by Nicholas
She knew it; it was the clown suit. It was a miracle suit.
“Yeah,” Kyle admitted, “I was sort of a jerk.” Then, “Hey, you wanna go with us?”
“Sure!”
Jamie joined the kids, Rachel exhaling arduously, trudging along behind. They walked down the sidewalk and up the cobblestone path to the next house. Rachel waited at the sidewalk again as she watched the kids scramble up to the porch. The kid in the flimsy clown outfit, the boy, rang the doorbell. The front door swung open.
“Trick—or-treat!” Kyle said, holding out his bag, the other children echoing at his sides.
Kelly stood within the doorway before the parade of candy-moochers, and she smiled as she grabbed a fistful of candy from a table just within the entrance. She was wearing absolutely nothing save for an oversized t—shirt with bold, black letters on the front reading COPS DO IT BY THE BOOK. From Rachel’s point of view, she appeared ludicrous, standing there before children in that attire. At first, Kelly did not see the other girl gazing in.
Then she did.
Their eyes locked for a moment. Rachel noticed something etched across Kelly's face…..something like and overwhelming shock…or guilt.
“Rachel……..” she exclaimed.
Then Rachel saw movement behind her. Curious, she advanced across the cobblestones. The moment she drew close enough to behold what it was she was seeing, she halted. At first, she thought she was mistaken. It didn’t take too long for her to realize that she wasn’t.
It was Brady.
Holy shit.
It was Brady; she was simply having one hell of a time believing it. That bastard. He was there, lounging around on the sofa inside, in the livingroom, his shirt unbuttoned, a beer in his hand. The moment he saw her, the moment the realization absorbed through his consciousness, he bolted to his feet. Kelly was going about her own business with the children as if nothing else interesting was happening.
“Rachel!” Brady was yelling. As the trick-ortreaters went their way to the next household, Rachel turned, her face flushed with mixed anger, disappointment, and hurt. Brady continued to call out, running for the door. “Rachel, wait a minute give me a chance to explain!”
Frantically, he sprinted past Kelly, who was gazing on in amusement, and caught Rachel at the sidewalk, grasping her forearm desperately.
She could not meet his gaze; instead, she turned from him, her eyes somewhere upon the darkened street. Softly, she replied back. “You don’t owe me anything, Brady. No explanations necessary.”
Contemptuous, she pulled her arm free, only for Brady to regain his grip. It was even tighter this time, and she winced, trying unsuccessfully to pull away.
“Listen,” this bastard was saying, “you blow off our date at the last minute....”
“So you hop on the next best thing!” she yelled. “I thought you were different from the other guys.”
“I am different,” he pleaded. “I was just pissed off, that’s all.”
“Oh, really? Well, I’ll just let Little Miss Hot Pants get back to nursing your bruised ego.”
Finally, Rachel managed to break free and walk away, leaving Brady standing there, watching her as she went.
“Rachel!”
“Brady,” called another voice, a female voice, emanating from the house. It was sensual; beckoning. It was Kelly. “Are you coming?”
Brady looked back at the figure in the doorway. She was standing there, longing for him, silhouetted under the porch light, the outline of her figure visible beneath the thin t—shirt.
***
Rachel half-trotted down the center of the empty street under the few scattered lamp posts. The encounter with Brady had made her lose track of Jamie, and now Jamie and her little band of midgets had vanished. There was absolutely no sign of them anywhere. In fact, there was absolutely no sign of anyone, for that matter. It was as if her very presence had summoned all the citizens of the town into their homes.
At first this absence didn’t phase her; the bastard ex-boyfriend of hers rattled her brains to such an extent that they were like a puzzle that some little kid came across and tore apart, flinging the black and white pieces into the air. In order for her to think soundly again, the pieces had to be regained. Rachel had to face the possibility that some of these pieces may be forever lost, and it was all because of the little kid symbolized as Brady. Yes, her life was black and white; she felt that nobody ever had their life totally together and figured out. But at least she knew the puzzle fit. Now, it may not ever fit again.
