CHAPTER 2: Case Study

Footsteps pounded behind her.

"Mrs. Strode – I mean, Mrs. Lloyd-"

Breathe in. Breathe out.

"Mrs. Lloyd, please!"

Pressure against her temples. "I said I'm not talking to either of you."

"At least listen to our offer!"

The pressure burst. "No! I'm not giving any interviews, I'm not speaking to anyone!"

"But surely… please, just hear us out. This is not just about Michael Myers – though you do represent an invaluable source when it comes to him –"

"Jesus Christ, will you –"

"But it's not just that! This is an opportunity to tell your side of the story. There is so little known about you –"

"And you think I want to change that?"

A placating hand, which she avoided. "Think of what you can bring to those who hear our broadcast. To listeners who have family members with mental illnesses. To listeners who are mentally ill. You – you represent hope."

"Excuse me?"

"If you can sit with Michael Myers, a man who attacked you – if you can actually reach him – think of what that might mean to those listeners who are in the midst of recovery – or to those who suffer from what Michael has, or have suffered –"

A flinch back. "No."

"And surely you can see that you occupy an almost... privileged position in Michael Myers's mind. You are the only survivor of both of his massacres, you've interacted with him for the last three years –"

"What part of 'no' did you not understand?"

"– and it seems almost as if, well, you're the only person he's never shown any notion of hurting –"

"For fuck's sake!"

"– which is exceptional in all the literature. We simply want to hear your side, to learn about these visits of yours… because it almost seems as if Michael Myers could be reformed –"

"No!" Wrenching back, away from their prying hands, their acquisitive eyes. "This is your new insight? Your new understanding? You think he's – that he's –" Breathe in, breathe out – "This is – my life is not a story to be dug into! Michael Myers is not a case study you can investigate! And if I had known anything, anything at all about this, I would not have come here at all!"

Laurie rested her head against the steering wheel of her car. Breathe in through your nose, hold it for 10 seconds, and then out through your mouth. In through the nose, hold, out through the mouth. Once, twice, three times, four... as many times as was needed…

Her heartbeat was slowing, but the headache remained, pounding at her temples. When she took her hands off the wheel, they were still shaking.

She should not have been so hostile, but her nerves had been on fire after Michael had... moved. Laurie rubbed her fingers together, trying to still their shivering. Idiotic, to argue right in front of him. As if he wasn't there. As if she could forget his existence.

Michael's old doctor would not have allowed it. For all that he had pushed her, forced her, practically blackmailed her into visiting him, Dr. Beckett had retained some semblance of respect for her privacy. Some measure of decency. He had never allowed journalists to swoop in on the institution, though he must have had many offers.

Despite everything, she had missed him when he chose to retire. Sometimes she even wished he was still around, to talk to her; he had moved out of the country about six months after leaving Smith's Grove and Laurie had had no contact with him since. She remembered how much older he looked, his last day at the institution: his hair gone completely gray, wrinkles around his eyes and the corners of his mouth.

"I cannot say that I will miss most of this," he had said, with a tired smile. "This job drains you, you understand? But… I think I will miss you, Laurie. You and Michael." A lself-deprecating chuckle as she glanced down. "Yes, I imagine that must be surprising to hear. But I have enjoyed seeing you here, even if you did not." He had hesitated during those last words to her, all kindness and sincerity. "You know, I think you may well be the only person Michael even listens to..." He had sighed. "God knows, I don't think he ever absorbed anything from me."

You are the only person he's never shown any notion of hurting…

And the mask... even just seeing it, sitting harmlessly in its bag, had been... had been…

A white-faced figure chasing after her – bearing down on her – hovering above her, bloodied knife out –

She pounded a hand into her steering wheel and gasped as her fingers bent against the surface, but the pain at least broke through the memories.

How could they have been so stupid?

And on today – the day of the transferal. For the first time in over a decade, Michael would step out of the institution.

Laurie released her breath, long and deliberate, and started up her car, trying to let the familiar routine calm her. After three years of visits, she was leaving the parking lot of the sanitarium for the last time. Tonight they were transferring Michael to another facility, under the care of a new doctor, something-Hoffman. She did not particularly understand why they were doing so, not when Michael had been so quiet at Smith's Grove, but Dr. Sartain had assured her that the new facility was more secure, even if it was further away – at least 30 minutes would be added to her drive. Seven o'clock this evening, he had told her, that was when they would get him on the bus, to arrive at the new facility no later than nine. The facility would receive visitor calls starting at eight the next morning, and Laurie was scheduled to be there at ten.

