November 26

I have this weird dream. I am watching from outside the room as Adele is in labor with Amy. And the adult Michael is the attending doctor. Michael wears scrubs: he is even wearing a surgical mask over his white Halloween masked face. The baby emerges from Adele. Michael lifts up the screaming infant, and he picks up a pair branch cutters to snip the umbilical cord. Only he aims the clippers at the baby's chest.

"Michael, stop!" I bang on the door. Michael puts down the baby and walks over to me. He opens the door and grasps my hand.

"Hold still," he says.

Suddenly we're outside on a summer day. I shrink to a child's size. And it is no longer Michael holding the branch cutters.

"Hold still, Judy," Tony Hammond says as he positions the branch cutters over the giant wasp stinger lodged in the palm of my hand. His grip wavers. The blades of the clippers rove around my fingers. I am scared the blades will close on my fingers. He wants to snip them off. One by one.

The blades scrape closed and he yanks the stinger out.

Tony smiles as I scream in pain.

II

Miraculously, my nightmare does not disturb Lindsey or my parents. I hope this means I'm done with the whole sleepwalking thing.

Lindsey is quiet at breakfast. She keeps glancing at the door, like she's expecting her mother to show up before she leaves for school. (I ask Mom about that when we're out of the room. Mrs. Wallace had not promised to return by this time. It looks to be Lindsey's wishful thinking.)

I walk with her to the grade school. Lindsey steers to another subject.

"Chelsea says you've got a boyfriend."

Talk about an effective distraction.

I venture carefully, as I'm absurdly worried that I will jinx myself. That word would get back to Ben that I'm going around calling him my boyfriend.

"Well," I finally say, "there's a guy, but it's a little premature to call him my boyfriend."

"Did he kiss you?" Lindsey delineates.

"Yeah."

Lindsey hops forward excitedly. "I can't wait until I get a boyfriend," she declares.

"Anybody you've got your eye on?" I ask.

"No," Lindsey squeals. "The boys in my class are total dipweeds."

We arrive at Lindsey's school just as the kids are lining up to go inside. Lindsey waves and hurries to join the line.

After the kids have filed into the building, I turn around and see him. Michael Myers is standing behind a copse at the far end of the playground.

I sprint to the school entrance. A teacher stops me.

"May I help you?"

I glance back at the copse. Michael's no longer there.

Naturally.

"No," I apologize. I retreat to the sidewalk. The teacher, satisfied he has thwarted my ambush, disappears into the building.

I'm not about to linger around here. I get to the high school very fast.

III

I'm on edge all morning, even with the starers warding off unexpected attacks. Actually, the starers aren't staring so much anymore. They have gotten accustomed to the idea that I won't be doing any sleepwalking here.

I console myself that Michael Myers would not be able to blend in here. Michael used up his element of surprise; not even the most unaware student would spot him and think it was only some harmless joker.

After third period, Mrs. Randall corners me.

"Stella, have you seen Chelsea?"

"No."

My jitters begin anew.

"We had an interview scheduled for the paper and she didn't show. And I checked with the attendance office; she hasn't been to any classes today."

"I'll call her house," I eke out with the last of my bravura.

I run to the nearest pay phone. My hands are clumsy as I fumble for change and dial Chelsea's number. If she's not at home, I will ask around. I'll ask everyone she knows. If Chelsea skipped school to do more investigating, she would have had to tell someone.

"Yo."

"Hi, Parker," I guess that it's Chelsea's shiftless older brother who answers. "Is Chelsea there?"

"No," he drawls. "She's at . . ."

(He pauses as if he's checking a calendar.)

" . . . school."

"No, she's not."

"Oh." The news does not faze Parker. He had skipped countless school days before he graduated.

"When was the last time you saw her?" I query.

Another long pause.

"Yesterday," he answers. He sounds more alert.

"OK, Parker, could you please ask your parents if they have seen Chelsea since last night?"

He grunts reluctantly. He loathes the idea of tattling on Chelsea to his parents when Chelsea might merely be enjoying a day off from the drudgery of Haddonfield High School.

"It's important," I stress. I am aware that Chelsea could be on a mini vacation, and I don't want to get her in trouble either. But Chelsea can't get too mad. As she herself pointed out, there's a psycho killer on the loose.

I give Parker the number of the pay phone and wait. Class has resumed and the hall is eerily silent. I listen hard for the approaching footsteps of a teacher or a hall monitor.

Parker calls back. "They haven't seen her," he relays, sounding as close to panic as I have ever heard.

I mouth a swear.

IIII

My call to Sheriff Brackett waits a couple more hours, because Chelsea's parents are not the most reliable witnesses to Chelsea's disappearance, nor is Parker. Chelsea is the youngest of four kids and both her parents are workaholics, and she often goes for days without seeing them in the house. Also, I should talk to Lawrence first.

I find Lawrence during lunch, slumped in a computer lab chair.

"Mrs. Randall told me," he says somberly. "It's my fault. I should have made sure she got home safely. But she was the one driving."

"I've got to call Sheriff Brackett," I repeat. "You should probably talk to him too."

Lawrence eyes me glazedly. "Is that necessary? I mean, what if Chelsea just cut school?"

"I hope so," I say, then I voice my reasoning that Chelsea will not be too mad if we get her in trouble for cutting school.

"You're right," he echoes.

Then I return to the phone to call Sheriff Brackett.