by Nicholas
The radio began to chatter in front of Rachel’s languishing eyes. She suddenly became alert, and her mind was filled with a sense of panic as she realized it was time to get on the ball.
Okay, this is it; don’t worry about saying the right radio lingo, just go for it, babe.
From the black box before her, the voice was low and faint: “Should have cars dispatched in five minutes. Their ETA should be thirty minutes from that time. Over.”
Rachel pressed the mike switch nervously. “Uh, okay, great. We’ll be waiting. Uh over and out.”
Good. That was good, Rach. Maybe you’ll grow to be a truck driver. Pays pretty good.
She rose now from the chair and headed for the basement stairs. Giving a slight yawn, she ascended into the kitchen.
The candle had burnt out near the stove, and Rachel had to feel her way around the table to make her way to the exit at the other end, past the laundry. Past the downstairs hallway, she made her way into the flickering glow of the livingroom, eyes casually searching for that retarded bitch called Kelly or for anybody, for that matter. There was a candle illuminating the front foyer where the deputy sat, and she moved in that direction.
As she stepped into the circle of light, she stopped short. It took a moment for the reality of it all to sink in, and when it did, it hit her with full, terrifying force. Eyes growing wide with shock and her mind coming alive with ultimate havoc, she managed to scream. As the cries took flight from her trembling lips, she backed away from the two bodies; upon a second glance she noticed that the deputy’s head was pivoted completely around, the sightless eyes gazing past the impaled body of Kelly. The teenage daughter of Sheriff Meeker hung limply from the foyer closet door. Rachel looked down and realized she was stepping into blood—soaked carpet, each backwards step creating a slick splotching sound as if her tennis shoes were sucking into shallow mud.
In utter disbelief, her mind swirling as if in the midst of some morbid, drug-induced nightmare, she backed clear through the shadows of the livingroom completely until she backpeddled into the first few steps of the staircase. She found it difficult to breath, the air coming in short, shallow gasps.
Her mind diverted to her foster sister, and she immediately cried out in anguish. “Jamie!”
She quickly scrambled up the staircase toward the darkened depths of the second floor, falling and attempting to relocate her footing, constantly spinning her head toward the nightmare over her shoulder and below. Finally, she made it to the upstairs hallway and rose completely to her feet. She ran, and when she arrived at the threshold of the master bedroom, threw the door opened at once.
The bed was empty.
The room was empty.
Her eyes searched frantically. There was no Jamie. Her hand made for the light switch before she remembered there was no more light. A thought came across her mind: there may never be light ever again.
She stepped back in panic from the room’s emptiness, turned, and headed once again for the staircase. Continuing to run, she descended into the candlelight of the downstairs livingroom.
“Oh God. Oh God,” she panted, and for another moment lost hold of her sense of direction, her vision in a blur. She found her legs taking her down the hallway to her left---she thought it was her left---and as she turned the corner into one of the rooms she came upon the darkened figure. Hands shot out to her, grasping her shoulders painfully, and she let out yet another terrified scream.
It was Brady, shocked. “What’s going on?”
Rachel couldn’t catch her breath. Instead, her words came out in stutters and gasps, “Got to find Jamie....”
“What we’ve got to do is get the hell outta here.”
Rachel shrieked. “NOT WITHOUT JAMIE!” “Look at those two back there,” Brady yelled.
“Do you really think Brady stands a chance——”
“She’s not dead.”
Brady let go of her and ran from the hallway and out into the foyer, Rachel following after him mindlessly. He reached for the deadbolt, then his fingers stopped short as his eyes beheld that there wasn’t a key. Something clinked across the section of the floor where the carpet ended, and he looked down. There, at his feet, was the end of the deadbolt key. A glance upwards revealed the other end stuck within the keyhole.
Brady panicked and turned to Rachel. “Is there another key? Answer me!”
“I don’t know!” Rachel yelled back.
“Stand back....”
Brady brought up his double barrel shotgun and fired into the deadbolt, shattering and blasting away the surface wood. The two stepped back as the splintered wood revealed a solid steel underlay.
