AN: Let me know what you think! This is about where the movie picks up, with Michael finding his mask. More to come, hope you enjoy!

-

Michael was dreaming. The night air was biting cold as he walked silently down the deserted streets of Haddonfield. Houses passed in a blur of unimportant colors and shapes. He knew where he was going by instinct; he didn't need to see.

The house appeared at the end of the road, dark and quiet. Michael's pace did not alter. He was a patient man. He kept on his path, ignoring the whispers and lights flickering at the edge of his vision.

As he neared the house, he began to make out shapes. Someone was sitting on the front steps. He stopped at the gate and tilted his head. It was Bonnie, older and beautiful, just like their mother. She had long, light brown hair, and Deborah's smile. Michael was not fazed; he'd had this dream before. It always served to remind him why he had done the things he'd done all those years ago. He did it to protect her, to keep her safe and make her happy. And from behind the darkened windows of his abandoned home, he saw their faces staring out at him, full of hatred and anger. They did not bother him because they could not hurt him anymore. And he had been justified in his actions. He had never felt guilt at their deaths.

But there was something new in this dream. Michael turned to glance back over his shoulder at the empty street and saw nothing.

When he looked back at Bonnie, shock washed over him. She was not alone.

Emory was sitting next to her. Her hair was down, soft black curls that fell over her shoulders and framed her face. She was wearing a white sundress as light and playful as her smile as she talked and laughed with Bonnie. He couldn't hear them. He was deaf to everything. But by God, he could see.

Michael took a step forward and immediately the lightness in the air changed. Darkness descended over him, and while he stood frozen in place, unable to move, he saw the windows of that damned house open, and the ghosts started crawling out, reaching with grasping, clawed hands for Emory and Bonnie.

Michael felt every muscle in his body straining to move, but he was paralyzed. Anger tore through him like fire, pure and white hot. He would unleash the wrath of Hell upon anyone who tried to harm them. He would rip their heart out. God help the fools that reached for Emory and Bonnie now, with ghostly white, hungry hands.

God have mercy on them.

Because he sure as hell wouldn't.

-

When he woke up, it was still dark out. He could hear crickets singing through the open window. The world was at peace, completely at odds with his mind. His blood still hummed with fury and despair. He had to protect them.

He sat up, careful not to disturb Emory. She lay curled on her side, hair splayed out like a dark halo around her head. Michael felt warmth flicker through him, but it was brief and weak and instantly stamped out. He slipped out of bed without waking her, and went to stand by the glass door that opened up onto the balcony.

The alarm clock on the bedside table said 2:37. Michael stood there for a long time, listening to Emory breathe, waiting for the anxiety to dissolve from his mind. After ten minutes, he gave up, and a prick of sadness touched him; he had to do it. He had to go. He wouldn't be able to rest if he didn't.

He walked over to the Wal-Mart bags Emory had left on the table earlier that evening and sorted through them. He couldn't walk around Haddonfield naked, after all.

But she had put her lab coat in the bag with his clothes, so the sweats and t-shirt she got for him smelled like her. For some reason, the idea of going back into that house smelling like Emory made him flinch. He couldn't bring any part of her there with him. He couldn't risk it.

So he donned his old scrubs. They smelled like blood and sweat and the asylum. Fitting.

Then he went back to the bed, pulled there like a magnet to iron, so he could reach out and brush his fingertips through her hair one more time. He paused, hesitating, and then he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. And then he sat back, and looked down at her, memorized this picture of her in some fragile hope that if he always remembered her perfectly, she would always be as safe as she was right now.

As he opened the glass door that led out onto the balcony, he felt the cold night air raise the hairs on the back of his neck. He glanced back at Emory. The anxiety in his mind tripled. He had to go. He had to see the house for himself, and kill any demons that awaited him there.

He had to finish this. He had to face his past one last time.

-

It didn't take him very long to get to the house, only a few minutes of his mind screaming and his body singing with rage. The urge to kill had never been so strong to him. He wanted to hurt something. He wanted physical proof that he was capable of protecting the woman he loved and the sister he didn't know. He had to get into the house.

It was easy, actually. He slammed his fist into the back window and reached through to unlock the door. It was nailed shut, but that didn't bother him. That didn't even slow him down. With one swift yank, the door was free and he was inside.

It smelled different. Smelled like old blood and fear and years of dust. Michael felt his body go cold all over as memories assaulted him. Memories that he thought he had buried. They flew through his head, one after the other, blurring together, an unending stream of them; Bonnie, Judy, Ronnie, his mother, Halloween, rats, knives, blood, candy, duct tape. Over and over, they played out in his mind.

He didn't feel anything as his knees hit the floor. He put his hands out to keep himself from falling flat on his face. His eyes saw floorboards, but his mind saw white skin, glinting steel, and blood, blood, blood. A mask. That's what it was. His first mask.

The first time he had been able to protect Bonnie. It might work. It might help.

His fingernails skimmed along the floorboard until he found a crack wide enough. He dug his fingers in and ripped at the wood. It cracked, splinters exploded in the air around him. His hands scrambled to grab hold of more boards. He knew it was here, his mind remembered hiding it. The mask would help. The mask was here, right beneath him. The mask and…

The knife.

He went still. He felt old, rotten rubber beneath his hands, and the cool flat side of the butcher's knife. With numb fingers, he lifted the mask out from beneath the floor. It was just as he remembered it. Perfect.

As he pulled the mask over his face, a part of him remembered that he was doing this to protect them. He couldn't remember who they were, only that he was protecting them. That was all that mattered.

And then that voice faded away, and all that was left in him was emptiness. The handle of the knife fit perfectly into his hand. He was ready, he had to do this. Didn't know why, but knew he had to. That voice whispered at him from its deathbed: Bonnie. Emory. Bonnie. Emory. On and on, over and over.

He gritted his teeth, clenched the knife tightly in his hands, and nodded.

For Bonnie.

And for Emory.