Dr. Sartain had offered to let her come. He had even hinted that she might ride along in the bus – it would require some favors, some pulling of strings, but Mrs. Lloyd, if you think it would help you, you may certainly see him off – but she had refused. She remembered how sweaty her hands had been, the tremor in her legs as she had stood there, mind tearing between needing to see him transferred without trouble and dread at him outside the institution's walls.

Dr. Sartain had done his best to assuage her nervousness. He had said that Michael would be under heavy restraints and drugs throughout the move, that they were posting several guards in the bus and at every stop, that they had alerted officials at both sites.

It did not quell the fluttering in her stomach.

It had only been a year since Dr. Beckett had chosen to retire. His reputation had never quite recovered after that day when the institution had been broken in, when Michael had unleashed himself for one afternoon. From a few off-hand comments, Laurie had guessed that he had been under some scrutiny over the whole ordeal; she had noticed a definite increase in his gray hairs and wrinkles in the months after the incident. Before he left, he had introduced her to Michael's new doctor, Ranbir Sartain.

"He was a colleague of Dr. Loomis's, very well-respected in his field. You will like him."

And it was not that she did not like Dr. Sartain; from all she had seen of him, he was knowledgeable, caring towards his patients, with a strong memory for details – he was always inquiring after some little tidbit of a patient's life, asking if a symptom had abated or returned, trying to inject a little kindness into their days.

But... when he was with Michael, she felt uneasy, for reasons she could not name.

She shook her head, pulling out of the parking lot. Paranoia. She could not let it get the best of her, but this day was really bringing it out.

After all, tomorrow was Halloween.

Her heart was starting to pound once more, and she paused at the stop sign, breathing deeply. For the last three years, she had managed to maintain a sense of normalcy on Halloween. One visit. One phone call. Her children sent out trick-or-treating with their friends and Rachel. (Not with Laurie. Not yet.)

It was not as if Michael was even being moved on Halloween. Tempting fate, Dr. Sartain had said. But he had to be there before the end of the year, and there was paperwork to fill out here and more to do there, plus they had needed time getting him settled, testing protocols, and again, all to be done before January, so October 30th was the best they could do.

He had been nothing if not accommodating.

So why the twisting in her gut?

Paranoia. That was all.

She pulled into the next street, looking for the on-ramp to the highway. After she had placated Michael down from whatever mood had gripped him (the only one he ever listens to), she had tried to return to their normal schedule. To talk of all the little topics she always used with him. Had spoken of her children, to remind him. Promised to visit, as usual. He had let her touch the mask (she knew, now, when he was ready for her to do that, she could tell now), a hand, a hair.

All so normal.

And tonight, he would board a bus for the new facility and be checked in and placed in his new room, and she would see him tomorrow. Nothing would happen, because she had done what she was supposed to. Kept him quiet. Kept him docile. So he could be moved like any regular patient, and she would see him again, just in a new building, with a new doctor. Just like before. Just like normal.

Laurie tried to tell herself that, all through the drive home.

Jamie and John had been home by the time she got back, babysat under the watchful eye of Rachel Carruthers. They had leaped on her as if she had been gone for a week rather than a few hours, chattering about their day as only eight year olds could. Laurie had prized them off just long enough to pay and thank Rachel, confirm she would be picking them up tomorrow and yes, take them trick-or-treating just like last year, before the twins were right back at her.

"Did you see Uncle? Did he talk about us?" Jamie demanded, dancing about impatiently as Laurie tried to get dinner going.

"Yes, I saw him – sit down, Jamie, come on – and you know he doesn't speak."

John pushed aside his sister – he was getting a little bolder now, less willing to let Jamie speak for or over him. "Does he miss us?"

She shushed them aside, pulling out vegetables from the fridge. "I'm sure he does. You'll see him next week; you can ask him then, all right?"

(Four o'clock, she knew it without even having to glance at the clock, sun low in the sky, and Michael still in his cell, waiting...)

Not that Michael would ever respond to any of the questions the twins threw at them, but Laurie would not dash their hopes yet. Both of the twins were simultaneously fascinated by and bored with their enigmatic uncle. While visiting, they would dash around, color, play, chatter, do everything but pay attention to him, and upon leaving, throw a minor tantrum, beg for more time, wave goodbye, and immediately start bombarding their mother on when they were coming back and was he going to miss them and was he was going to talk next time?

