AN: I just want to thank everyone who gave me their input about the ending of this story. You guys are an unending source of inspiration and delight.

For the record, I'll definitely be going with the happy ending. But since I've devoted so much time and energy into the sad ending, I'm going to post that one, too. (It was the one I originally wrote with the intent of keeping my plot congruent with the storyline of the movie).

I'll post them at the same time, so you can choose to either ignore the sad ending, or read them both. They'll be labeled 'The Hour of Separation' (for the sad ending) and 'Eternum' (for the happy ending).

And I was actually already considering a sequel, Naruillin. ;D I'm still not sure about it, though. I'll let you know.

Thanks again, everyone.

Love,

Amanda.

-

Through two miles of uninhabited woodland in the middle of Haddonfield, Illinois, a large, silent shadow carried Emory's unconscious form back to her motel. He laid her almost reverently on the bed, pulling the comforter over her to shield her from the frigid night air.

The shadow watched her for a long time, eyes steady, focused and unwavering.

And then they flickered. And then they closed.

When they opened again, they were different. Empty. Flat. Cold.

The shadow turned his back on Emory Brighton and walked out of the room.

-

And somewhere in the middle of a slightly desecrated cemetery in Haddonfield, Illinois, Samuel Loomis locked eyes with Lee Brackett and said, in an urgent, quiet voice, "Death has come to your little town, Sherriff."

-

This time, when Emory woke up, she was not surprised by the fact that she was cold. She was surprised by the screaming pain that was shooting through her head. But only for a moment.

Only until her memories returned.

Her eyes flew open, and she instantly regretted it. The dim light of the lamp on the bedside table seemed to burn holes into her head. She groaned softly, and lifted her hand to gently touch her left temple. It was bruised, but only slightly swollen.

Which meant that she'd been asleep for a while. Hours. Oh God, what had he done?

She tried to sit up, but it felt like her body was nothing more than a useless lump of dead weight. Slowly, carefully, she pulled back the covers and she pushed herself into a sitting position, and then, just as slowly, she opened her eyes.

She was back in the motel. The room swam dizzyingly in her line of vision, so she took a deep breath and waited.

Slowly, gradually, the room calmed itself and stopped spinning.

And then she made the mistake of trying to stand.

The onslaught of dizziness and nausea brought forth a wave of blackness that threatened to swallow her whole, but she fought it. She had to get to him. She had to try to stop him. Even as she reached out for the bedside table to steady herself, she was growing stronger, shaking off the side effects of what her medical colleagues would have called "blunt force trauma to the head."

Focus, she commanded of her mind. Michael was in danger. Everyone was in danger. She had to get to him.

"You son of a bitch," she cursed, visualizing the slow, confident way he had approached her at the Strode house.

She made her way to the bathroom, saw the delicate bruise beneath her left eye. Her hair camouflaged the bump on her temple, but it made itself known with every beat of her heart.

As soon as she felt strong enough to walk, she made for the door. Her mind was still fuzzy, but her body worked well enough. While the details remained a blur, she knew she had to find him. There was no other option.

But where would he be?

"Stupid question," she chided herself, walking as quickly as she could down the sidewalk, arms clasped tightly together in a vain attempt to retain what little body heat she had left. She knew exactly where he would be. He knew she knew it, too.

It took her nearly an hour to walk the mere two miles to his childhood home. She cursed her body endlessly for its weakness, and pushed herself as hard as she could. But by the time the old, dilapidated house was finally in sight, there were sirens screaming through the air in the distance. People had already gotten hurt. She could only hope she would be able to get there in time.

The house looked haunting and empty from where she stood on the sidewalk. She wondered if he was in there, watching her. She hated herself for how much she desperately hoped

She stood outside the front door for what seemed like hours, waiting for something. She didn't know what. Maybe for the pain to recede.

It didn't.

She waited and listened. The wind whispered through dying late-autumn leaves, crickets chirped lazily, and the sirens grew steadily closer.

And then she heard something. It was faint and distant, muffled through layers of wood and insulation, but she knew instantly what it was.

Somewhere in the house, Bonnie Myers was screaming.