Chapter 4: The Fourth Visit

"Can he see us?"

"No. One-way mirror. He's not be aware of our presence."

Laurie clutched her sweater around her arms nervously. It certainly seemed like Michael was aware of them. As soon as she had walked in front of the glass, his head had gone up, masked face peering at them. Like he had heard her, or smelled her.

Dr. Beckett said uncertainly, "I thought this might help with preparing you, being able to see him ahead of time. Sound doesn't penetrate, so we can station some aides to watch without breaking into your privacy."

She nodded, mouth drawn tight. Nervous anticipation bubbled in her chest; she both wanted to go in, to get the visit over with, but also, desperately, wanted to stay outside, where it was safe. The doctor stood by her side for a few moments, waiting patiently. Her brother looked the same. Same clothing, same long hair obscuring most of his face. His mask was once again different, though – entirely black, not even a hole for a mouth. Just two slits for his eyes. And through them, his gaze never left the glass.

When the pressure became unbearable, Laurie forced her legs to move to the door. She opened her mouth to say something, but couldn't quite make any sound. The doctor, understanding anyway, simply unlocked the door and let her walk inside.

"What does he do in there?" she asked. She twirled out the rings of the cord and let it snap back.

The line crackled as the doctor shifted. "Very little. He is confined to his room save for his daily therapy sessions. All his meals are taken in there, his bathroom needs – though he is let out every few days to bathe. From what the aides tell me, he generally spends his time making masks. Why do you ask?"

"No reason." The lie sounded unconvincing even to her. She flipped open The Devil's Eyes. "Just… wanted to know."

Not the full reason. She had Dr. Loomis's two books down because she had told herself she wanted to prepare better. She was a teacher, and what was she always telling her students? To study. "Luck favors the prepared." So she prepared. What motivated her brother? What illness did he have? How should she act around him to lower the chances of an attack?

Psychopathy is not a recognized mental disorder. Perhaps the closest psychiatrists have to it is antisocial personality disorder, characterized by a disregard for right and wrong, laws and rules, and the emotions and feelings of others. More eminent doctors than myself, however, have developed checklists of traits seen in a psychopath: lack of empathy, an unwillingness to accept one's actions, behavioral problems, cruelty to animals and those weaker than themselves, and juvenile delinquency. With only a few exceptions, Michael Myers displayed all of these traits.

She hung up the phone and flipped a page. Her children were playing upstairs; judging by the volume of their voices, probably arguing over who got to use a favorite toy. A squeal and a small thump made her jump and start to stand, listening with that tight feeling in her chest. After a few seconds though, she heard the giggling start up again. Heaving a sigh, she sat down.

An odd emotion had been gnawing at her since the last visit. Not guilt. She would never, ever feel guilty for what she did. Not after what he had put her through. Put Annie through.

It felt like curiosity.

Laurie pressed her palm against her head. Shit. It felt sick to think of it that way. Like she was a creepy basement dweller obsessed with memorizing the lives of serial killers. But she only had one person in mind: her brother.

The word still made her shiver.

Yet psychopathy, or even antisocial personality disorder, is not a purely genetic trait. Research has led me to subscribe to the diathesis-stress model, in which a genetic vulnerability to a mental illness, a defect if you will, lies dormant in a person, perhaps forever, unless activated by an accompanying environmental stressor - illness, trauma, the death of a loved one, or even ongoing tensions within one's family. To put it another way, nature and nurture, those two old foes, are not at war with each other, but working together.

Unfortunately for Michael Myers and all who knew him, they were working together in him.

She closed her eyes, willing the words (genetic vulnerability… defect) out of her head. Not important. Not in her. Not in her children. That was what Jimmy had said, a long time ago, when she had wanted to claw out her mind, claw out her blood and her skin and her flesh as if it might rid her of that link, that taint…

We have described the boy himself, so let us proceed to those closest to him… By far the closest relationship he had, if we can ascribe such a word to him, was with his mother, Deborah Myers. By all accounts, her marriage with Don Myers was happy, and they were a typical, suburban middle-class family, with the man of the house providing the income while Mrs. Myers stayed at home. Their first child was a daughter, Judith Myers; seven years later they had Michael. Mrs. Myers was pregnant with her third child when her husband was killed in a car accident.

It would be a defining moment not just for the family, but for Michael Myers himself. For that was when his descent into madness began.

Laurie slammed the book shut, breathing hard.

"It was the rain, you see? The roads were slippery, and with the fog... it was hard to see. Not his fault, he was doing everything right… he couldn't have been able to control the car, no matter how good a driver…"

Not the same. (Environmental stressor.) Not the same.

