sister's name but he remains still as a statue. Loomis takes note of it, staring unaffected into his features, tone half-taunting and half-curious of the reaction it will wring. "The little girl. Your little girl. Perhaps not so little anymore-she's Judith's age, now. Cynthia's age."

That gets Michael to look at him. It's brief, but Loomis knows there's something beyond the nothing and blank in those eyes that he'd seen before, for all of those years of Michael's adolescence.

Their gaze locks for the first time in ten years. Loomis goes on, undeterred, "is she special to you, somehow? Is that why you couldn't kill her in that attic? I've always been curious."

Michael looks away, back at the wall behind him. A loud exhale escapes, but Loomis knows better than to take it as an actual response.

"You killed your sister-her aunt," Loomis continues. "You ruined her mother's life. You've ruined her life. But she still cares, somehow, doesn't she? And I think you know that, from whatever bond it is you two share."

Silence.

"I hunted for you for many years, Michael. And I caught you. I'd like to believe you'll never see the light of day again," his smirk lessens, "and for a long time, I wanted to understand you. Now, I know better-I know now that these bars and these walls won't stop you. You will never stop until your heart stops beating permanently-until every part of you is ash and bone. You and I both know that, though Terrence and your team of doctors will never understand that. You, Jamie, and I know that, I should say. And, for a long time, I wanted to believe I had moved on but, the day you decide to leave this place, to chase Jamie or any other person who happens to have the misfortune of sharing your blood-I will be there to stop you. And the authorities won't stop me from stopping your heart for good, this time."

Loomis pushes out his chair. It's only then that Michael holds his gaze, as if daring him to continue in that single stare, somehow. Loomis is the one who looks away first to call the security guards to leave.

The elevator ride upstairs goes by in a blur, Loomis' head ringing between his ears as Terrence talks about visiting him later on, when he's off his shift for the day. Loomis head rings between his ears until he gets to his truck, where he can finally open his flask and take a big sip, leaning back against the leather seat of his Bentley.

Michael's gaze stays with him until he gets reaches home, and even when he closes his eyes to nap for the afternoon.

Dr. Elrod's therapy session feels redundant for the first time, and class feels even more redundant-Jamie only attends the lectures to get the attendance credit and leave after spacing out her professors teaching for hours. By the time five rolls around, the official end to her day of classes and therapy, Jamie feels exhausted, even more so because of her lack of sleep tonight, and starving. She realizes she hasn't eaten since her few bites of breakfast this morning, and the visceral nightmare from last night has dissipated enough for Jamie to feel safe eating something besides gum.

When she pulls up to the library, Jamie buys another coffee and a sandwich, heading down to the basement with her bag of books where the computers sit, vacant by this time of day. The library staff knows her well by now, and so does the rest of Haddonfield at this point-but she avoids most social interaction at school and much more so here. It's been a long, long ten years-a long ten years of pushing friends away, everyone besides Rachel and Lindsey, who weren't even close to her age, so terrified that one day her uncle would come and she'd be the reason they'd all be dead like Tina and Sammy.

Jamie sighs, sitting at a table with her coffee and sandwich, spreading out her books and notes to start on her work for the day as she eats. She finds herself unable to read any of the words in her books, her notebooks, or her flashcards-finding herself simply staring ahead, at the wall and-past it. She sighs, pushes her notes aside to dig into her sandwich and finishes it quicker than she realizes, washing it down with coffee that's still too hot to drink and burns as it goes down.

Standing, Jamie heads to the phone book by the receptionist's desk, where the librarian sitting nearby simply spares her a glance before looking back at her computer monitor. Jamie flips through the book quickly, searching through the L's until she finds what she needs and jots it down quickly, heading to the computer to search for directions to print them out.

After paying the twenty cents for the paper to print, she boots the computer down, gathering her books and notebooks to shove into her bag and leave.

When she reemerges to the parking lot, the sun's already set and the streetlights illuminate the streets. Children in costumes run by her, cheering happily as their parents and babysitters linger behind, talking among each other. Jamie sighs wistfully, heading to her car to toss her bag in the backseat and sitting in the front herself.

Turning the key in the ignition, she locks her front door, pulling out of the lot to head to a place that's called to her for so many years-so many walks and drives to appointments, to school, to the store-like a telltale heart. The drive to Lampkin Lane takes just over ten minutes, and she parks her car a block away, careful not to park too close, and walks toward the big, old house where she and Michael had last laid eyes on each other. When she leans against the iron wrought gate-taking heed of the sign to keep out because of the hazardous waste-she looks up at the window where she'd brushed her hair and waited for him to find her. Where Judith sat, too, unknowing of her fate that awaited her outside, where Jamie stands now.