She knew she was a typical young seventeen year old girl. Once, her school counselor had a talk with her about her class schedule---one of the teachers suggested she belonged in a higher English class, and one thing led to another—-—and it was this counselor who told her that she appeared to understand about herself more than was usual for someone her age. She didn’t agree with him at first, but later she realized that he might have been right. She had a sort of phobia that she kept to herself; a phobia about presenting herself as being too egotistical, talking about herself too much, and so whenever she saw a problem in a friend she thought she could help, she would most likely say nothing. Of course, there were exceptions, but she didn’t want to be a “miss know—it-all.” Who knows, maybe she’d be a counselor herself when she got older.
But this was all complicated, an overwhelming, often unbearable botchery of living, and explaining the whole thing proved to be even more frustrating and confusing. All she could think of was the puzzle. The missing pieces. And.....
Brady.
But she’d rather not think about him. That bastard. He was such a typical guy, and she had him figured out to be something else. Perhaps her counselor was wrong. Maybe she was just lucky when it came to understanding people. Then again, she wasn’t perfect.
I mustn’t dwell on this, she told herself. I must not let something like this get me on. I have to show him that I’m not jealous anymore; that I could just as easily drop him and go on to someone else and not think twice about it. I must.
She realized she was dwelling on the subject too much now. She had to concentrate on her most current problem: she had lost Jamie.
Well, not lost. Wasn’t that putting things a bit drastically? Actually, though, there was no other word she could think of to replace it. Yes, Jamie was lost. Jamie was
“Jamie?” she called.
There was nothing. Not a sound around her save for the rustling of maple leaves around her feet and down the street and sidewalks; the gentle swaying of the trees in the wind, the shutters at the windows of nearby houses to the left and to the right.
“Jamie?” she spoke louder.
Still, there was no sign of life in the streets.
“Just great,” Rachel grumbled to herself. “Just wonderful, Rach. First you lose your boyfriend, then you lose your sister.”
She could not seem to be able to get over the fact that there was absolutely no one around, where once there were dozens of clusters of trick—or— treaters and opened screen doors. True, the porch lights of many of the houses were still on, but was Halloween over with? She checked her watch.
Suddenly she thought she heard something; something almost behind her and to her right. She recognized it as a sort of a loud, echoing crackling sound, like that of a... .a…..what did it sound like? A twig. It was the sound of a twig snapping amidst the rustling of the leaves. She turned towards the sound.
There, a half of a block away, hovering in the darkness beneath the phantom-like blackness of a tree alongside a parked car, was a face. It was a white face, suspended there, and as close as Rachel dared squint her eyes to see, she could not visually detect the presence of a connecting body. The shadowy-white face just hung; no, floated, there, like the cabalistic configuration of a mime wearing nothing but black save for a painted-on face. But this face did not seem to possess any specific features; of course, she was too far from the figure to tell, but it appeared as if whatever it was she was gazing at had
no eyes.
But this glimpse was momentary, and within the next second the whiteness was gone, having suddenly withdrawn into the obscurity of the night.
She stood there, profoundly startled, looking fearfully into the space where the thing---whatever it was---had been, or she thought it had been. It didn’t take her very long at all to realize that the streets were empty....so totally empty... .and she was a girl alone in the center of a lonely street.
Slowly, she drew in a breath and managed to call out, attempting to show no signs of fear. “Who’s there?”
But there was only the forlorn answer of the wind rustling against hedges, and of the leaves.
Her frustration with the recent past had now switched dramatically to fear of the present. Nonetheless, she knew she had to find Jamie, had to find anybody, even if it was Brady, just to feel safe again. She advanced a step, then her pace quickened down the street once more until the dark figure appeared abruptly in front of her.
She halted.