John yelled something and she heard a second thud. It took a conscious effort to continue sitting there, eyes closed, waiting for a rejoining shriek. Sure enough, it came.

She opened the book again, flipping through more pages until a word caught her eye.

It was only a month into his stay at the sanitarium that Michael made his first mask. A crude thing, even for him, it was just a flat circle, with holes for eyes, scribbled black. When asked why he chose that color, he stated that it was his favorite. I found it fitting, for it matched the color of his soul.

She flipped some more.

By this time, Michael was spending almost all his hours hidden behind a mask. His room was slowly becoming filled with them, hanging from the walls and (when those were taken up) from the ceiling. Aides told me that almost all his waking hours were spent making more. To them, it was a relief – the only thing needed to keep him content, they thought, was supplying him with stacks of old newspapers. To myself and his mother, however, it was a worrisome and steadily growing obsession.

The reasons behind this hobby, as it were, are unclear, as things often are with Michael Myers. His mother reported that he was trying to hide his "ugliness" – most likely a lie to garner her sympathy, as it would imply some understanding of his monstrous actions (something he had never acknowledged in our sessions together). What was clear to me, however, was his exponential regression. The more time spent behind the mask, the less he spoke, the less he interacted or even responded to the outside world. Perhaps he truly was hiding from the situation, unable to face what he had done.

A more likely explanation, however, was that he was biding his time, waiting for the opportunity to strike.

Laurie snapped the cover shut. Memories were cascading through her skull. She shook away the images with hard desperation, dragging her fingernails across the leather chair. No Lynda. No Annie. No parents, lying hidden in their coffins because the corpses had been too gruesome to be displayed – her last memory waving goodbye as they sat on the doorstep. No Michael, rotting mask obscuring his face, standing over her.

Only when her heartbeat had calmed did she open the book again. She was on the last few paragraphs of the chapter.

I saw this, some ten months after Michael's arrival at Smith's Grove. His mother, in what would be her last visit, had given him a present, perhaps as an inducement to act more normally, we shall say. Michael was at that point unresponsive even to her, and the visit ended shortly after. Thinking to discuss other treatment options with Mrs. Myers, I left Michael alone with a nurse. This nurse, whose family asked that she remain unnamed, was one of our oldest and most experienced. She had spent many years in the children's ward and had a good touch for them. There did not seem to be anything wrong with letting her watch over Michael for a few moments.

Perhaps it was this experience that ultimately killed her. The nurse, used to her children, did not seem to know she was dealing with something entirely different. Video footage shows her picking up and examining Michael's present. The mistake cost the nurse her life. Possessive of those items he considered to be his, Michael took it as an insult, a threat. In retaliation, he stabbed the nurse in the neck with a fork. Aides descended in seconds, but despite their attempts, the nurse bled out and died on the sanitarium floor.

His mother witnessed the entire thing.

Laurie's breath was picking up. She flipped through the pages to the photo inserts in the middle, pushing past them. The faces were familiar there only because of her many rereads – Deborah Myers, her biological mother; Judith Myers, the sister she did not know or remember; Michael Myers, photographed first as a cheerful young boy and, on the opposite page, glaring out of the page. Her fingers shook as she skimmed past that one.

Photo of Michael Myers with his younger sister. Given as a present to him by his mother, almost ten months after his incarceration at Smith's Grove.

She closed the book and picked up the phone.

"Mrs. Lloyd." The doctor sounded tired.

Laurie did not question how he knew it was her. "The photo," she said. "He… still has it?"

A shuffle on the other end. "As far as I know? Yes. One of the aides spotted it in his cell. Er… sometimes he keeps it on his person as well. He takes it out when they take his clothes for laundry."

But why?

She had attacked him. She didn't regret it; he was insane, a serial killer. He had thought that killing all her friends and family would bring him… what? A happy family reunion? God. Whatever he had thought of her before, it had changed. She remembered crawling along the dusty attic as the floor was smashed from beneath her. Remembered him coming at her and throwing her over the balcony. Remembered holding a gun –

"Mrs. Lloyd?"

Breathe in. Breathe out. Dispel the memories. Center yourself.

Find out when you visit him.

She said, "That's all I wanted to know. I'll see you next week." And hung up the phone.

The instant she walked in, his gaze moved from the window to her. They stayed like that, locking his eyes into hers, for a long moment.

Laurie broke it, walking to the chair and sitting down. Some fragmented, rational part of her noted that she was dealing better with him this time. Maybe because now she had a goal in mind. It also reminded her to thank the doctor for letting her be able to see him ahead of time.

Or maybe, a less-rational part said, she was actually getting used to Michael Myers's presence.