Jamie exhales, heading to the back of the house. She knows the ins and outs of this place better than anyone-the laundry chute, the closets, the attic. The attic. The gate to the backyard creaks loudly as she opens it, and a cold gust of air makes her shiver as the memory comes back to her, of the candles Michael had set out and the coffin over the bathtub, waiting for her. It'd been macabre but achingly thoughtful, she realizes now.

"Michael," she breathes out, shaking her head. "I don't understand this, Michael. Do you want me to come back here? Like you came back, for me? I don't get why I-can feel you, again."

A crunch of what sounds like a twig breaking makes her nearly shriek. Under the streetlight nearby, Sheriff Meeker steps into view, grayed and aged, lips pressed together in a thin, displeased line. An exhale escapes in relief.

"Jamie," Meeker says, admonishing and gentle as he stays a fair distance away from the backyard, flashlight shining at her. "Come on, come out from there."

Jamie steps back onto the sidewalk, feeling her cheeks heat up from the shame of being caught.

"I'm sorry, Sheriff Meeker," she says, sincerely, relieved at once that he hadn't heard her. "I-It's been ten years. I wanted to visit, for myself, I guess. I was told exposure therapy is good."

Meeker huffs out a mirthless laugh. Jamie can smell the menthol cigarettes on his breath.

"I know, Jamie. I understand," he says, gentle but firm, "believe me, I do. Of anyone, I get it. But you know this is a private property, now. I don't want to call your parents about you being here, understand?"

Jamie nods quickly, tugging her bag closer to her form.

"Okay, sir," she says, stepping away from him, "thank you. I'm going home, now but-you have a good night."

Sheriff Meeker turns to watch her go to her car, parked a brief distance away, and watches as she pulls out and drives off. Sighing and shaking his head, he lights another cigarette, returning to his post in his cruiser across the street from the old Myers house.

Jamie watches him in her rear-view mirror before taking a left turn down Lampkin Lane, until she gets to the freeway. She can barely make out the directions on the printed pages in the dark but follows them, driving until it starts to rain hard enough to hammer against her windshield and lightning strikes illuminate the highway ahead. She drives for about a half an hour until she reaches her destination, pulling up to the big colonial style house so isolated from the townships nearby and so ominously fitting for its owner. Parking her car, Jamie hurries to get out of the rain but ends up soaking wet from head to toe when she reaches the door, ringing the bell. It isn't spontaneous, considering the idea had been in her head all day, but she hopes it still isn't too rude of her to show up so unannounced.

Sam Loomis answers the door, surprised to see her waiting for him, soaked from the rain and features illuminated from the lightning strike.

"Jamie?" he asks. Another older man steps into view behind him, looking on curiously. Jamie looks from Loomis to the man, a little breathless, taking in his black coat and boots. It gives her deja vu in a way that frustrates her to try to remember, so she doesn't wrack her brain too hard about it.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Loomis," she says, breathless, "I saw your name in the phonebook and I-after this morning, I've wanted to speak with you. I can leave if you're busy-I should've called ahead."

Before Loomis can respond, the older man behind him shakes his head, reaching for his coat.

"I was on my way out anyway, Sam," he says good-naturedly, stepping over the threshold and looking Jamie over. The seventeen-year-old shivers, feeling something well up within her that she cannot name, and watches him leave.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Terrence," Sam says. "Drive safely."

His hand finds her elbow, gentle. "Come in, get out of the rain."

Jamie exhales in relief, stepping into the warmth of Loomis' home. The tall fireplace and the couch set seem so expensive, but so fitting for the doctor. The kitchen sits in view, full of updated appliances. Homely, but expensive and sleek. She looks over the art and decor that cover the sitting area then back at him.

He gestures to the couch and she nods, moving to sit. Before she can, Loomis hands her a warm towel, which she wraps around herself before sitting down.

"Thanks," she says awkwardly, wringing water out of her damp locks. "I'm sorry, Dr. Loomis-I really am. I just-I went to the house, today. His house. I feel like he's been-calling for me, and I don't know who else to go to who'd get it like you do."

