The voice inside Michael's mind roared with triumph as it won the mental battle, fully overpowering the man who had once been the embodiment of death. Michael Myers, now nothing more than a vessel, watched helplessly from the dark corners of his own consciousness, trapped in his own body.
The Voice, now in full control, turned to face where Laurie and Allyson were fleeing, watching them stagger toward the sheriff's car. The logical part of the entity, cold and calculating, wanted to pursue them, to finish what had been started. It wanted to end their bloodline once and for all, to ensure there were no survivors.
But something unexpected happened.
Despite its desire for total annihilation, the voice hesitated. It let them leave. Perhaps it sensed that their lives, still hanging by a thread, no longer mattered in the grand scheme of things. Or perhaps it was the satisfaction of knowing it had already won, its victory certain, that made it willing to let them go. Either way, it chose not to follow.
For now.
Michael's body stood still for a moment, watching the women disappear into the night. His dark eyes, empty and lifeless, reflected nothing of the internal conflict that had just taken place. The knife, still gleaming in his hand, hung loosely by his side.
The voice spoke again within the vessel, colder and more detached than ever. "*Let them run*" it muttered, almost to itself. "*They've lost. This world… belongs to me now.*"
Turning on its heel, the entity controlling Michael's body walked back toward the Myers house, the once-iconic figure of pure evil now nothing more than a puppet for something even darker. The door to the house creaked open as he entered, the old wood groaning under its weight.
The Voice closed the door behind it, sealing itself inside the home where so much blood had been spilled. The silence that followed was almost palpable, as if the house itself was holding its breath. Michael—or rather, the thing now wearing his skin—stood in the center of the room, surveying the space as if seeing it for the first time.
Slowly, the figure moved up the creaking stairs, each step echoing through the house. It entered the small bedroom, the same room Michael had once stood in as a child. The entity felt nothing as it sat down on the old, creaky bed, placing the knife on the floor beside it. The mask, now part of Michael's face, shifted slightly, but the entity's expression never changed.
It lay down, closing its eyes, mimicking the motions of a human sleep it didn't need. It was still, silent, its mind no longer burdened by the struggle for control. For now, it would rest. But it wasn't finished.
The Voice knew there would be more to come. It had plans. The world outside was vast, full of life—and full of death.