Entering Haddonfield was a surreal experience for Jamie. This was a place she'd never thought she'd see again. A place she didn't particularly want to see again. There were too many memories here; all of them hurt. Some were merely bittersweet, flashes of a childhood ended too early. The most vivid ones were downright terrifying. The memories of the man sitting behind her.

John, sitting beside her, couldn't stop staring at the homes they passed. He wondered which one was the one his mother had grown up. He wondered where Michael had committed his first murder. Although he had never been here, and his mother had rarely spoken of it, it stung. He'd lost his mother well before she'd died. When he found out she was gone, something inside of him had died with her. She was his only family, the only one who knew. Laurie Strode had cut her son off completely for his own sake, but at least he knew she was out there. When she was killed, he knew he was truly alone in the world. Forever.

Now, he sat in a car with two of his family members. A sister he'd never known, and the uncle who'd tried so hard to kill him. Who had finally succeeded in killing his mother, after trying for over two decades. John knew that Michael couldn't be killed. That at any moment, Michael could turn, especially if triggered. It didn't stop him from constantly fantasizing about shooting the son of a bitch in the head.

Jamie, however, knew what was in Michael's mind. She kept a close link with him, afraid that the return may snap him out of the spell. A spell was one thing; a curse was another. In Michael's mind, she sensed something that could only be akin to wonder. In the backseat, Michael stared out the windows, looking fascinated by his surroundings.

Michael was fascinated. For the past twenty years, he'd seen everything through a haze of rage and uncontrollable violence. In truth, the curse had done more than make him a homicidal killer, it had distorted his view of the world. Under the curse, there was nothing but the goal. It was all he could focus on them. Now, seeing this place without that burden, he saw everything in a different light. He recognized many of the places, places he had roamed as a child. Other memories, frightening and confusing, were there too. He saw a two-story house with green shutters. It was at this house that he once found a kitten. He'd named it Charlie, and taken it home with him.

Michael loved Charlie the instant he saw him. He probably belonged to someone, but he didn't care. The kitten had come up to him and rubbed against his legs. Michael decided the kitten would be his friend, his only friend in a confusing world. He'd snuck it into his home under his coat. Nobody noticed.

Michael remember later that day, as well. He had gone to the kitchen and gotten a paring knife his mother used to peel with. It was the sharpest blade of all the knives. He'd taken the knife up to his room, where Charlie lay at the foot of his bed, lazily licking a paw. Michael had picked Charlie up gently, holding him gently while he sat down on the floor. He pet the kitten on the head, running his hand down his back. Charlie had rubbed up against his hand and purred. He'd sounded like he'd had a little motor in him or something, like a car. Michael's hand had rubbed down his head again, and then he grasped Charlie by the scruff of his neck. When he pulled Charlie up to his hind legs, the kitten had mewed pitifully. Charlie looked up into Michael's eyes, and mewed again. With the small knife still clutched in his hand, Michael quickly slashed it across the kitten's throat. Blood had splattered across the floor, and then poured from the kitten. Charlie never made another sound. Michael had sat there for hours, quietly skinning and dismembering the kitten.

When he was done, the kitten sat in piles along the floor. Michael was upset. He wasn't upset at what he'd done; rather, he was upset because his friend was gone. Michael's mind didn't quite rationalize that the two things went together, or that he'd done anything wrong. Michael had put Charlie's remains in a shoebox, then cleaned up the floor as best he could. He carried the shoebox through the house, dropping the knife in the sink on his way out the back door. He'd buried Charlie in the backyard. The kitten wasn't the only animal Michael'd killed, but he was the only one that Michael had buried.

So Michael felt a twinge of emotion when passing the house. It was a feeling of longing, of missing someone, but not of guilt. Michael couldn't feel guilt. Michael had never once been able to feel guilt. Jamie's control of him may tamper the curse, but it was her own conscience that kept Michael from doing something else.

"Michael, duck down," Jamie said. Michael listened and lay flat in the backseat. Jamie drew to a stop and slouched, staring out John's window. John did the same, although he wasn't sure why. John looked to where Jamie was looking. Across the street there was a little boy with dark hair playing in the yard. He was kicking it around like one would a soccer ball. The boy was oblivious to anything but his game. John looked back to Jamie, and was shocked to see tears streaming down her face. He didn't say anything. Jamie's head lifted up farther and farther, as if she was trying to get every little part of the image printed on her mind. Suddenly, the door opened and a dark-haired man walked out. John couldn't hear what the man said, but the boy ran up to him, arms outstretched. The man picked the boy up, spun him around, and rested him on his hip. The man looked up, and looked straight at their car. John ducked into the seat. The man's eyes squinted, then widened in amazement. John could hear him now. He yelled, "Jamie!" Jamie jerked upright and cranked the engine. John sat back up and saw the man was running toward them. Shifting the car into gear, Jamie pulled out and sped off seconds before the man reached the vehicle.

Jamie wiped tears from her face, but John didn't ask what they were for. Jamie drove a few more blocks, before reacing a decrepit house with boarded up windows. Someone had sprayed graffiti across it. The front door read, MICHAEL MYERS WILL GET YOU! John stiffened. This had to be the Myers house.

As if he realized it, Michael sat up in the backseat. He stared at the home, not moving a muscle. John was terrified. There was no saying what this guy could do. What if this set him off? However, it didn't. Michael appeared curious, but nothing more. Finally, Jamie spoke. "We're staying here while in town." John looked at her in horror. "Like hell I'm staying in that house!" he stated forcefully. Jamie sighed. "Look, I have to stay with Michael, in case the spell breaks or something. I can't leave him alone, and I certainly can't check him in with us at a bed-and-breakfast! Besides, there isn't a person in town who will go near that place. It's the best one."

John sighed and shook his head. So, now he was bunking at a house of horror with a crazed serial killer and a possibly crazed long-lost sister. "Okay. Guess I don't get much by way of choice."

Jamie said nothing, just opened her door. Checking to see if anyone was watching, they quickly grabbed their bags and hurried into the house.