November 13
I am stumbling down the hall. Everything is dark and unrecognizable. I keep going. I have to keep going. I have to get out. I have to get help. Even if the blood dribbling down onto my hand signifies I am too late.
Getting out of the house, getting away from him. It's my only chance. If I stay here, I know I will die.
This isn't happening . . .
I press tighter onto my stomach, as if I can hold all the blood in.
This isn't real . . .
A light flares on at the end of the hall. I can't see anything beyond the light. Somebody's there at the light. I push towards them.
A sob threatens to break out. I clench my mouth shut. I can't make any noise. I can't let him hear me.
He's coming up behind me.
Why? Why the fuck would he want to kill me?
He slashes my back. Once. Twice. Again and again and again. I cannot hold myself up anymore.
I fall.
The person, the savior at the light, catches me - grabs my arm. It is an adult. Not the ten-year-old who tried to kill me.
II
The lights circle, alternating red and blue. I hear the murmur of people's voices.
I am lifted up and I slide into a boxlike ambulance.
"Stella?"
"Mom!" I call out. I cannot locate her from where I am lying. "It was Michael. Michael tried to kill me. He was wearing Steve's mask-"
"It's okay, honey." Mom, different Mom, materializes in front of me. She lays her hand over mine. "You're in an ambulance. You're safe here."
I obey her admonitions to relax. The ambulance feels comfortably tiny. It doesn't seem possible that even a ten-year-old could hide in here.
I drift off.
I awaken in a white room, lying on my side. My finger is clamped in a pipe that hooks up to a heart monitor. Unlike in movies, this heart monitor does not make loud beeps to announce a regular beat. I can hardly hear it.
"Good, you're awake," Dad says. "Your mother's talking with Dr. Mixter."
I sit up.
"Not too fast, honey." Dad rests his hands on my shoulders to stop me from bouncing up. "You'll rip out your stitches."
"What stitches?" I slur.
I look down. My hospital gown snaps on the side. I part the gown, and I see an ugly red and black scar across my belly.
"What happened?"
"You were hunched over in the hall," Dad says. "You said Michael Myers did it. The police searched our house. They're still searching. They'll find him."
"He wanted to kill me," I try to tell him.
"I know, honey. They'll find him."
Mom comes in. "Hi Stella. Did Dad explain about the stitches?"
I nod.
"The doctor said none of them were very deep. The - weapon - missed the internal organs. The police are still trying to find out how he got in your room."
They can't figure it out? I think. The answer seemed reasonably obvious to me.
The doctor calls Mom and Dad over. They step out in the hall. I can hear traces of their conversation. Mom says, "No Stella doesn't have a history of sleepwalking." Mom and Dad sound indignant. The doctor speaks in hushed tones that are impossible to make out.
They reenter. Mom says, "Honey, Dr. Mixter wants you to stay here for a couple of days. He wants to check on your sleep patterns."
"Why?"
"Well, here's the thing. The police haven't found any sign of a break in at our house. Dr. Mixter is wondering if you had dreamed the attack."
"What? How could I do that?" I gesture to the scar on my stomach. "How could a dream do this?"
"The police will follow up with any clues they find," Dad informs me. "But we have noticed you have had some problems when you sleep. You bang around in your room, and sometimes you turn on the radio in your sleep. You're aware of that. Dr. Mixter is just trying to find answers."
"Sheriff Brackett will want to talk to you tomorrow morning," Mom adds. "Is that okay?"
Again I nod. What else can I say?
"Don't worry about this tonight," Dad says, caressing my head. "We'll get everything sorted out. Just get some sleep."
"Okay," I croak. I am still boggled that Dr. Mixter says I was sliced open by a dream. But I'm too tired to think through it.
