Halloween IV: The Ultimate Edition (4 page)

She felt a tremendously cold chill which drew her attention to the bedroom window. It was open, and the wind and drizzle were blowing into the curtains and onto the carpet, dampening them. Jamie scurried across the room and drew the window shut.

Lightning flashed once as she turned toward the bed; if her gaze had been directed toward the window, she would have seen the reflection of the figure that had entered her room, a tall figure behind her illuminated for but a moment’s time after which returning into the darkened shadows.

She was not alone.

Moving past her dresser, Jamie opened the double doors to her closet. There was a tan shoebox before her on the floor near an assortment of tennis shoes, and she reached for it and removed the top.

More memories. This time, the memories were materialized in photographs--pictures of times gone by: a photo of her mother, Laurie Strode. On the back, in faded pencil, were the words MOM AT SEVENTEEN. There was a birthday card from four years ago--WITH LOVE FOR OUR LITTLE GIRL. There was a picture of Jamie, two years ago, riding her father piggyback at the Great American amusement park. Here was another picture, all of them together having a barbeque with the Hammets, their neighbors, her father posing as the Master Chef of the Grill, reddened chicken breasts flaming beside him over coals. Yes memories--nothing but memories.

One more flash of lightning. Above her, to her left, unnoticed, was the figure, the shape--within the confines of her closet. The brilliant flash revealed its face, rows of whitened streaks surrounding two hollow cavities where the eyes should be, as if it were encased within bandages...

Again, Jamie did not see the figure; at the moment when she very well could have, there was now darkness.

Jamie returned the shoebox to the litter of tennis shoes on the floor, then turned and went for her bed. Kneeling, she pulled the covers down further to slip inside and before she did, she clasped her hands somberly and prayed a simple prayer, a slight rendition of what her true parents had once taught her.

“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. God bless Mr. and Mrs. Caruthers. God bless Rachel, God bless Sunday, God bless me, and God bless Mommy and Daddy in heaven. Amen.”

And with that, she began to rise to slip under the covers.

Suddenly she was distracted. There was a shuffling sound--something stirring. It stopped just as suddenly as it had begun. She realized that it came from the closet. She turned and gazed into its emptiness.

Silence.

She continued her gaze.

Nothing.

Jamie rose to her feet completely and stepped toward the opened closet door. Hesitantly, she peered closer into the black obscurity of clothes and boxes.

A fallen rag doll.

She returned it to the top of one of the boxes. Satisfied and somewhat relieved, she turned once again to the bed. But she closed the closet doors, just to ease her mind.

Yet another sound.

Again she turned, and this time she beheld the inner emptiness of the closet as the door opened just a crack, then yawning wider as if in an ambiguous introduction to an entity about to make a grand appearance. She remembered Mr. Caruthers reading to her a few days ago from the funny papers something about a closet of anxieties.

But there was still nothing.

A different sound. Branches against the window glass;  the maple tree outside.

Scratch…….
scratch…..             

She gazed back at the hollow abyss before her. It beckoned her, called for her, teased her. Sighing, she stepped up to it to close it once more.

That was when she heard the breathing.

All of a sudden something grabbed her-- grabbed her ankle; she felt the muscular grip tighten and pull.

It came from beneath the bed.

She screamed.

She stumbled as the monstrous hand pulled her down, causing her to topple onto the hard carpet, landing on her arm. She shrieked in pain. She kicked and writhed frantically, but her efforts were useless and seeming only to heighten her assailant’s efforts. Her mind was racing in a merry—go-round of circles amidst the panic. She was being pulled under…..under….

….under……a
second hand came forth, reaching……

…..
and suddenly she managed to break free. With no further thought, she scrambled to her feet awkwardly, her shrieks echoing forth into all directions around her. She didn’t notice the shape of the man rising from the far side of the bed, or the butcher knife which gleamed with the strike of lightning. She went for the door. Her hand reached for the knob, her fingers gripped it firmly, and she pulled the door open.

There he was, before her. It was no use. In the midst of her screams, death was raised in the form of a knife. As it struck, her last thoughts within the haze told her that she would soon meet Mommy and Daddy.