She chopped up onions, celery, trying to let the familiar, repetitive movements soothe her. The twins' chatter went on, fading into background noise. Their treatment of Michael was repaid in kind by their uncle, who other than sometimes staring at them or, more rarely, dogging their footsteps on an occasional visit outside, was content to ignore them. Laurie was perfectly fine with that; it was more than enough to visit, remind Michael once in a while of their existence, and then leave without any incidents.

She had wondered a few times if he actually viewed them as his niece and nephew. Did he truly comprehend their familial relationship, know that they were connected to him? Or did he simply see them as miniature versions of Laurie, important solely because they happened to be related to her? Once, she even had the crazy thought that he saw all of them as his own little family - son, daughter, mother, and himself as twisted father figure. She had dismissed it, not for being too strange, but for being too plausible – too disturbing an idea.

She hoped that the twins did not see him similarly. Kept herself from wondering how much they even remembered of their own father, gone (her fingers slipped on the meat) for almost four years now.

At least the twins remained unaware of their uncle's reputation, or at least Laurie hoped they did. She was certain their classmates and teachers did not know they were visiting a serial killer every other weekend – at the very least, she would have heard about it amongst all the gossip in the teacher's lounge. Yet Michael Myers was so infamous that she could not quite believe that they had not heard anything at all about him. Nor was the town ignorant as to his relationship to Laurie and her children; Dr. Loomis's book had made sure of that. But so long as Michael Myers remained safely locked away, the people of Haddonfield were willing to let his sister, niece, and nephew stay unaccosted. And certainly none of them knew that she had been making regular visits to Michael for the last three years. Laurie had not even told the few friends she had…

(Four-thirty… were the nurses and guards preparing themselves? Readying the restraints, the sedatives?)

Still, there had been a couple incidents last year... Once, Rachel had pulled her aside and told her that Jamie had been picked up from school in tears, but not said a word as to why, no matter how many times Rachel had asked. Nor had Jamie admitted to anything when Laurie had questioned her, and neither had John, whom Laurie knew Jamie shared everything with; Jamie had even denied crying. Laurie still worked at the same school that her children attended – there was only one elementary school in the whole town – which she knew embarrassed them to no end, so she usually went out of her way not to see them. It helped that she was teaching a totally different grade on the other side of the building. But she had been very tempted to follow Jamie about on one of her breaks, to see what was troubling her daughter. She had not, but she had considered it.

And Laurie knew something had happened. In the weeks that followed, her daughter had grown more withdrawn, more introspective, while her son had become brasher, louder, had stopped playing with some of his friends. Once she had even considered asking her children if they knew of the name 'Michael Myers' and of their relationship with him, but she had pulled away from that line of inquiry. She did not particularly want to know, was not brave enough to open herself up to those questions.

Laurie knew she was being a coward, knew she was only delaying the inevitable – but her children were only eight and still so blissfully unaware (she hoped), so innocent, and she could not bring herself to let them know the truth. Not yet. She would plan it, she always told herself, open them up to it slowly, not the way she found out, having seventeen years of ignorance only to have the truth dashed in her face...

She shook the thought away. As the meat sizzled on the stove, she turned to her children and said, as cheerily as she could, "Now, how about you guys show me your costumes?"

As she had hoped, the question distracted them from the current topic. In the midst of Jamie showing her costume (a pretty pink princess frock, to replace the beloved clown costume she had outgrown) and John showing off his mask (a skull from a Silver-something company, whose jingle he kept singing to the point of annoyance), she somehow managed to make dinner and force down a few bites…

(Five o'clock, sun beginning to set. Was Michael preparing, did he have any belongings to take, any concept of belongings? She imagined him holding a box of masks and had to suppress a half-hysterical laugh...)

…then it was just a matter of cleaning up, the twins taking advantage of her distraction to have a little fun in the backyard..

(Six o'clock, and now they were pulling him from his room, manacling him, needles flashing as they pumped him full of drugs to keep him still and untroublesome…)

...Dishes done, wrangling the twins back inside to do their homework while she graded…

(Seven o'clock, taking his first steps outside the sanitarium in over ten years, but only for a moment, only to get onto the bus…)

...Getting her children into the bath while she stood over the sink, staring at the lesson plans she still needed to make, the worksheets she'd have to photocopy…

(Eight o'clock, safe on the bus – please, let him be on the bus… Was he staring out the window, at the only bit of new scenery he had seen in a decade? Or was he looking straight ahead, mind devoid of anything…)

...Turning on the television, letting the twins watch a movie… all the channels were filled with old horror films and she had to turn away, her children too engrossed to see her discomfort…

(Nine, it was nine o'clock, and he was there, he must be there, and she wanted to turn on the news but she did not dare, she could not confirm it, not yet…)

…and by then it was bedtime, for all three of them. Jamie and John changing into their pajamas while she waited, waited…

She could call.

