by Nicholas
Lovingly, Rachel lay Jamie backwards on the bed and pulled a folded comforter up and over her arms. She had to be delicate, for Jamie was a delicate little six— year—old.
“Nobody’s gonna get you while I’m around,” Rachel told her. She felt for her sister’s hair and gently caressed it.
“Promise?”
“Promise,” she replied. “Now close your eyes.” Jamie said, “Can we go home soon, Rachel?” Rachel thought momentarily, then, “Real soon, kiddo.” Another pause. “Real soon. Now, shhhh.”
***
The flashlight flickered in Loomis’ hands. He firmly tapped it with his palm and it resumed to shine upon the front of the shortwave radio’s instruments. He was standing, stooping over the sheriff’s shoulders as the sheriff sat before the device, adjusting it as was necessary.
“How is it powered?” Loomis asked him.
“Batteries. I was planning a generator for the house next week. Wish I hadn’t waited.” After making the proper final adjustments, Meeker drew the radio microphone to his lips. He spoke into it. “This is Squawk seven finer zero Haddonfield broadcasting on State Police emergency frequency. Does anyone hear me?”
The radio hissed in reply.
***
Downstairs, Kelly proceeded to make coffee by candlelight, boiling water in a kettle over a gas flame burner in the kitchen. She possessed only one candle; the remainder were in the livingroom and foyer, giving company to Logan, who’d pulled up an easy chair and sat there with the riotgun in his lap. He seemed to be alert, and whenever Kelly glanced his way she could see that his eyes rarely wandered far from the front door.
As she stood watching him, she remembered the intimacy between herself and Brady that evening. She was stricken with an overwhelming sense of disappointment, but she realized that there was simply nothing she could do at the moment. Besides, her father was there.
Oh well; she had enough to worry about. There was no power, and there was a crazed lunatic killer somewhere out on the streets. Things couldn’t really get any worse.
Could they?
The wind outside rustled branches against the window glass, momentarily startling her. She took a second to glance around the empty kitchen. Like most children, she used to be afraid of the dark. She experienced a slight chill and told herself that there was nothing to fear but the dark itself. Or did the saying go there’s nothing to fear but fear itself? Anyway, it was something like that.
But regardless of how the saying went, regardless of how many excuses she could give herself or how she tried to explain it away, she knew she was afraid.
***
Upstairs, in the master bedroom, Rachel stood and leaned over her foster sister, lightly kissing her forehead.
All was quiet around the two girls, and Jamie was finally dozing under the comforter. Rising, careful not to awaken the sleeping child, she gave her a final glance, after which she silently exited the room, leaving the door ajar.
The hall was nearly a pitch black, and the adjustment Rachel’s eyes had developed to the lack of light didn’t seem to aid her all that much. As she felt for the side wall, she made her way down the hallway’s blackness. She cursed herself for not being equipped with a flashlight. Surely the sheriff himself possessed other flashlights hidden somewhere around the house. She could have asked, but at the time she simply had given no thought about it.
Barely up ahead, she could view the ghostly outline of the top of the staircase. She reached out and grabbed part of the top portion of the banister. Slowly, she began to descend.
Step by careful step, she made her way down to the bottom end and into the glow of the livingroom candlelight from the fireplace and the television.
There was the deputy, seated in the easy chair, his body facing the front door. As soon as the young lady moved into his line of sight, he spoke to her and she turned.
“Everything okay?”
“Jamie’s sleeping,” she told him quietly. The dark atmosphere had a certain property which made everyone seem to whisper for no clear reason. Still, however, she didn’t mind. What she did mind was getting the hell out of this situation. “Jamie’s sleeping. When can we go home?”
“State Police’ll come,” Logan assured her. “Not long after that. Don’t worry.”
“I’m trying,” she said.
Actually, she had plenty to worry about; for the figure that watched from the shadows behind them, the figure that stood there, motionless, that eventually drifted back into the confines of their shared darkness, was waiting, his unearthly mind contemplating patiently behind the pasty white blankness of his mask.
