November 5

It isn't my alarm clock this time, but I wake up incredibly early, because I have had the strangest dream about Michael Myers and his sister Judith. I'm Judith, and everything is from her perspective.

HH

They are a bit younger. Michael is seven, Judith is fourteen. Michael is the only kid in his class who doesn't know how to ride a bike, and some of the boys make fun of him for it. So Judith takes the matter in her own hands.

Judith pulls out her old blue bike. Michael looks apprehensive as he sees it.

"I don't want to do this," he says, sulkily.

"Of course you do," Judith says, trying to imbue him with confidence. "And it's easy."

"I'll fall."

Judith doesn't address that. "Look, if you learn to ride a bike, you'll be able to go anywhere you want."

"I don't want to go anywhere."

"Michael, don't be such a wuss. It's fun. I promise you. All the other kids can do this, so you can do it too."

Judith finally wears down Michael's resistance. With her coaxing , he mounts the bike. He hunches over, gripping the handlebars until his knuckles turn white.

"Go slow," he instructs.

Judith sighs. "You can't go slow, or the bike won't stay up." She braces the handlebar with one hand and the back of the seat with the other. "Here, start pedaling."

Michael withdraws one thick leg, then the other and stomps on the pedals. He looks down, checking that the ground hasn't played any tricks on him. He is a little surprised that he hasn't fallen, but Judith is holding up the bike.

"You ready?" Judith asks.

Michael nods.

Judith pushes the bike forward. She instructs Michael to start pedaling. He does. Once he has grasped the movements, Judith lets go.

For one minute or so, Michael is gliding down the sidewalk on his own. His face brightens with amazement, and his mouth stretches into a smile. He's not paying attention to his steering. The front wheel veers off the sidewalk and he crashes.

Because he lands in the grass, he escapes most of the serious damage. But he has banged his leg against the frame of the bike and the handlebar has scraped against his hand. His face twists into horror. He pants, trying not to cry.

Judith runs over to help him up.

She starts to say something encouraging, but Michael pushes her away. "You let go."

"Of course I did," Judith stammers. "That's part . . ."

He scoots away from her.

"Michael, you just have to keep trying. You'll get it."

"I don't want to keep trying," he bellows. "I didn't want to do this. Why did you make me?"

He launches himself up and runs back into the house.

HH

The dream sticks in my mind all morning. I don't know why. It doesn't seem like there's anything in it that indicates the murders to come. I don't fear the Michael Myers that appears in this dream; instead I feel sad for him.

School is a daze for me. I don't run into Ben Tramer again. I don't concentrate on anything.

I just get home from school, when the phone rings.

"Stella?"

I am disconcerted because I don't recognize the voice.

"This is Mrs. Wallace."

"Oh, hi."

Evidently she has recovered from that episode at the funeral. (Of course, it has been a couple of days.)

"Listen Stella. I've got to drive to Winoker for some business. Could you watch Lindsey for me this afternoon?"

"How long will you be?" I think to ask. Winoker is about an hour away.

"I should be back around seven. I know this is last minute but I can't think of anyone else to ask."

My parents will not be happy about this. They have always dissuaded me from baby-sitting at the Wallaces in the past, because Mrs. Wallace usually stays out much later than she plans. She usually calls Annie Brackett or Lynda Pfeifer or Laurie Strode. Annie and Lynda are - were- allowed to stay out much later on school nights than I am, and Laurie lives closer to the Wallaces and knows Lindsey better.

But Annie and Lynda and Laurie are no longer there.

"Of course, if you're busy . . ." Mrs. Wallace sounds resigned to rejection.

"I can do it," I say quickly.

"Perfect."

"Should I pick Lindsey up from school?"

"She's already home. Listen, I have to get on the road right away. The house will be unlocked when you arrive. Lindsey knows where the emergency numbers are."

"OK," I say gamely, though doubts begin creeping in, but she hangs up before I can say anything else.

I swallow my doubts, which are growing stronger by the second. I already made my commitment. Doubts are useless at this point.

I scrawl a quick note for my parents (who - did I mention - are not going to be happy with this?) and grab my backpack and hurry out.

After a block or so, I slow down. I remember the police cars packed in the street, Officer Brackett's underlings spreading out into the neighbors' backyards in vain. There was no sign of the victims, no sign of Laurie or Lindsey or Tommy Doyle, no sign of Michael's carnage.

I pass the Myers' house.

