A/N: Sorry it's so short. Apparently I didn't know how to write long chapters back in 2008. I tried to add some stuff to it but it's still a lot shorter than I'd like. Oh well. Hope you enjoy it anyway.

Chapter Five

Ben found a note on the kitchen counter from his parents, saying that they'd already gone to the party in town and telling him where to find chips and drinks for his little get-together. For a moment, Ben was glad they were gone. They were too good to be caught up in this mess.

Then he looked around the room, and he wished that they were here with him. He was alone on Halloween in the Myers house, the Devil's House, as Steve liked to put it. He shuddered.

For a few minutes he merely stood there, leaning slightly against the counter, his eyes slowly roaming about the room, unconsciously listening for any sound out of the ordinary. There was silence. Usually he would have been relieved, but now the utter lack of sound was a little unsettling, as if God had hit the mute button on some giant TV remote. He tentatively cleared his throat just to hear the noise, to make sure that he hadn't gone inexplicably deaf. The brittle sound wasn't loud, but it seemed to almost echo in the awful, absolute silence that had fallen on the house.

He realized that his wet clothes were sticking to him and making him cold, so he headed upstairs to his room, dropping his backpack and his new costume on his bed before pulling his shirt over his head. He then kicked his pants off and dropped both articles into the laundry hamper in the corner. Shivering slightly, he hurried to the bathroom and started the ancient shower. While he waited for the water to warm up, he continued to strain his ears for any sound out of the ordinary. Apart from the creaking, groaning, and clanking that usually came from old houses, there was nothing.

He stepped into the shower and sighed as the warm water rushed over his shoulders, relaxing his tense muscles. It also cleared his head, allowing him to think properly as he scrubbed dried mud from his arms.

Mr. Mathis was dead. Murdered, and brutally so, judging from the nearly unrecognizable state of the guy's head. Clearly something large and heavy had struck it, wielded by a force Ben couldn't even begin to imagine.

Mr. Mathis had lived right next door to the Myers house. He must have died not too long after Ben had met him, a day at most. Was there a connection? There had to be. It was too close to be coincidental.

Michael? he thought. Was it Michael Myers?

Was Michael Myers trying to warn him? Telling him to get the hell out of his house and never return? Or was it simply a fluke that there had been a brutal murder right next door, just a day or two before Halloween? Or, as Steve seemed to think, was a Michael Myers wannabe skulking around, awaiting the chance to strike…?

"Now cut that out," Ben muttered. "There is no bogeyman. It's just a coincidence that Mr. Mathis was killed. It had nothing to do with Michael Myers and the police will catch the killer in no time. Stop freaking yourself out."

His words did nothing to calm him, though. All the reassurances in the world couldn't do that. Something was very wrong here, he could sense it. Whether it was Michael or not was unclear, but Ben had no doubt that there was something horribly amiss. And he had a feeling that if he didn't figure it out pretty soon, something really bad was going to happen. And when it did…

Something creaked.

Ben froze, his heart stopping for a second before resuming at twice its usual speed. He was used to creaks and groans. They were unavoidable in a house this old. But that hadn't been the usual old house noises. That was the unmistakable sound of a floorboard groaning under pressure.

Someone was outside the bathroom door.

Ben stood stock-still, hardly breathing as he listened intently. Hearing nothing, he thought that maybe he'd imagined it. Maybe it had only been the kind of sound he was used to, just different in pitch in the tiled bathroom.

Then he heard it again, and this time it wasn't a floorboard. It was the door.

Ben's heart was pounding so hard he thought it would burst. The bathroom door was opening, and he had locked it. He was certain of that. How the hell was this happening?

Slowly, Ben reached up, taking the edge of the shower curtain in his hand. He hesitated, unsure and afraid of what he might find lurking on the other side. Then, gritting his teeth, he wrenched the curtain back.

There was no one there.

But the bathroom door was open. Turning off the water and wrapping himself in a towel, Ben poked his head out into the hall. It was deserted. Swallowing nervously, he stepped out of the warm bathroom and into the chilly corridor. The floorboards creaked under his feet, and he flinched.

He heard something slam downstairs, like a cabinet door.

The kitchen.

Tiptoeing to the landing, he peered down the stairs. The foyer light was on, just as he'd left it, and the front door was shut and locked. Nothing seemed out of place. He came down the steps one at a time, his ears strained for any sound other than his own trembling breaths and hammering heartbeat.

The living room was empty. He checked behind the couch but there was no one hiding there, and there were no other hiding spots available. Ben's eyes scanned the room warily and they landed on a door on the opposite wall, the door that opened up into the dining room. It was standing slightly ajar. Had it been that way earlier? He couldn't remember.

He looked around, searching for a weapon, and reached into the fireplace, grabbing a poker and holding it out in front of him, ready to attack if necessary. Then he faced the dining room door and walked toward it, the poker's point preceding him. At the door, he froze, hand outstretched to push it open.

Who was behind this door? Was it the same person who'd scared him that afternoon? Was it perhaps Steve playing a cruel Halloween prank?

Whoever it was, he wasn't going to solve anything just standing here, so he shoved the door open and stepped into the dining room, lifting the poker high and ready to strike.

There was no one there.

He reached out and flicked the light switch, bathing the room in a warm white glow. He lifted the tablecloth and checked underneath to make sure no one was hiding there. There wasn't. Lowering the cloth, he tiptoed around the table to where the kitchen door sat in the wall. Again he paused, one hand reaching out to push it open while the other clenched around the poker. He took a deep breath. Then another.

Then he barged into the kitchen.

It was empty.

But he was dismayed, though not really surprised, to see the back door open. He walked forward, closed it with a snap, and locked it. Then he turned to face the room at large. Still, nothing looked untouched. Everything was right where it should have been.

And yet…

Someone had been in the house besides himself. He was sure of it. The only question was, were they still here? Were they hiding in some corner, waiting for him to come within attacking range? Or had they left the house, either for good or until a more opportune time?

There was only one way to find out.

He lifted the poker again and retreated back into the living room. Once in the foyer, he turned into the office and checked behind the desk. Satisfied that no one was on the lower level, he crept back upstairs and checked all the bedrooms, including closets and adjacent bathrooms. He held his makeshift weapon aloft the whole time, never lowering it for a second. Every small noise, the creak of a floorboard under his feet, the squeak of ancient hinges, each sound the old house made set him on edge, making him tense up and hold his breath. He was certain that behind every door, hiding around every corner, something was waiting to strike, to attack, to kill…

But it never happened. He searched each and every room in the house from basement to attic and found nobody lurking anywhere.

There was no one in the house.

Slightly relieved though not altogether reassured, he lowered the poker and walked back to his bedroom, intending to get dressed before his friends arrived.

If he had been a bit more observant back in the kitchen, he would have noticed that one of the knives in the wooden block by the stove was missing.