Halloween IV: The Ultimate Edition (19 page)

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 more.

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.

***

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 staggered 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.”