I feel like I'm watched.

Though the smart thing to do would be to hurry past the house and get to Lindsey as soon as possible as I had promised, I stop at the fence. I peer at the windows for the masked face.

He's going to appear.

Of course he's going to appear.

This might be where he has been hiding. The police had checked the house in their town wide search for him, but he was not there then. He would have hidden someplace else until they left, and then he would have returned to his lair.

Shouldn't the police be keeping an eye on this place?

Finally, I tear myself away from the fence. The Wallaces' house is in view. I happen to look down, and suddenly I catapult into another scene of the past. I see seven-year-old Michael shoving aside his bike in defeat, refusing my - Judith's - help.

I dodge across the street. Though Mrs. Wallace has said she would leave the door unlocked, I ring and wait. I've never been in the Wallaces' house before, which is why I hesitate to tromp in unannounced.

I expect that Lindsey will let me in. I wait. Lindsey does not come to the door. The house is as still and silent as the Myers'.

I'm not liking that analogy.

I pound on the door harder. "Lindsey?" I call. "It's Stella."

Another minute crawls by. Still no answer.

I nudge the door open, suspicious that it yields so easily. I survey the foyer before I enter, balancing on the balls of my feet. I grasp my backpack close to my chest, wishing I had a stronger weapon. In case he pops out from behind the couch and lunges at me with his knife.

More likely he would creep up behind me and run the knife across my throat.

I whirl around. Then I whirl to face the house in all possible directions. To any non-murderer who should catch sight of me, I'm sure I look epileptic. Once I'm assured that no one is coming at me, I shut the door and double-bolt it.

"Lindsey?"

I hear a faint noise upstairs. It's tempting to undo the bolt and run back out on the street. I shake myself out of that insanity. I'm in Lindsey's house, which is locked up tight (after a quick check of the back door), it's broad daylight, and it's no longer Halloween. Any noise upstairs is bound to be made by Lindsey, not Michael Myers.

So against my misgivings I climb the stairs.

"Lindsey!" I call again.

A short rustle. Then she answers, "I'm in here."

The door of Lindsey's room was ajar. I poke my head in. Lindsey is sitting cross-legged in front of her bed. She has tied red and yellow threads to the frame and is weaving the multiple strands into a V patterned bracelet.

"Can I try that?" I ask.

"I guess," Lindsey said. She shoves over the book she has been using for reference, after turning to a page that displays a simpler design. "Do you know how to make a braid," she asks brusquely.

I say yes.

"This is a braid with four strands."

I follow Lindsey's method of tying the threads to the bedpost. Then I start braiding. It really is not that complicated a pattern, but my fingers are not as nimble as Lindsey's. The strands loosen a little as I braid down.

Before I try again, I watch Lindsey work her knots expertly into a flawless pattern. She clearly has had lots of practice. One of her earlier efforts is still tied to the frame next to Lindsey's hands. It looked just as expertly woven as the one Lindsey currently attends to.

"I made that for Annie," Lindsey explains matter-of-factly.

"You did?" I resolved to restrain myself from asking further, because, frankly, what Lindsey experienced that night is not my business. I'm sure everyone else in the town is pestering her with the same questions.

"I started it on Halloween."

"Oh," I stammer. "I'm sorry, Lindsey."

"I'm going to keep it there," Lindsey continued, as if she has not heard me. "I don't want anyone else wearing it."

"No," I agree. "Gifts should be special."

"Right," Lindsey says emphatically. She finishes her bracelet, deftly ties off the end.

I watched as she carefully clips the bracelet off the bedframe, then she hands me the scissors so I can do the same.

After I snip off my bracelet, Lindsay asks, "So why aren't you wearing your ring?"

HH

Mrs. Wallace arrives home at a reasonable hour. She is only a half hour later than she said she would be. She asks if I can babysit more in the future. I purposely keep my answer vague.

My parents are already home when I shuffle in, and we have a long talk about whether I should continue to sit for Lindsey. My parents don't say no outright. They feel sorry for Lindsey and don't want to punish her for her mother's behavior. We finally agree that I can babysit, as long as my school work does not suffer, and Mom suggests that if it gets really late and Mrs. Wallace has not come home, then I should bring Lindsey here for the night. It sounds like a reasonable solution, especially because I share my parents' doubts that Mrs. Wallace will keep to her early hours.

After dinner and the long talk, I do my homework and go to bed. Sleep is a long time coming.