The numbers for both facilities were written next to every phone in her house.

She could call. Make sure he had made it there.

Her hand trembled over the phone.

For the last three years, she had been… normal. One phone call a year. One question asked. One very patient receptionist on the other end, used to her habits, murmuring that there had been no incidents, no alarms, that all was well for another Halloween, another year…

Paranoia.

She could not let it get the better of her. Not now, not when things were… okay.

It took effort, but she let her hand drop.

Now all she had to do was sleep, and that did not come easily.

Ten o'clock. Michael had been in his new home for all of an hour, and she could not find a comfortable spot to drift off. For some reason, the faces, the words, of those journalists kept coming back to her. And Dr. Beckett. And Dr. Sartain. Their insistence that she could help them understand Michael. That she was, somehow, special.

She rolled over, punching her pillow into better shape. The day's events drifted over her again, unbidden. Seeing the journalists in the room, with Michael and Dr. Sartain. Their recognition of her ('Laurie Strode', they had called her, unaware of everything that had changed in her life since then, unaware of how unlike 'Laurie Strode' she felt sometimes). The escalating argument until Michael had interrupted them...

She wondered, not for the first time, if his gesture had been threatening or protective. And whichever it was, who it had been directed to. The journalists, for angering him? Dr. Sartain, for allowing them to enter? Or Laurie herself, for… what?

(Lynda lying in the dirt, eyes blank, red bruises on her throat –)

It always came down to her, it seemed. That he had come after her family and friends because of her. That he remained in the sanitarium because of visits from her. That the incident two years ago, when Michael had pulled her and her children out of danger, slaughtering several innocent and not-so-innocent people, was because of her. That despite having ample opportunities to do so, he had not, for the most part, tried to hurt her.

(Annie, her chest and abdomen slashed, gasping her name –)

Dr. Beckett had felt that that had made her exceptional. He had talked to her about how a guard who had befriended him for years was brutally murdered, how Dr. Loomis, who had treated him for over fifteen years, had almost had his skull crushed.

(Closed coffins for her parents, not even one last glimpse at their faces because Sheriff Brackett, eyes downcast, voice hesitant, had admitted their injuries had been too brutal to be repaired, he had not wanted her to see –)

Her fingers were twisting the blanket.

Laurie held a breath. Let her shoulders sag back under her covers. Imagined Jimmy with his arms around her. She could almost pretend, if she twisted the sheets tighter, that it was him. Close your eyes, honey, he would have said. Even if you can't sleep, just closing your eyes helps. Or, I can make a call. Don't care if they don't pick up. I can make it for you.

But she could not imagine any words for this situation. He had died before she had made her first visit to her brother. No reassurances crept up, no gentle phrases to soothe her.

She wondered what Jimmy would say, if she told him that she was special. Privileged, according to the journalists. The doctors. Probably smile, tell her he had always considered her special too.

She did not feel special. She only felt tired.

Michael was the only family she had left, and all she could do was keep him placated and docile. And if she did not do that right, he would come for her, and even if he had no notion of killing her, he would slaughter everyone in his path, and that would be on her. Because she had not kept him quiet and happy.

And she was tired, and alone, for nobody knew about her visits, nobody knew what it was to be in her… position. Not Jamie and John, innocent as they were. Certainly not her old work friends (though Mya and Harley had stopped contacting her regularly years ago). Not even Annie, who had survived Michael's attack on her, who, more than anyone, might understand the feeling of being part and not a part of the rest of humanity. But Annie would not understand why Laurie would visit her tormentor. Annie had not called in nearly two years, not since her father had fallen ill.

Laurie did not want to think about this anymore. She had a long day tomorrow (called off at work, car filled with gas, left routes and emergency contact numbers for Rachel). She needed to sleep.

Eleven o'clock. Was he sleeping as well? And was it as restless as hers?

She somehow doubted it.

Sleep was a long time coming.

"Perhaps the most remarkable result to come out of seeing the animal in its cage was to meet its handler." Aaron made a turn as Dana continued recording. "Or rather, to discover who it is. For it is not Dr. Sartain, nor is it Dr. Loomis. The handler appears to be, of all people, Laurie Strode – Michael Myer's victim and his own younger sister."