The thought should have sent her into hysterics, but all she felt was a horrible calm.

God, she was getting used to it.

A vision of the rest of her life stretched out before her. Monthly drives to the sanitarium. Excuses to give to neighbors and coworkers as she asked them for babysitting, for a day off. Jamie and John growing up. Wondering where she was going every month. Constantly looking over her should for a dark shape, a white mask; nerves wracked with every Halloween, leaving the television on the entire week before so that she could hear about any escape.

And now she was shaking.

She pulled out her bottle and twisted it open, almost dropping the cap in her haste. Pouring out two small pills, she gulped them down, swallowing quickly.

When she looked up, Michael was still staring at her, but with a more focused intensity. Like he was curious, maybe. At least, that's what she thought he might be thinking, near as she could tell with his mask on. Did crazy people feel curiosity? Did Michael Myers.

"It's for panic attacks," she explained. Winced as her voice echoed loudly around the room, even with the tinny classical music playing over them. Michael's gaze did not waver. "I – I need it…" She trailed off, feeling the futility of it all. He had not even looked at the bottle. Nobody cared about her messed up head, least of all the brother responsible for it.

Remember what you want to find out. Straightening, she said, "Michael…"

He seemed to twitch, his shoulders coming up, and Laurie withheld a gasp. The pills were slowly working, easing her nerves… she hoped.

"I…" I hate you. I want you gone. I wish you had never come into my life. "I have to… take these… because whenever I'm here… it – it gets hard to – to breathe – or think." She swallowed. "And – and I have to take other – other things at home, because… because ever since you – you came – I just…" She began twisting her fingers in her sweater again. "When I hear something loud I think it's you at the door, or walking towards me… or if I see any – any blood – I start to – panic… And I can't drive down a street… or go to certain houses…" She wiped her face. "Or watch certain shows… and can't… if I see people in costumes, it just… I can't think…"

Her breaths were coming in shaky, yet the rest of her seemed weirdly steady. She felt like she was floating half out of herself, looking down at her paralyzed body and analyzing its reactions, both aware and yet detached from what she was thinking. Another breath – she had been staring at the table the entire time – and she looked up, to see Michael begin to tilt his head again, long hair drifting off one shoulder.

It was almost like he was listening to her.

She rubbed her nails nervously, feeling the silence fall on them again. Weren't visits supposed to involve the patient talking too? She couldn't just sit here, doing all the talking, could she? He had to say something.

But he hadn't said anything in over twenty years.

Laurie took another breath and looked back down at the table – it was too difficult to maintain her gaze. If she just kept talking about herself, then maybe she could get through this. Maybe Michael would react enough that she could get a bead on just what he wanted.

"When I got out of the hospital… afterwards… they had to send me to see someone." Michael continued looking at her. She wondered vaguely if he related, in some way. He was in a mental institution, he'd maybe understand this sort of thing, right? "I saw Barbara – my therapist – for over two years, where she would just… let me talk and tell me how to… how to deal with things when it became too – hard." Her fingers slowed their nervous wringing. "Just sat there, really, and got paid for listening. Sometimes… she helped. I guess. Once I got put on the – the right medication… I stopped seeing her after a while. Didn't need her… judging me."

That's what she's supposed to do, Laurie, my God, Annie had said to her once. Annie had gone through the messed up shit Laurie had, but she hadn't understood that uncomfortable feeling of being analyzed, of being judged abnormal, of wondering if this person actually cared for her wellbeing or for her money.

"Everyone says trauma is supposed to bring people together," Laurie murmured, unaware of the change in topic she had just taken. "But with us, it was like… we didn't want to remember that shit. She didn't want to. We couldn't really be in the same room anymore after a while, because we kept reminding each other." She traced the scar on her cheek absentmindedly. "Eventually she moved out of town. Sometimes she calls."

With a sudden jolt, she realized she had been talking about Annie, out loud, to her attacker. A wave of illness overcame her. That was completely fucked up of her – how could she say all that? What if he went after Annie again? Tried to finish the job? It'd be Laurie's fault, Laurie bringing it on her again.

Frantically, she went through everything she had just said – had she said where Annie lived? She didn't think so. It wasn't in Haddonfield; it wasn't even in the state – that should be safe? Had she said when she moved out? It had been two years after the attack – no, she didn't think so. Had she even said it was Annie she was talking about? No – no, she didn't think so. Laurie took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. It was okay. Fine. Annie was safe.