***
Meeker tuned the radio’s receiver again for a clear message, and a voice began to fade in. Loomis leaned close to the speaker, listening intently.
“I hear someone,” he said.
From the radio came a low, semi—raspy utterance, then the voice came in more lucid. “This is Frank Butte over in Tuckerville. You got some kind of emergency?”
“Thank Christ,” Meeker exclaimed. Then into the microphone, “Yes, this is Ben Meeker, the sheriff over in Haddonfield. Our power and phone lines are down and we’ve got a killer loose in our streets. Michael Myers.”
The voice sounded perplexed and angered. “This some kind a Halloween prank?”
Meeker’s voice was tense. “This isn’t a joke. We need the State Police and we need them now!”
A pause. “I’ll give ‘em a call right away. Hang on a sec, I’m gonna need name and address.”
“We’re not going anywhere, Mr. Butte.”
Loomis exhaled, relieved. At least, he was somewhat relieved. Now these people would be safe. The State Police would be there soon. Now, he knew what he personally had to do. He turned and proceeded to climb the stairs to the kitchen.
Inside the kitchen, Kelly was in the process of pouring the coffee into various multi-colored mugs which played with the shadows in the candlelight. Loomis stepped up out of the basement at just about the same time that Rachel entered via the livingroom.
Loomis asked Rachel, “Is your sister all right?”
“She’s fine,” Rachel answered.
“Good.”
Near the downstairs foyer, the doctor approached the deputy, and Logan turned.
“The sheriff has radioed for help,” he said to the deputy. “They’ll be here soon.”
Logan scratched his chin, the other hand remaining clenched to the riotgun. “Helluva night.”
Instead of agreeing, Loomis replied, “It’s not over yet, deputy.”
The doctor buttoned his overcoat halfway, turned, and headed for the front door, knowing what he had to do; the task that at times he felt he was born to carry out. His hand reached out and grasped the deadbolt, turning the key and grabbing the knob to open the door. Logan jumped up to stop him.
“Where are you going?”
“The Caruther’s house,” the doctor said sternly. “That’s where Jamie lives. That’s where he’ll wait for her. And that’s where I’ll be waiting for him.”
“Leave Myers for the State boys,” Logan insisted.
Loomis shot back a glance. “The State Police won’t know what to look for. Or how to stop him.”
“Do you know?”
Loomis could not answer that. All he knew was to exit out that front door; what he must do. The deputy reluctantly allowed him past, and Loomis pulled the door opened, disappearing into the night. The deputy watched as the figure in the overcoat strode quickly down the walkway, and he shook his head.
He closed the door and relocked it.
***
In the kitchen, Kelly was searching almost recklessly for a cup of sugar, accidentally knocking a tall glass from the sink and sending it crashing to the floor.
“Shit,” she exclaimed, and, for the time being, she kicked a few of the shards over to a space on the floor near the plastic wastebasket.
As she did so, Rachel, who had been standing along the sidelines wat
ching quietly, stepped close to one of the opened cupboards. She reached upwards and closed it, then pulled an object out from the back of the counter top. It was a sugar bowl.
“Looking for this?” she said.
Kelly turned to her and saw what the girl held, irritated. “Look, I didn’t know you and Brady had anything going, okay?”
“You knew,” she said calmly. “You just didn’t care.”
“He’s not married or anything,” Kelly defended. “I’ve got a right to do what’s best for me.”
This was one goddamn bitch, Rachel thought to herself. She was a slut, there were no two ways about it, and the hell with the fact that she happened to be the sheriff’s daughter.
Rachel proclaimed dramatically, “Future home- wreckers of America, unite! Your future president has spoken.”
Kelly appeared annoyed. Not only was she a bitchy slut, but she was even a bitchy, conceited slut at that, Rachel thought.
Kelly told her, “Wise up to what men want, Rachel. Or Brady won’t be the last man you lose to another woman.”
