Halloween IV: The Ultimate Edition (3 page)

Ward “E” was just like that, with a few extra added attractions. There were virtually two people the guests could see thus far, one appeared to be an orderly swamping the floor with soapy water next to a steel bucket, nodding rhythmically to the music of his headset which was attached to a small radio hanging from his front pocket.
Probably the only measure of life around
, both attendants figured coincidentally. At least by measure of life as they knew it.

The other figure was that of a young woman who stood below a single, naked yellow light bulb which simply dangled, the chain falling into her face unnoticed. She stood beside a windowless steel door opened to distinct dimness and, together with the bulb overhead, it gave her a sort of queer sinister countenance. As the three proceeded forward in her direction, the darkness revealed vacant spring—framed single beds, old with rust, near silent medical equipment. The Ridgemont nurse then moved from her stance under the light and spoke into the room beside her.

“The transfer personnel are here, Doctor,” she said.

Suddenly the dimness of the light issuing forth from within the room was interrupted, and the shadow of another figure appeared. The doctor then stepped into the light. He seemed calm, although there was a certain vague expression of relief in his eyes, an expression only a keen observer could readily detect. He had journeyed through the trials of growing old and was continuing to do so with undeniable anguish at the present age of fifty-five. His hair was cut short, a mixture of brown and grey, and the above light seemed to swirl the colors, making them come alive; it played luminary games with the profound wrinkles embedded in his forehead and cheeks.

“Smith’s Grove?” he questioned the attendants. His voice was commanding, yet somehow either age or occupation gave him a certain somber resonance.

The male attendant nodded. “Yes.”

The doctor offered a hand to the male. “I’m Doctor Hoffman, medical administrator.”

“Has he been prepped?” the attendant asked. The doctor answered, “Ready to go. All I have to do is sign him out, then he’s all yours.”

As the two attendants began to follow Doctor Hoffman, who turned and headed back into the cell, the nurse motioned the security guard to follow her in the opposite direction. The guard gratefully obeyed.

The first primary objects the two attendants beheld in the room were the gurney and the figure which the gurney held. The figure was motionless and darkened by the absence of light in its corner of the room. They could partially see the outline of its face, and a closer inspection proved there to be heavy bandages covering its entirety. The rest of the body was garbed in nothing but a white gown and was in turn covered halfway with an equally white sheet. An IV needle protruded from each arm like tiny, unmoving serpents.

This was their man.

This was their patient.

The second object they beheld was the silent monitoring equipment stationed in another corner, diagonal to that of the patient. This bed had been unmade, and the imprint showed that there had once been a body in that space. Probably moved out like theirs would be. Probably dead.

The woman attendant stepped closer to the patient. “You say he’s been in a coma for ten years?”

“That’s right,” the doctor answered, his amazement worn thin. However, the presence of other company somewhat revived his astonishment. “With bullet wounds and severe burns. It’s incredible that’s he’s still alive.”

“A lot of people wish he weren’t,” the male attendant remarked, remembering the stories he had heard, the stories passed down from employee to employee at Smith’s Grove.

The doctor stepped over to the wall adjacent to the rear of the steel door and grabbed a clipboard stationed on a rack. As he withdrew a pen from one of the pockets in his white smock, the woman moved over to the body. In the meantime, the male handed papers he took from a shirt pocket and exchanged them with another paper from the doctor, after which was followed by a few scribblings on the clipboard. The woman gazed over the body, lingering for a moment, almost afraid to touch it, then proceeded to check one IV needle followed by the other. Behind her, the two others were moving back out into the ward.

The male attendant spoke to the doctor as he waited for the signing of documents. “I’d assumed Doctor Loomis would be here. Michael Myers is still his patient.”

Indignant, the doctor looked up and gazed into the eyes of the man. He had ceased scribbling. “This is a legal mandate. Any patient stable for a continuous ten year period must be remanded to State psychiatric authority. This isn’t medical, therefore, this matter doesn’t concern Doctor Loomis.”

“I was simply saying……it’s usual procedure to inform the case doctor.”

The doctor returned the remainder of the signed documents. “If Loomis read memos, he’d be standing here right now. Fortunately, his position is more ceremonial than medical. And with Myers gone from here, my hope is that the good doctor will either transfer, retire or die.”

Inside the cell, the woman continued tending to the shape in the corner. Pulse. Pressure. Breathing was slow and steady.

This was the man--the
thing
that had murdered all those people. She’d heard about it; heard the stories.

But they were all just that---
stories
. The same as reading a newspaper or a magazine. And here lay the story incarnate, right before her eyes. She gazed down upon it, upon those bandages.
Pure evil
, someone had told her before she departed from Smith’s Grove.
Pure evil behind those bandages, those scars behind those bandages
.

She forced her eyes away. Satisfied with the patient’s condition, she called out behind her, “All right, let’s move him out.”

              Just as she turned away, a naked hand slipped out from beneath the gurney sheet. The attendant, startled upon hearing the rustling, quickly spun around. Her hand went tremulously to her chest as if to ensure the restraint of her heart.

The hand had simply fallen off the gurney. She had been checking the patient, checking the IV needles, and the hand eventually slipped because it had been disturbed.

That was all.

That was it.

(Actually, it was more like
she
had been disturbed.)

The hand was now hanging there, limp, deformed by tight shiny pink burn scars, webbed with ropy keloids of knotted flesh, and it was
doing nothing else
.

So, having placed herself back into the comforting analgesic of her senses, she was ready to move the patient.