But it made her realize how limited she was in things she could talk about. How she had to dance around certainties. She was still living in Haddonfield, but she couldn't say that – it would just make it easier for Michael to find her if he broke out. (Shit, had she somehow implied she still lived there? She couldn't remember.) She couldn't talk about where she worked – he'd know it, it was the school he went to. Or most of all, talk about her children. God, if he knew about them – it would put them in danger, make them targets.

She looked up and realized, with another lurch of her gut, that her brother was still staring at her, still with that implacable, unblinking gaze. Was he taking it all in? Figuring her out? Laurie felt the familiar nausea twisting her stomach, the uneasy awareness that this was a bad idea –

If only she could know what he was thinking. She couldn't even see most of his face, let alone discern his expression.

She stood up. Michael's head came up as well, following her. Slowly, she walked away from the chair and around the table, coming closer to him with every step. She could hear his breathing, heavy and measured behind the mask, discordant with her own erratic little gulps of air.

There was some inner sense of danger screaming at her to stop, but it was like she was hovering over her own body, watching herself move and unable to stop. Unwilling, even. Her eyes locked with Michael's and held there; it was as if he too was compelling her to move closer.

They're not black, she realized detachedly. Not like the book said. They're not black.

She was now the closest she could ever remember being to him. Other than that time in the cellar when she had stabbed him. Other than when she had sat atop him and shot him in the head. She could see the manacles holding his arms behind his back, looped to a wide belt around his waist. She could make out as well the tatters of his clothing, the loose threads along the seams; there was even a small hole in his shirt. The hard ridges of the mask were discernible, the individual marks of crayons, were visible. She could even smell him. He smelled like the sanitarium – faintly chemical.

Her hand reached out and hooked itself under the mask, near his jaw, and stopped.

Michael looked at her.

She teetered there, on the edge of tearing it off. What was going on in his head? What was he planning? She could feel his hot breath against her skin; her fingertips were centimeters from actually touching him, so close she could feel the hairs of his stubble brushing against them, the warmth of his skin.

He looked at her.

They're not black, she thought, and not dead inside. They're almost…

Inviting her in…

She jerked back, pulling her hand away without taking the mask. The walls were beginning to pull in on her, trapping her inside. Her pulse racing, she turned and ran to the door and, as soon as it opened, fled outside.

Dr. Beckett was staring as she came out, mouth open. She didn't want to look at him, to talk to him, and sped away, but the man followed her, shouting her name –

"No!"

"Mrs. Lloyd-"

"No! I don't want to talk about it, I'm not scheduling another-"

"No, Mrs. Lloyd, you don't understand – he let you touch his mask!"

She stopped dead in her tracks.

Dr. Beckett was panting slightly as he caught up with her, for once looking quite agitated. "His masks – he doesn't like it when people touch them. Especially if he's, well, wearing it. There have been, um, incidents…"

Laurie's blood ran cold; she could easily imagine just what kind of incidents there had been. Without thinking, she looked back over her shoulder, expecting to see Michael come raging out to attack her.

"But you – he let you touch them."

He looked almost elated, she thought, a sick feeling blooming in her stomach. She could almost imagine what he was thinking: the baby sister, establishing a relationship with her murderous older brother, helping doctors to understand what was going on in their most dangerous patient.

She couldn't stand to look at him. Without another word, she whirled out of there, ignoring the doctor's shouts.

"So let's talk about Chapter 3. You all should have read it for homework, so, any initial thoughts?"

Silence.

"Come on, guys. Wasn't it an interesting chapter?" A low murmur that might be taken for agreement. "So let's talk about it. Who did we meet in this chapter? … Come on, guys, don't make me pull out the Popsicle sticks... Yes, Katherine?"

"Uh, that girl, Cherry?"

"Right, we met Cherry. What else? Sydney?"

"Ponyboy seems to like her."

"He does, doesn't he? Is that a good thing?"

"No. I mean, it's kind of good, but she's a Soc, and he's a Greaser, so… it's good, but it's also not good at the same time."

"Explain more."

"I mean, she has a boyfriend already-"

"Yeah, and he beat up Johnny, so that's bad-"

"I'll get to you in a bit, Sam, but let's let Sydney finish up her thought."

"Well, he beat her up. And Cherry's a Soc, so she's richer and stuff. And she didn't like Dally at first."

"Why not? Sam?"

"She's richer, so it's like… Romeo and Juliet, you know? Their families and stuff are fighting."

"Ooh, reading Romeo and Juliet already, Sam?" A burst of laughter. "All right, but let's go back to something Sydney said, about not liking Dally. Why not?"

"He's a Greaser."

"Uh huh. And what about Ponyboy?"

"She didn't like him either, at first… cause he's a Greaser also. But later she started liking him."

"So what does this show us? Joshua?"