And with that, Rachel reached for a mug of coffee and splashed it across the girl’s t—shirt. Startled, Kelly jumped back. The wetness didn’t scorch her, and she was grateful to herself for making the coffee set in expectation for the lost sugar bowl.
“Have some coffee,” Rachel said. She pushed past Kelly and descended into the basement and out of sight.
Unbelieving, Kelly stood there for a moment and absorbed the insult as her shirt absorbed the coffee. Angered, she stepped into the nearby laundry room and stripped out of the shirt. Her bra had been flung over to the other side of the couch when her father had pulled up in the driveway before; all her experience still didn’t amount to an entirely successful last minute practiced dress. Pausing to wipe the slight wetness from her breasts which glistened in the moonlight streaming down from the nearby window, she threw the shirt into the empty machine and fished for one of her father’s flannel button—downs. She found one, sorting through a nearby pile, slipped it on and buttoned it up.
For the life of her, she couldn’t understand why someone like Brady would have the slightest interest in a girl as dull as Rachel. She then threw it from her mind, not wanting to deal with such trivialities.
“Bitch,” she muttered to herself.
***
Jamie was awake. Her eyes opened to the darkness of the bedroom, and she sat up and gazed around, her eyes accustomed to the lack of light but not being able to locate any sign of her foster sister.
Frightened, although not tremendously, at least not yet, she called out, “Rachel?”
But there was no answer.
Nobody’s gonna get you while I’m around, Jamie recalled Rachel saying. Promise.
But Rachel wasn’t there, was she?
Jamie cast her gaze on the semi—opened door. Rachel will be back, she told herself.
But somehow there was a lingering doubt.
***
Rachel stepped over behind Meeker, and the sheriff acknowledged her presence with a weary smile. Then something else began to come in from the radio. As Rachel leaned over, Meeker lost whatever smile he had, his face turning hard and rigid. He listened to the radio cross talk among the stridency of squelch and interference.
“……corner Elm and Gateway....” a voice spoke within the speaker of the black box. “….shot Ted Hollister by mistake. Musta been takin’ a piss or....”
A new voice, deeper: “Is he dead...?”
The other voice said, “Well, he sure ain’t livin’.”
“Aw, Christ,” the sheriff muttered. He snatched up the microphone and spoke into it. “Is Earl Ford out there, this is Sheriff Meeker.” There was now only static. “Answer me, dammit!”
More static.
Meeker angrily rose to his feet. Stooping, he grabbed his shotgun.
“Sheriff,” Rachel asked, “what’s going on out there?”
“Just wait here by the radio,” Meeker instructed. “The State boys are going to send word once they’re enroute. When that word comes, tell deputy Logan. You understand?”
Rachel nodded.
Meeker headed for the stairs, kicking his foot into a metal object as he went, nearly tripping, semi— exhausted.
Alone, Rachel was in charge of the radio. She was scared, not because she was by herself in a dark basement but, oddly enough, because of the pressure of responsibility. What the hell did she know about talking into a police radio? Hell, she didn’t even know what breaker breaker meant. She thought she knew what ten-four meant.
God, what if she said the wrong thing? What could she do?
But in the midst of her panic, she realized that all she had to do was talk plain English. The God of the shortwave radios could punish her later. Or something like that.
She plunked down on the wooden chair in front of the small shortwave unit and stared at the instruments. The darkness surrounded her with the exception of the bright beam of the flashlight which rested on the bench beside the black, static filled box. She decided she would only touch it if someone called for her.
Or if she had to call for someone.
Which wouldn’t be necessary, of course.
She thought of Jamie upstairs. That girl didn’t deserve this terror. What in God’s name would allow something like this to happen to such a sweet little girl as she? It just didn’t seem fair. But then again, the world didn’t seem fair.
Nothing seemed fair anymore.
But there she sat, waiting impatiently for the State Police to come and rid the night of the darkness.
Out in the foyer, Sheriff Meeker turned the key which opened the deadbolt to the front door. Logan jumped to his feet from the easy chair and went to him. Before the sheriff stepped outside, he checked his shotgun momentarily.
