Chapter Three: Home
Michael stopped as the noise grew louder again. Not only the noise in his head but the noise around him as well. He inhaled deeply catching an odd scent. Coming to a clearing he saw houses, people walking on the sidewalks, and cars driving on the streets as little critters scampered around, afraid of all the people and movement.
Michael's scenes heightened as he watched, a bit overwhelmed with all the stimuli around him. Taking a breath and slowing his heart rate, he walked as casually as possible in the small neighborhood.
As Michael walked, a small child looked up at him, pointing excitedly.
"Mommy! Mommy!" the child squealed. Michael froze. The mother noticed, turned, and looked at Michael, her eyes wide with fear.
She pulled her child back, keeping him close as she backed away, watching Michael nervously.
The boy smiled broadly at him. "He's so tall, like a giant!"
The boy's mother guided him away. "Come on, Mason, don't star, we don't want to be rude. Let's go."
Michael eyed the boy with curiosity as they walked away. Michael continued his walk, feeling eyes on him as he passed by. He tried to look less imposing to those around him, but it was difficult. He felt like a giant amongst ants as if he was in the wrong world. He walked out of the neighborhood and into a park where he hoped to see fewer people and find more peace.
The park was empty, odd. Michael thought kids played at parks, though he hadn't been around such places in a long time, so he could've missed some stuff. Michael wasn't sure how long he wandered, only that he ended up at a small almost cute little graveyard just outside of the neighborhood.
He would've paid no mind to it but something caught his eye, a name.
Judith Myers, his sister. Images flashed through his head. His older sister laughing with her boyfriend when she was supposed to be watching him. His sister bleeding to death after he stabbed her eight times.
As Michael turned his head he saw a second gravestone. His mother. He remembered getting the news of her suicide. Loomis said she couldn't handle the pain of losing two children anymore. So she shot herself in the head. She'd been watching home videos of Cynthia, Judith, and Michael when they were little before he'd Fucked everything up.
Michael knew it was his fault. He's the reason she killed herself, he's the reason Judith was dead, he's the reason his parents got a divorce and he's the reason Cynthia was now an orphan. All Michael's fault.
Michael turned his attention back to the task at hand. He needed to go home. Michael silently made his way to his old house, memories, good and bad flooding his head, drowning out everything else.
As Michael approached the old house his heart was racing. He took deep breaths to try and slow down his beating heart. So many memories in this place. He pushed the door open and slowly stepped inside, his body shaking as he did.
He wasn't sure what he would find inside, or what he would remember.
The house was exactly how he remembered it, just more worn-out-looking. He stepped inside, dust filling his scenes as closed the door behind him, eyes bearing around the open space.
Michael stood still for a moment, his eyes taking in the sight of the old house. After a few seconds, he started to walk, moving slowly through the living room and toward the hallway. He stopped at the room on the left, his room. He pushed open the door and stepped inside, scanning the room. It was just as he remembered it. The memories of his childhood flooded his mind as he took in the room.
He remembered the smell, the old furniture, and the creaks of the wooden stairs as he went to see Judith in her room. He remembered Cynthia's laugh, the way she giggled like a little girl when they went to the park. He remembered the police entering and asking to speak with him about Judith. He remembered asking where she was, looking confused, looking lost, wondering how anyone could think he was responsible for what had happened. So many memories...
Michael turned away and stalked up the stairs coming to Judith's room.
He stepped inside the room. Nothing had changed. There were the same floral curtains on the window. The same floral print bedspread on Judith's bed. The same photos of Cynthia, Judith, and him on the shelf. He looked around, trying to remember the night of the murder.
He could almost remember it. He could see it in his mind. The stabbing, the blood, the panic. But then it was gone again.
He walked up to the window and stared aimlessly out, face blank just like when he was a kid. Something was unsettling about the solitary feeling of it. The strange, unexplainable feeling rushed through him as he stood deathly still.
Time seemed to stop as Michael stood there. He felt no emotion, he felt nothing at all. He was frozen in place, trapped in an endless moment where the world had stopped to allow him to remember.
He felt alone, but not alone. He felt like a child again, looking at the world from a point of view that he had long since forgotten. He felt lost like he had been gone for a long time and now he was finally home.
The voice in his head suddenly shouted at him. Focus! Find what you came for.
What did he come for? Oh right, the mask. His mask. Michael exited the room and entered the attic. The only place in the house where he could have genuine and complete solitude whenever he wanted. Entering the attic, he felt something new yet familiar at the same time.
It was THAT feeling. The feeling he had that night he killed Judith, the same feeling he had when he escaped the bus. A ferocious animal instinct. The instinct to fight, to hunt, to kill.
Michael knelt on the loose floorboard. Opening it, he pulled out a knife, the knife, still right where he'd stashed it all those years ago.
He studied it, making sure it was completely untouched.
Setting it aside for now, he reached back into the space for what he needed. As he pulled the thick leather object out he felt an all too familiar tingle of anticipation flow through him. He wiped the code of dust away and trailed his hand around the edges, greeting it like an old friend as the slightest hint of a smirk crossed his face before vanishing as he acquired the item, putting it over his head like a well-aged glove.
Picking up the knife, he, or rather It stood up perfectly straight, shoulders square as if Michael Myers was gone and all that remained was It.
The Shape...