"Don't judge a book by its cover!"

General laughter.

"Sure, yeah! But explain more, Josh."

"Um… well, at first she probably thought Ponyboy was mean and hard like Dally is. But when she started talking to him, she realized he's actually kind of nice, and smart, and she liked him. So you know… it's like, maybe you think someone is one way, but it turns out they're a bit different than you might expect. You just kind of have to talk to them and get to know them."

"Um… does everyone agree? …Right. Yeah. Something we all know and try to do, right? Um… let's move on. What about the end? What was important there?"

By the time Laurie got out of her classroom, the flood of children had slowed to a trickle. Most had been picked up, alleviating the traffic in the streets around the school. Some of the older, middle school children were still hanging around, and they waved at Laurie as she passed by. A few younger ones, accompanied by their parents, hurried across the street to the nearby homes.

She found her twins seated near the flag pole. Jamie's dark hair was pulled into a braid, which she was using to hit John, mainly by "turning" her head at every provocation.

"Ow! Stop it Jamie!"

"I'm just looking at the car!" Whack.

"Stop it! No you're not!"

"But there's a dog there!" Whack.

Laurie walked up to them. "Kids, stop it." She took both of their hands and started making their way to the parking lot. Unperturbed, Jamie skipped alongside her.

"Mommy, today Mrs. Chambers gave us no homework!"

"Really? Guess I'd better talk to her about changing that…"

"Mom!" That was John. "It's because we had a sub today, so she let us finish in class."

They had made their way to the car. "Well good for you." She unlocked the door. "Guess you can help me wash the dishes-"

"Ew!"

"Do the laundry…"

"Mommy!"

"Clear up the backyard…"

"MOM!"

Laurie snorted. "I'm kidding. Come on, toss your backpacks in." They did, clambering into the seats. "Hey, remember your seatbelts." Once they had clicked in, she started up the car.

"Hey Mommy?"

"Yeah, Jamie?"

"Where'd you go yesterday?"

Laurie froze. "Yesterday?"

"Uh huh, when you had Rachel babysitting us again."

"Oh. Well…" She cleared her throat. "Just the same old place, out of Haddonfield."

John had screw up his face. "Like last time? To see someone?"

"Yeah."

"Will we ever get to see them?" asked Jamie.

Laurie turned just a little too sharply. "No. I mean – not right now, Jamie. It's just… grownup stuff."

"Oh." Boring, she could practically hear her twins thinking, and thankfully it got them off the topic.

And yet…

"Have you considered bringing your children?"

She shook her head. What a joke. As if she'd bring her children to a mental institution. As if she wanted Michael to know that they even existed, let alone what they looked like.

"I know it sounds ludicrous, but… listen to me, Mrs. Lloyd. Say that he does break out. He tracks you down, comes to your house, and finds them. He won't recognize them. He won't know who they are. What do you think might happen?"

They turned up the sloped driveway, parking the car. Almost before it had stopped, the children were unbuckling themselves and leaping out – probably eager to run upstairs and start playing, seeing as they did not have the drudgery of homework waiting for them. Laurie, shaking her head, followed them up the steps, deliberately taking her time amidst their impatient bouncing.

"Just think about it. At the very least, your children will know what he looks like, so they can avoid him if he does escape. We'll keep him under full restraints and watch him the entire time. The guards will be on high alert."

"Mommy!"

"I'm getting it, I'm getting it!" Laurie said, with a humor she could not quite feel. The twins piled through the door, almost tripping each other going up the steps.

"I think you must see by now that he does act… differently, perhaps, with you. It might be well if we could extend that bond to those closest to you."

"Guys, watch the steps!" she shouted – futilely, as Jamie tripped over one and almost fell flat on her face. Shaking her head, Laurie dropped her keys in a nearby bowl.

Twenty-nine days left.

A/N: Interestingly, I was rewatching the 2007 Halloween the other day and saw (in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment) that Michael Myers did have the photo of himself and baby Angel/Laurie hanging up in his room, next to the orange mask he wears when he breaks out. You can see it the scene when the guards come to take him out, right after the time skip. So that was cool.

The diathesis-stress model is an actual thing, and is basically as I described. Rob Zombie's movie prescribes to the idea of Michael Myers as a psychopath, which is not considered a mental illness, but there are links and similarities with it to antisocial personality disorder, which is an actual disorder. Perks of being a psychology major.

On a final note, I had to re-read The Outsiders for the time since middle school to write Laurie's teaching scene, aka my ham-fisted attempt at foreshadowing, so I hope y'all appreciate it. (In addition to being a psychology major, I am also a teacher.)