Aaron pulled the car up to the petrol station, parking it near an open spot. Evidently it was a bit of a popular one; despite the early morning, there were already several cars and vans and even a trailer parked nearby. "We were unsuccessful in convincing Ms. Strode to speak to us – yet what we saw during her visit, the last either of them will have at Smith's Grove Sanitarium, was nothing short of incredible. This begs the question: can confrontation lead to rehabilitation? For what reason did Laurie Strode visit Michael Myers? Family ties or the opportunity to face a tormentor on her own terms? And to what extent has this changed him – changed both of them? One can only wonder what Laurie Strode can compel this man to do if pushed –"

A screech made both Dana and Aaron jump. A van, also coming by to fill up the tank, had apparently nearly hit someone crossing the street. The driver was shouting obscenities, though as far as Dana could see, they were doing it to thin air; whoever they had nearly hit had disappeared out of sight.

"We can finish up later," Dana suggested, turning off the headset. "Plenty of time once we reach Haddonfield, I'd expect." She tucked the equipment in its bag and placed it at her feet, expecting Aaron to get out and start topping off the tank.

But Aaron just sat for a few moments, frowning. "We need that interview, Dana," he said. "Or at the very least, we need to find out more about her. There's nothing else we can do? There's a county adoption agency near Haddonfield, or perhaps the school she works at…"

"I imagine some of that would be illegal," Dana said with some amusement. "Look, I went over everything we have on Laurie Strode last night at the hotel, while you were busy with Dr. Loomis's interviews." It had taken a fair amount of concentration to drown out Dr. Loomis's angry denials to speak about Michael Myers, but Dana was used to it by now. She used those same powers of concentration to ignore the distant drilling and clanging going on in the repair station near them. "Her birth certificate was unsealed only a few years ago. There's some information in the public records, housing, phone books, but no access to adoption or hospital records, and school and employment information also remain locked up."

She had out a blurry, scanned copy of the certificate, which stated in its rigid, evenly spaced typeface, that Myers, Angel Cynthia, FEMALE, had been born at HADDONFIELD MEMORIAL HOSPITAL to a Myers, Donald (FATHER) and Myers, Deborah (MOTHER). She laid it next to that of Myers, Michael, MALE, born almost ten years before his sister, and Myers, Judith, FEMALE, born seventeen years before. She saw Aaron staring at the three copies, as if the dates and names could help him decipher the case.

"So ordinary," he said quietly. "Why the younger sister and not the older? And for God's sake, after everything her brother has done, why would she come to him?" He tapped his thumb against the wheel. "Do we know how she ended up with the Strodes?"

Dana smiled. "We do. Sheriff Lee Brackett. It's all detailed in Dr. Loomis's book." Her glance was significant. "And he was the officer in charge when Michael Myers escaped. He's no longer in the state, but we could pursue it. Apparently his daughter was also a victim of Michael Myers." Another possible subject, that. If the Bracketts had suffered such at Michael Myers's hands, how had they felt about Laurie Strode? About her visits?

She pushed aside the large photograph of Laurie Strode, pulling out more clippings and ignoring a particularly loud bang in the distance. "And there's this." She took out a tiny clipping, an obituary. JIMMY LLOYD, In Loving Memory, it stated in fuzzy black print. On the left side was a square image of a rather good-looking young man who could not have been more than thirty. A small paragraph of information followed. "Her husband. Died several years ago." Only a year before her visits began. Dana wondered if it was the grief of her husband's death that had driven Laurie Strode to do the unthinkable. She put the thought aside for later perusal. "It says he worked at the hospital she was taken to. There has to be somebody there who remembers him and can talk about her as well."

"It feels like we're just circling around the subject herself, rather than getting the answers straight from her," muttered Aaron, an unusually disgruntled look on his face.

Dana understood. Many times they had received breakthroughs just by speaking to people who had never been interviewed extensively and were eager to tell their stories. This was the first where the subject had adamantly refused to say anything.

"We still have several days here," Dana said, shoving the papers back into their file. One slipped out, and she scooped it up from where it had fallen to the floor of the car. "We'll come up with some ideas. But not if we can't get to Haddonfield."

Aaron snorted, but took the hint. "Get something for me from the shop?"

Dana smiled teasingly. "Maybe." She looked at the paper she was holding. It was that large photo of Laurie Strode right before she had been attacked; the shiny paper it was printed on made it easy to slide out. Sticking it in the file, she pushed it into her bag and headed up to the station register. Forget the shop, she needed to relieve something else right now…

Some five minutes later, Dana had concluded that American bathrooms were probably the filthiest she'd seen in any developed country. This one had probably seen better days a decade ago; now it was just a rundown mess. At least the stall in the farthest corner was relatively clean, so she dropped her bag to the floor (making a note to wash it later, but she did not think the stall's hook would support anything heavier than a feather) and went about her business.