Loomis sits in his armchair, adjacent to her, reaching for the scotch on the coffee table to pour himself another glass. He gestures to the empty glass that sits adjacent and Jamie shakes her head, barely uttering "I'm only seventeen," before Loomis pours her a tiny bit, pushing it toward her. Sniffing it out, she wrinkles her nose and takes a small sip, barely refraining from spitting the bitter-tasting liquor out before pushing the crystal glass back toward the doctor. The only other time she's drank was a swig of one of Rachel's margaritas, when she'd made them at a cookout, and it'd been nowhere near as bitter as that.

Loomis chuckles.

"What is that?"

"Johnnie Walker Blue," Loomis says, sipping at his own glass, "scotch. I thought you'd like to burn the midnight oil. I do have a kettle going for tea, which may be more suitable for your taste."

Jamie shakes her head, unable to keep from smiling.

Loomis goes on, more serious now.

"I went to visit Michael today myself, after you asked me about him," he says, soft over the crackle of the fireplace beside them, "and the only thing that makes him react at all is you, Jamie. I don't presume to understand it, either."

Jamie sighs, feeling a little hopeless.

But Loomis goes on.

"Plato was one of the first in history to come up with the idea of soulmates," Loomis says. Jamie blinks in surprise. "In The Symposium, Aristophanes states that humans were originally born with four arms, four legs, and two sets of separate heads. Since people were split in half, individuals long for the person who completes them."

Jamie raises an eyebrow. "Michael and I-you think we're soulmates? You really think that?"

Loomis is silent for a moment.

"It could be an explanation. I started believing the incredulous upon meeting your uncle, Jamie. And that concept isn't inherently romantic or sexual-it could simply be a natural affinity, a shared bond, as you two have," he sips at his scotch once more. "It's a possibility, not set in stone, and it's one of the only concrete theories I have about it."

Jamie laughs, leaning back against the sofa and looking into the fire, face going warm with it. Her teeth dig into her lower lip as she looks down at her palms. When the kettle starts whistling, Loomis ambles to remove it, returning with a mug of tea. She offers a small smile, taking it between her palms.

Finally, after such a pregnant pause, Jamie speaks.

"Do you think-do you think that means, we're the same? That I'm like him? Look what I did to my foster mother," she feels her eyes stinging inexplicably again, for what feels like the umpteenth time today, but this time she keeps the tears back. "Rachel and my mother and my therapist don't understand-that I'm cursed, like him."

Loomis shakes his head.

"Jamie, look at me, please."

She looks at him, wide-eyed. His gaze is as intense as she remembers it, from those years ago, when he'd been on the cusp of desperation and going so far as to use her as bait.

She understands him more now than she ever had.

"You are not him," Loomis reassures her, "you're a good person. You're making your own fate, aren't you? Your own life?"

Jamie nods.

"I am but-I know we're tied. Fate-we're tied together. It's like I can't escape," she blows gently at the steaming hot tea, smelling the chamomile and setting it down. "I know once I turn eighteen-my mother already told me, I'm his legal ward. His next of kin."

"How do you feel about it?"

She shrugs.

"I'm the only family he has left, Dr. Loomis," she says softly, sighing. "I know, you don't get it, I don't expect you would-but as horrible as I know he is, I saw something else in him in that attic. In my dreams. Maybe if-I don't know. I don't think I can just leave him to the state, when I turn eighteen in two months."

"That's more understandable than you'd think, Jamie. As much as I know, and I think you know, his true nature. He destroys like a hurricane does. There's no escaping the danger of his path. The only way to stop him is permanent."

She shivers at the finality of the statement.

"So you think-he'll get out? That he'll come after me, after you?"

Loomis nods.

"As you are tied to Michael, so am I. As long as you are around, he will follow, and he'll bring hell with him. As long as he's around, I will follow him, too, until he's gone permanently," Loomis says gravely. "But, again, just because you two have an affinity for each other does not mean you are the same."

Jamie looks over the doctor's worn features, feeling an odd connection that she hasn't felt since that moment in the attic, feeling something like kinship. Understanding. She feels less afraid than she had earlier, more reassured than afraid. Validated in her feelings about Michael, about their bond, about her own nature as a human being.

She sighs.

"I think we'll have to disagree on that-him being pure evil, like you've said. I want to reach him."

Loomis smiles sadly, knowingly, pouring himself another glass of scotch.

The clock tower in the dining room dings three times, signaling it's midnight already.

Loomis holds up his glass.

"To the boogeyman, then?" it's wry, and gets a smile from Jamie as she gently taps her mug against his glass.

"To the boogeyman."