“It’s metal,” Brady exclaimed, “….goddamn metal!”
Rachel looked at it. “What’s that mean?” “It means we’re trapped in this house.”
Rachel turned suddenly and rushed toward the stairs. Brady followed her.
In the upstairs hallway, Rachel reached the top and cast her gaze toward the door to the master bedroom. Brady came up beside her and halted. As they both watched, the master bedroom door began to creak open, revealing nothing but shadows beyond. Upon pausing for a quick decision, Rachel took a tentative step forward.
“Jamie?” she called.
The door gaped open like a huge hollow mouth of a giant; its mystery beckoned her, and she hesitantly proceeded to oblige. At the opposite end of the hall, another door opened along the side, and amidst the sounds of a toilet flushing, out stepped the six-year-old Jamie.
Brady glanced her way, but their was little time to be relieved. At the master bedroom threshold stood the motionless figure of the shape as if he simply materialized.
Jamie screamed.
“Get back,” Brady shouted, motioning, “Rachel, get back!”
Rachel stumbled away as the towering shape began to advance upon them. Brady stood there, his shotgun up, aimed and ready, and he pulled the trigger.
Nothing but dead clicks. He forgot to reload.
“Shit!”
The shape continued down the dark hallway rather quickly now, and Rachel scrambled over to her foster sister and grabbed her into her arms desperately. Just as desperately, Brady removed shells from his front jeans pocket and fumbled with them clumsily, hands shaking, until he finally broke down the shotgun.
Turning, he managed one final glance at Jamie as the little girl shouted, “Up Rachel. Go up!”
Rachel saw the attic stairs behind her and immediately began to climb them as fast as she could, her feet stumbling over empty space, her hands helping the little girl in front and above her.
Just as Brady managed the shotgun ready, the shape was upon him. It was too late. A shadowy hand reached out and fingers quickly grasped the muzzle as Brady fired into the side wall, creating a wooden crater to the thing’s left. Without further pause, the shape heaved the teenager into the wall, a single powerful thrust, and Brady felt instant, sharp pains as ribs snapped inside him. He wailed. Using the shotgun stock as a club, the boy managed a furious swing through the air which cracked across the dark figure’s temple, rocking the shape on his heels. Brady sprawled sideways, his world a fearful frenzy, whirling in every direction, his mind barely being able to issue a single thought.
“Son of a bitch!”
All he could do was swing the double barrel, using the might of both hands as he did so, blindly at first, hitting through the air and creating a short whistling sound. His thoughts began to form gradually once more, and he thought he managed another fortunate strike until he realized that the shape had caught the gun once again in its grip, and within the same moment it was out of his hands completely and flinging through the air; before he realized it, something---perhaps the gun itself or the shape’s hardened fist, he couldn’t tell what---dove into Brady’s face, snapping his jaw and breaking teeth. The teenager then reeled over and into the hallway’s carpet at the shape’s feet.
With his remaining strength, Brady brought himself up along the side of the wall and stagge
red back upright. He brought a quivering hand to his face and felt the thick wetness of his own blood. Leaning forward and facing the shape, he stood there, frantic, wondering what the hell to do next. If he didn’t do anything, he would surely die. If he did something, he would find himself dead anyway. But if he managed to do something right, if, by the grace of God, he managed to kill the thing, he would become the town hero.
Crazily, he snickered at the absurdity.
Nevertheless, he threw out a hard right towards the shape, connecting, the shape’s head rolling to one side against the other wall. Brady was stunned at his own strength, and for one single final moment, he thought deliriously that he would win. He managed another right, his confidence building.
The shape lunged out suddenly and grabbed the boy’s fist. Bones cracked and popped, and as the hallway became filled with Brady’s cries of utter agony, he at once felt a tremendous hand grabbing hold of his skull, pressing, palms forcing to meet through intervening bone.
***
Inside the darkness of the attic, Rachel and Jamie were cowering within the far corner when they heard Brady’s screams below; the screams stopped abruptly, punctuated by the wet crack of bone.