Then, to the deputy, he said, “I’ll be at Elm and Gateway. Doubt I’ll be back before the troopers get here, but.....”
“Maybe you ought to stay till they do.”
Meeker said, “I’ve got a town full of beer bellies running around the dark with shotguns. Who’s next? Somebody’s wife? Somebody’s kid? I can’t sit by for that. Not and carry a badge.”
As Meeker proceeded to exit, Logan stopped him. “Watch yourself out there, Ben. Those beer bellies aren’t the only bad news on the streets.”
“Just keep this door locked,” the sheriff said, “and your eyes open.”
Logan closed the front door once again and threw the lock in place, leaving the key in the mechanism. Sighing, he turned and proceeded back to the easy chair with his riotgun in hand.
Chapter Twenty-seven
In the kitchen, Kelly readied the coffee for serving and set a steaming mug on a metal tray. Taking the tray with her, she walked towards the kitchen exit in the direction of the livingroom. The candle at the sink flickered with the soft breeze of her movements. On her way out, she banged her foot in the darkness of the space beside her, stubbing a bare toe against the leg of the kitchen table.
“Shit!”
She could feel the vibrations of the swirling of the coffee within the mug, but she could not detect whether or not it spilled. She despised the darkness and cursed it, setting the tray down and massaging her throbbing toe. Why the hell did there have to be a goddamn power outage this night for, anyway? She thought, if there was a God out there, he was probably getting His kicks right now, watching and laughing as Kelly stood there, blindly aiding her naked, aching toe.
This was great; just great.
Moderately flustered, she grabbed the tray from the table. With each new step, however, despite the pain, her frustrations began to dwindle. This coffee was for the deputy, and she wanted to be nice to him.
God knew everyone was tired and at least somewhat spooked from this entire affair, and Logan was no exception. Besides, he was responsible for protecting them now. He was in charge.
And maybe, just maybe, she could get somewhere with him later. Remember, Daddy wasn’t there no mor
e.
Shadows played with her figure, and a shapely, black ghost fluttered and danced across the furniture and walls, moving as she did through the livingroom over the carpet and past the fireplace. The luminosity of candlelight accompanied her as she went, entering the foyer with tray in hand and setting it down on an antique lowboy. Kelly watched as Logan remained seated in the easy chair, head and back turned towards her, awaiting quietly for the slightest sounds of calamity.
Kelly spoke out, breaking the silence.
“Thought you might like some coffee,” she said. Then, “Pretty boring out here.”
Logan said nothing, remaining alert, ignoring her presence. She continued, “I wish they’d fix the power. So dark, I just stubbed my goddamn toe on the kitchen table. And at least we could have some MTV while we wait for the cavalry.” Logan refused to reply. “You’re coffee’s gonna get cold.”
Silence.
In the shadows, beside Kelly and on top of the antique lowboy, was an unlit candle and a book of matches which bore the words SOOKIE’S DEN embossed on the front. She grabbed the matchbook and struck a match, illuminating the terror—glazed pupils of Logan’s mangled face, his body distortedly propped up against the foot of the lowboy in a bloody heap.
Kelly’s hand went to her mouth, and she would have let out a horrified scream if it weren’t for the sensation of her heart crawling up her windpipe to plop out of her widened mouth and into the stiffness of her palm. In a mixture of utter revulsion and shock, she stepped backwards as the figure of the one in the mask rose from the deputy’s easy chair in full proportion, towering before her. Before she had time to think, the shape grabbed her; the immediate surge of agony swelled up from her abdomen, and it took but a split second’s time before she realized she was impaled, the riotgun barrel already through her torso and the wood of the foyer closet behind her, and this terror was the last sensation she felt before she knew no more.
There was no sound, no struggle. The shape released her and stepped back, gazing in morbid admiration as the body of the teenage girl hung there before him, the wetness of her blood seeping from the obstruction protruding from her waist.
***