****

Outside, the attendants rolled the gurney with the comatose body up the pavement to the rear of the opened bus as the driver and the hefty security guard who hated smoke watched on. The attendants snapped up the wheels and locked them, lifting the gurney into the back until it disappeared. After doing so, the male unexpectedly backed into Doctor Hoffman, who had escorted them outside.

The woman, her mind growing all the more curious about this dark human monstrosity, asked the doctor if there were any living relatives.

“A niece living in his hometown,” replied the doctor. “Too young to act as legal ward.”

After they strapped the gurney in place, the woman announced that it was locked and loaded, and that they were ready to rock and roll.

“‘Night, Doc,” the male said.

The doctor looked them over one final time as the team prepared to leave.

“Drive carefully,” he told them.

And with that, the transport bus drove away, disappearing down the rain-washed country road and into the night.

             
Chapter Two

Sunday was a medium-sized black Labrador that enjoyed spending time during the early hours of the morning up and about, scrounging around throughout the house for anything interesting or edible overlooked by the human beings before they went to sleep hours before. He loved the quiet almost as much as the times when the family would be up and about and playing with him and Rubber Porcupine, only in a different way. At night, when they were asleep, he enjoyed the fact that there were no watchful eyes to see what little mishap he could get into. But tonight something was a trifle different, although not unlike the past few mornings. Someone was up and about, and the black Labrador sensed it. There was a stirring somewhere downstairs, probably in the livingroom. Sunday had been sitting next to a large window at the end of the hall upstairs, watching the rain, watching the lightning strike in the horizon, illuminating the area where it sat. Now he padded across the carpet, past the master bedroom where the heads of the household soundly slept. Down the staircase he went and into the livingroom to where the movement was on the lap of the couch.

              It was the little girl.

He liked the little girl very much, ever since she suddenly became a part of the family not long ago; a welcomed new face. Sunday didn’t mean to startle her as he jumped and landed at her side. Now he had found a hand to lick and one that would pet him in turn.

The six-year-old girl had been sitting there for some time now, surrounded by a brigade of pillows, occasionally gazing out the window into the dark, rain- filled street, gazing at the lightning, unafraid, much as Sunday had done. Her thoughts were not languishing tiredly as could have been supposed; her thoughts were numerous and upon many things. Thoughts of her past. Thoughts of her present. Tired, weary, melancholy thoughts of a time gone by and a time she could never again bring back. Only memories, faded and distant memories that made lonely little girls cry.

“Hey, kiddo…….
” A familiar voice. “It’s four in the morning.”

She turned away from the window to gaze upon Rachel. She knew Rachel only wanted to help, but her presence only brought another flood of remembrances to mind. Rachel always tried to pretend she was her big sister, but little Jamie knew perfectly well she wasn’t. In fact, she didn’t even have a
real
family like Rachel did at all. Rachel had told her once that she herself was a lonely six—year-old at one time, and that even now she was a lonely seventeen—year-old. But Rachel didn’t know what loneliness was, really, did she?

All Jamie could tell her was that she couldn’t sleep.

There went Rachel’s eyes, getting all big again, like she was going to say something smart and loving.

“What is this, four nights in a row? You going for a record here? Six-year-old insomniac’s hall of fame?”

Then the words just came out. She wasn’t sure whether she
wanted
the words to come out, but there they were. “Do you love me, Rachel?”

“Oh, serious questions tonight,” she said quietly, trying to be a bit humorous at reassuring her. She too was petting the dog. “Of course I love you.”

“Like a sister?”

“Jamie……
”

“Like a
real
sister?”

Rachel sighed. She paused for a moment to think, attempting to search for the right words. If only she could get Rachel to understand. If only they both could get some sleep. “You know we’re not really sisters, Jamie. You know we can’t help that. But that doesn’t mean that just because we’re not
real
sisters I love you any less.”

Jamie’s gaze returned to the window; went back to the rain.

“Sure it does,” she muttered.

She didn’t notice it at first, and when she did, she paid it no mind; there was a new object in the street across the way, through the rain and the haze. All she knew was that is looked like a large van. She could not see the insignia of Smith’s Grove imprinted on the side, but she noticed briefly that the rear doors were opened and the vehicle itself was void of movement and silent.

She was distracted. Rachel was turning her around to face her.

“Jamie,” she told her, “I know you miss your parents. It hasn’t been that long ”

“It’s been eleven months,” she cut her off.

Another sigh from Rachel. The dog rested its head on the little girl’s lap. “Your mom used to baby- sit me when I was your age. I bet you didn’t know that.”

“You’re lucky,” Jamie said. “I wish she could do the same for me.”

Rachel then took the little girl into her arms and embraced her in a moment of silent thought, lovingly. Then, “Come on, kiddo. Back to bed.”

By the hand, Rachel led a weary Jamie up the stairway and to the threshold of Jamie’s bedroom, followed by a contented Sunday. She then knelt down and gave the little girl a soft kiss on the cheek.

“Sleep tight, sweetie,” Rachel said. “French toast for breakfast. Night—night.”

And with a slight pat on the head, she closed Jamie’s bedroom door and left her once again to her thoughts.

The same old room surrounded her, every detail a symbol of her new family’s attempts to make her their own, to make her feel like one of them nestled under their wings. Various doll faces stared back at her from shelves against the wall and from the top of her pink dresser. An assemblage of toy rhinos and penguins and bears and horses congregated around her light blue and red toy box near to her bed, and across from them were plush vegetables and fruits with inquisitive expressions as if having formed their own clique at the foot of the bed. There were Sesame Street wall hangings, the characters being of the same sort embroidered onto her pajamas and pompom slippers. There were clowns in the rocking chair near her closet.