The older girl had managed to close the attic door, and upon hearing the sudden silence below, she rushed back feverishly and proceeded to throw chairs, end tables---anything she could find---against the door.
On the other side, the shape’s hand grabbed the doorknob and forced the door open, foot by foot, until Rachel gave an urgent shriek and gave up, retreating back to the corner with her foster sister.
Cowering again with Jamie, holding her close, she cried out to the figure, “Leave us alone! Please. Leave us alone!”
After an anguished moment, Rachel cast her gaze upon Brady’s tool box. Letting go of Jamie, she anxiously rushed for it. She grabbed it, her mind and body overlooking the weight of the thing which, normally for a girl her size could have been quite heavy, and she threw it against one of the windows. The box smashed through boisterously, shards of glass flying onto the attic floor.
Outside, there was a narrow lip on which to stand, beyond that was a two-and-a-half—story drop into the night. Carefully, Rachel leaned over and grabbed Jamie, pulling her up and onto her back. Desperately, the little girl held on, clenching.
Behind them, the shape loomed up the attic stairs, his dark figure rising slowly like the shadow of death itself, methodically and soundlessly.
Rachel called out to Jamie before they set out to flee. “Hang tight, Jamie.”
As quickly and as carefully as she could, Rachel stepped out the attic window and balanced on the ledge. She straightened herself, mindful of the tenuousness of the wooden lip, gazing warily at the steep upward slope just inches away. She leaned away from the window and pressed her body against the cold slate roofing tiles, the brisk wind coming down upon her from one side bringing with it a bitter chill. Jamie weighed her down a bit, clinging to her back the way she was, gripping with her life, but Rachel forced herself to get used to it. She couldn’t fail. To fail meant to die, and for Jamie to die along with her.
As soon as she acquired a reasonable foothold, she glanced around her and caught sight of the chimney and the aerial. As swiftly and as steadily as she could, she proceeded to attempt a climb toward it.
When she was reasonably beyond the forefront of the broken window, she chanced a look back and in doing so nearly lost her handhold. Startled, she saw the voluminous effigy of her pursuer as he emerged from the shattered attic window and stepped over onto the roof. With mechanical precision, he made his advance toward the two girls, climbing, gaining.
Rachel continued climbing upwards and to the side, growing nearer and nearer toward the roof’s peak. Jamie turned and gazed back down just as the shape reached a large, burly hand for Rachel’s left ankle, then she quickly turned back to Rachel.
“Your left foot! Move your left foot…..!”
As soon as the hand came down, Rachel moved it away briskly, the hand clasping empty air.
Finally, at last, the girls reached the roof’s peak. Rachel set Jamie down momentarily as she glanced frantically around.”
There was nowhere to run. They were trapped.
And there, before them, was their murderer.
***
Halloween night had never been this cold. Perhaps it was merely the circumstance rather than the weather. Nevertheless, Rachel and Jamie were quite helpless there, on the very top of Sheriff Meeker’s roof, and Jamie’s uncle was there directly before them, ready to kill. There was absolutely nothing for them to do; no where to turn, nothing to fight with. Rachel lowered herself and scooped up her foster sister once again into her arms and held her close. She could feel Jamie shaking from the chill of fear, and she realized that a great deal of the shaking came from her own self also.
“Rachel?” Jamie called out in panic, “Rachel, what are we going to do?”
The shape slowly advanced, towering over them in shadow.
Rachel tried to keep her foster sister calm, brushing her fingers gently through her hair nervously. “Try to go to sleep, sweetheart.”
Jamie laid her head on Rachel’s shoulder and shut her eyes. It was then that Rachel looked out into the darkness and spotted something.
A tree branch; it was over at the roof’s far side, a bit more than a stretch away but close enough for a slim chance of escape. Quickly, just as the dark figure moved upon them mere steps away, Rachel hurried Jamie over to the branch and turned her over towards it.
“Jamie,” she told her, “I want you to grab the branch. Grab the branch, and climb down that tree. I want you to hurry.”