She could see now that there was a body attached to it, a body of extensive proportion, a man’s body, and she could see that he was garbed in a ragged mechanic’s coveralls that appeared not to fit him properly. He remained there, at the end of the block, a tall, unmoving figure, standing as if engaged with Rachel in an old-fashioned showdown she’d see in the old Westerns on television. But, unlike those old Westerns, she felt an overwhelming surge of terror and panic. For another lingering moment, neither Rachel nor the shadow figure moved. They simply stood there, eyes staring into hollow eyes.
Then Rachel ran.
She darted to her left, hurrying across a nearby lawn like a frightened animal, vanishing between two dark houses. It was only after she leaped over an old wooden fence, ran through a back yard, and into the next street when she finally managed to conjure up an urgent cry. It was then when she realized there were a few lingering groups of trick-or—treaters still making their rounds from house to house, and she knew she was somewhat safe.
“Jamie!”
She called out the name of her foster sister, this time in desperation, and she slowed in her running as a few children turned their masked heads in effort to see what the commotion was about. Regaining her breath, Rachel managed another anguished cry.
Chapter Sixteen
A precipitant crash generated from within the Caruthers’ home, and the sounds echoed to all hallways and rooms, lightly vibrating windows and the glass chandelier situated over the dining table, the room adjacent to the kitchen.
The front door had smashed completely in, splintering partially and knocking a painting of clowns laughing on a beach from the wall. Carefully, cautiously, letting his twelve gauge lead the way, Sheriff Meeker entered. Behind him, stepping into the livingroom with equal circumspection, was Doctor Loomis, his 9mm Smith and Wesson in his hand and ready.
Meeker had been a deputy in those cold, horrific days when death walked into the quiet streets. And at the time, the entire police force knew how to handle this Michael Myers fellow. It was very simple: kill him. Shoot the bastard down. But, after all this time, the very thought of merely shooting the bastard down seemed all too easy. Vaguely, this was like a dream to the sheriff. A hazy, obscure sort of dream at that, and he feared that somewhere within the confines of the next few minutes, this obscure dream would detour into the terror of nightmare.
Regardless, Meeker knew that, no matter how hauntingly miraculous the circumstances were, or at least seemed to be, Michael Myers was well, stoppable. To Meeker, the good Doctor Loomis was a desperate, complicated man who had been through hell, and that very same hell was what this damn doctor was somewhat responsible for. Sure, the government stuck their asses in the situation somewhere, but the doctor could have done something, could have fought the orders to first transfer this ungodly murderer ten years back. He could have taken the matter to court could have... .hell, could have done some goddamn thing. On the other hand, he had suddenly developed somewhat of a sense of trust for Loomis. And this trust was built upon the fact that nobody knew this monster better than he. Good ol’ Doctor Loomis. Good ol’ Goddamn Doctor Loomis.
But Meeker knew what he was doing, too. If this was true, if Myers had somehow escaped captivity and returned to Haddonfield, the sheriff was sure as all hell that he was not about to let a repeat of ten years ago unfold this night. He grew up in this cozy Illinois town, and he was not about to let it go into oblivion at the hands of a psycho.
But this man was more than a psycho. He recalled how Loomis had informed him dozens of times that he’s not a mere psychopath. You must understand....he is unadulterated evil.
But, the sheriff thought to himself, soon enough, he’s gonna be unadulterated dog shit. That is to say, if he’s actually here.
***
Loomis felt for the wall-mounted light switch within the darkened room and flooded the room with light. It was a little girl’s bedroom, complete with dolls, an overabundance of them, and brightly colored little girl’s toys and a dresser and bedsheets and.....he noticed the window was open, the wind blowing eerily through the pink curtains. He went over to it, inspected the area outside momentarily, then shut the window and disassociated himself from the cold. He turned, and his attention diverted toward the opened closet. As he held his gun directly before him, he gently used his feet in moving the doors of the closet further open. When he was quite sure all was definitely clear, he eased his way inside for further inspection. There was a scattering of photographs at his feet, and he bent down to examine them. There appeared to be at least a dozen of them. It did not surprise him in the least when he met with the familiarities of Laurie Strode....her husband....and there, there was their little daughter. Their little girl, Jamie Lloyd. So innocent.