The door of the restroom opened.

Dana paused halfway through pulling her pants up, listening. She shook her head. Just another passersby…

Footsteps. She frowned, stopping once more. For whatever reason, the treads sounded too heavy to be a woman's. And they were drawing near her, the only occupied stall.

Dana saw dark boots stop at the bottom of her stall, a trace of brown hair above it. She stared.

Then they rapped on her door.

"Excuse me, someone's in here!" Dana held the stall door closed, hurriedly zipping up her pants. She picked up her bag, wary of muggers trying to snatch it through the opening.

The boots did not move away.

The second time, the knocking was louder, hard enough to shake the door.

"I'm almost through here, if you'd just give me a minute?" She hoisted the bag over her shoulder, gripping the strap tightly. She was suddenly aware of how alone and isolated she was – how tiny the cubicle was. If this person did not move, she could be trapped here...

The boots retreated, and Dana started to sigh in relief.

And then the door shook as the person slammed their full weight into it.

Dana screamed, holding the door as the entire stall shook all around her. A second bang – the lock itself was coming loose. A third and the very walls of the stall began denting inwards, as if crushing her. Abandoning her attempts to hold the door, she dropped to her stomach, crawling along the floor, the bag dragging like a weight, just as she heard a final crushing thud and the door slamming into the wall as it flew open.

A hand grabbed her ankle. Dana cried out again and kicked, felt her shoe connect with a limb. The grip loosened just a fraction, and she kicked again – this time as momentum to haul herself fully into the other stall and lock the door –

Another metallic crash, and Dana recoiled back – but this did not come from her door.

"Dana!"

Aaron. Hope flooded her. "Help me!" Dana cried. "Aaron, help me, please!"

Pattering steps. Dana thought she heard Aaron yell a name. A thump – something clattering and bouncing – and then –

Crash. A tinkling sound. Dana, locked in her stall, ducked her head beneath the opening, trying to see. Reflective glass littered the floor – there was a tire iron lying against the wall, just out of reach – and two pairs of feet. One belonged to her attacker, the other was more familiar – and was being lifted off the ground, thrashing –

"Aaron!" she screamed. "Oh God, Aaron!"

Choking. Dana saw a hand reach down and pick up a glass shard.

The choking became a gurgle. Red droplets splattered on the dirty floor like rain.

Aaron's feet went limp. They dropped, crumpled under him, legs sprawling. A final twitch... then they went terribly still. Dana saw the other pair stay where it was for half a second.

Then they turned towards her stall.

Fear gripped her; she did not think, except that she had to save herself, she had to get out. Fumbling with the lock, she pushed the door open and burst out, launching herself straight at the tire iron –

A hand grabbed her hair, picked her up until her feet left the ground, her bag dropping to the floor. Her scalp was on fire – then she was hurled back. She slammed into the wall, gasping – she knew a rib had to be broken, could feel warm wetness on the back of her head –

Approaching footsteps. A dark shadow stood over her.

And even through her daze, she recognized her attacker.

"Michael…"

He gazed down at her, not moving. Dana felt terror crawling up her spine. Then his head snapped around, like a dog scenting prey, focusing on something to her left. She scooted away as best as she could as he stepped over to her bag, its contents spilled out on the floor.

He bent towards it, and she saw him pick up something, head tilting once more. Taking advantage of his distraction, Dana rolled onto her stomach and clawed the floor, dragging the useless weight of her body beneath her. Each breath was like a knife in her chest, her legs had gone numb – but Michael was on the other side of the room, with Aaron's body, and she turned away, not wanting to see – so long as he remained there, there was nothing between her and door –

A hand grabbed her leg and pulled. She screeched as whatever distance she had covered was gone. Again she tried to kick, but the hand released her before she could connect, and she turned herself over, gasping.

He was holding something. Michael Myers was holding something, something from out of her bag, something familiar. Dana saw its glossy sheen and choked. She knew what it was. He was holding the photograph of Laurie Strode, staring at it with an intensity she could perceive even from behind the crude mask he was wearing.

The paper fell from his bloody hands. He was no longer looking at it. He was looking at her, and Dana knew, for that one heartbeat before his hand closed around her neck and lifted her off the ground, that Michael Myers saw her, knew her, and hated.