Jamie reached and strained, Rachel gripping her as close to the branch as she could. The shape was almost upon them. A few yards more, and
Jamie’s fingers brushed against leaves just shy of solid wood.
“I can’t,” the little girl cried out.
“Try!”
At last, Jamie found a firm hold on the branch and pulled away from Rachel, scrambling to the tree trunk. She looked back, screaming.
“Jump, Rachel!”
Just as the shape came upon her, she took to the air toward the tree. She managed somewhat of a hold, but it was the firm grip of the dark man behind her, yanking hard at her right ankle, which caused the fall. Breaking through a series of thin branches and leaves, she screamed until she thumped onto downward tiles of the lower roof and began to slide further. As she went, she reached out a hand and grabbed hold of the gutter. It held her weight for but a moment’s time before it broke loose, sending the girl tumbling out of sight over the side.
There Jamie was, face to face with the very thing that wanted her dead, the two staring upon each other from tree to rooftop: one staring in want and fascination, the other in fear and hatred.
The little girl climbed down the tree as fast as her six-year—old body allowed her to, her clown suit partially shredding and ripping against the bark and protruding branches. Halfway, she was forced to fight her way down amongst several branch groupings. Finally she broke free and tumbled downward to the grass lawn below. Springing to her feet, she ran around to the front of the house where Rachel’s body disappeared.
There she was; Rachel, lying quietly and motionless half in and half out of the hedges. Jamie rushed over to her.
“Come alive, Rachel.” Kneeling, she wept and placed her foster sister’s tilted head into her arms. She noticed a little dribble of dark blood running down the side of Rachel’s head and neck. She sat there, rocking the teenager, trying failingly to bring her to her feet. “Oh please don’t be dead, Rachel. Please, please don’t be dead. Come alive, Rachel. COME ALIVE. OH, PLEASE COME ALIVE. COME ALIVE!”
But her friend and sister remained unmoving like a torn rag doll, eyes closed and mouth silent. Jamie continued to sit there with her, sobbing.
Her despair over Rachel was overcome by the fearful notion that Uncle Michael could appear right behind her at
any instant and catch her. Her eyes left Rachel at the impulse to turn, and she spun around to face the rest of the yard. The yard was empty but for the twisted moonlit web of shadow the tree cast, stretching into the blackness of the hedges and trellises of climbing roses.
A section of the shadows began to move.
What stepped out from the yard’s black void wasn’t Uncle Michael. Jamie remained still as the figure further advanced into view. As it drew closer beneath an illumination of nighttime sky, she began to make out who it was.
It was a woman.
It was her mother.
Jamie breathed, “Mommy?”
The woman wore what appeared to be a brightly-colored nightgown, a trail of dark buttons and lace dripping down the front to a hem hung past her ankles. Her arms were crossed in a self embrace as if she was cold.
Then one hand extended out to her daughter.
“Jamie,” spoke Laurie Strode, her eyes never leaving the little girl. “I want you to live for me. You’re not going to give in and let him take you. Snap out of it. You must snap out of it and run. Go, run!” “Mommy,” Jamie asked her, “am I going to heaven now?”
But Mommy was suddenly no longer there.
The spell of the vision was broken, replaced by the tangible reality of the masked shape of her uncle looming over her.
Jamie immediately scrambled to her feet. Leaving Rachel’s body behind, she dashed across the lawn, nearly slipping on a streak of wetness, then reached the sidewalk and street.
The silent stalker continued in pursuit.
Down the street, at the center of the intersection, Jamie faltered minutely, considering a direction. Frantically, she chose one and continued to run amidst the street’s all consuming darkness. Darting furiously, she kept her gaze before her this time, fearing that if she looked back she would see her nightmare man reaching out just inches from her back. In reality, the shadowy shape was in the distance, walking, seemingly taking its time as if in all confidence at winning its prey.
As she ran, she cried out, hoping someone in the town would oblige her, praying someone would be able to hide her and save her. “Help! Somebody, help me!”