His gaze met yet another familiarity, and the mere sight seemed to stiffen his senses momentarily. There, to his left, was the photograph of Michael and Judith Myers.
A shuffling to his side---it was Meeker, stepping up to join him. Loomis raised the picture to eye level.
“Something?” Meeker spoke.
“He’s been here,” Loomis told him plainly. There was a slight tremor in his voice.
Meeker stepped in closer, his eyes focusing on whatever it was Loomis held. “How do you know?”
And with that, the doctor stood aside, disclosing yet another discovery---
The mangled heap of the Labrador.
It was Meeker’s turn to experience the coldness that the doctor now felt.
Meeker spoke, “This thing’s starting to spook me, Doc.”
“At least I’m not alone.”
“Oh?” the sheriff said, being unable to bring himself to believe the doctor could, with his experience, be exactly balls to the wall with fear. “How long have you been scared?”
“Twenty—five years.”
Loomis had seen enough. He turned and moved past Meeker towards the door, and the sheriff followed him out, finding his gaze difficult to remove from the remains of what had once been the family pet.
Downstairs in the livingroom, the two met a deputy who had been waiting for them near the entrance. As Meeker allowed Loomis to exit the front door, he turned to the deputy, who stood awaiting his command.
“Logan,” Meeker ordered, “I want you here just in case the family comes home.”
“Right here, Ben,” Logan replied.
“Look sharp. Understand?”
Immediately, the deputy double-checked the chambered rounds in his .38 long barrel. “No problem, Sheriff.”
As Meeker closed the front door, he secretly wished the man luck; he had an idea what the town would be up against, but a mere idea wasn’t enough.
And this was going to be one hell of a night.
Chapter Seventeen
Jack Sayer awoke, startled, choking momentarily on his own saliva which caused him to cough out yellow phlegm over his steering wheel. A dark dream escaped him as consciousness embraced him with the chilly nighttime air. A soft web of spo
tlight streamed down from a fixture embedded upon the side of the First Presbyterian Church of Haddonfield, illuminating the vacant lot nearby and Sayer’s pickup truck beneath.
As immediately as reality gripped him, he was overwhelmed by two distinct thoughts---he had passed out while watching for Loomis, which foiled the purpose of the entire stakeout, and something oblong and black was writhing and flailing between his legs at his crotch.
He jolted upwards in sheer fright, shrieking, his hands moving to brush it away, whatever it was. He calmed enough to take a good look at it. He picked it up.
It was a wind-up rubber rat.
Five young teenagers burst into a chorus of laughter beyond the open driver’s window, and the reverend nearly cursed to Almighty God before he caught himself. He flung the toy below the glove compartment.
The kids scurried quickly away from his pickup, all of them garbed in Halloween attire and glowing face paint. One of them stopped running for a moment, pushed aside his Dracula cape and spit out a set of vampire teeth.
“Trick or treat, old man!” he exclaimed, and ran off to join his peers in the distant dark.
Jack Sayer was alone, and it became quiet again, even more quiet than when he’d first arrived. He stared out his windshield, out past the street and at the front door of the tranquil police station.
“Well dammit all to eternal hell,” he spat, and he groped for his whiskey bottle.
He found it, uncapped it and brought it to his lips, his eyes canvassing the surroundings and his mind struggling to come to terms with what to do next. His eyes caught sight of a tow truck, resting vacant and silent at the opposite side of the garbage dumpster he’d parked beside. He looked, but there was nobody around.
Sayer’s fatigue was all but spent from the rudely abrupt wake-up call, but a mild hangover and another plan soon festered in his brain.
He leaned over and fetched a towel, absently wiped off the running wetness from the steering wheel. Discarding the towel, he reached into his glove compartment for a pair of reading glasses.