***

….and then the closet door opened. The bedroom light streamed onto her face as she opened her eyes and stared into the desperate faces of Mr. and Mrs. Caruthers. Still, Jamie held tight to the shoebox huddled with her in the corner surrounded by hanging dresses and colored cardboard boxes and dolls. Mrs. Caruthers pushed some of the dolls aside and held the little girl close. She noticed Rachel not far behind, gripping Sunday by his collar.

“Dear God,” Darlene Caruthers exclaimed, hushing the little girl’s cries, consoling her. “It’s all right, sweetheart. A bad dream, that’s all. Just a nasty old dream. I’ve got you. You’re safe. See? Just let it go, honey. Put it out of your mind.”

And as Jamie reached out to embrace her in turn, the shoebox fell, toppling over the tennis shoes, its contents spilling. A back and white photograph, yellowed with age, rested face up. Between the near— white boundaries, a six—year-old boy in a bright clown costume was standing beside his older sister. In the background was a house, jack—o—lanterns aglow on the front porch, orange sky accenting the scenery over the far horizon.

It was Michael and Judith Myers.

It was Halloween, 1963.

Chapter Three

The booming of footsteps echoed down the dreary corridors of the Ridgemont Federal Sanitarium. It was Halloween morning, and the sunshine of the new day streamed through the high windows of the first floor hallways and down upon some of the inner offices. Shadowing the offices, obscuring the sunlight, was the stout silhouette of a man hurrying to pass. His cane accompanied the echoes of every determined, acrimonious footfall. Staffers garbed in white stepped out of the figure’s path, their gazes following, and they were soon joined by others which watched from doorways, faces filled with both curiosity and a grudging respect.

The figure stepped up to the last office in the corridor, the one on the right. On the window of the door the letters read ADMINISTRATOR’S OFFICE. He wasted no time throwing this door open, slamming it against a row of metal file cabinets inside. Doctor Hoffman, startled, gazed up from his payroll reports on his desk and into the virulent eyes of Doctor Loomis.

To Doctor Hoffman, Doctor Loomis was the sort of person who took his work too seriously; seriously to the extent of becoming obsessed with any patient that managed to trigger off some deep, morbid interest Loomis held within himself. To Hoffman, everyone involved would be better off with this whole Michael Myers business if he had simply perished in the flames ten years ago, even better with Mr. Myers. The only evidence of the fire now was the deep, burn scar that looked like a course of runnels trailing down the right side of Loomis’ face. Some minor attempts at plastic surgery had not managed much visible repair of the disfigurement. And for some reason, the man seemed to age twice as fast as a normal human being. He was a determined man, two—fisted in dialogue and imposing in appearance, however old he sometimes appeared.

He marched up to Hoffman’s desk and leaned over angrily. His voice was harsh.
“Why wasn’t I notified?”

Hoffman stood his ground. “About what?” “You know damn well about what! You let them take
It
out of here.”

“Doctor Loomis. Michael Myers was a federal patient, and a federal prisoner. Therefore, he was subject to federal law.”

Loomis was furious. “We’re not talking about just another federal prisoner, Hoffman. We’re talking about
Evil on two legs
!”

“For chrissake,” Hoffman complained, “spare me the speech. I’ve listened to it for a decade. The fact is that your evil monster has been in a nonreversible coma for ten years and in that coma he will stay until his heart and brain say stop.”

Loomis stepped backwards. “He’s been waiting ”

“I’ve said it before…..I think
you’re
the one who needs mental help. You’re
obsessed
with this
thing. The staff tells me you stand for hours just looking at him.” He sat up within his chair, leaning forward, as if he were about to rise. “Tell me objectively, Loomis. Is this normal professional medical behavior?”

“Do you know what today is?” The doctor with the cane shouted. “Do you know the date? Every day I look in the mirror. Every day I remember. I tell you. I don’t want anyone to have to live through that night again.”

Hoffman let out a fatigued sigh. “I can see this is useless.”

“Where was he taken?” Loomis demanded. “Smith’s Grove. He’s probably there by now.” “Call!”

“What…..
?”

Loomis drew closer to the desk. “Call Smith’s Grove. Set my mind at ease. Fuel your sarcasm. I hope to God I’m wrong about what I feel.
Call
!”

Why is this man wasting my time
? Hoffman thought wearily.
Why the hell doesn’t this man just take that goddamn cane of his and his goddamn Michael Myers horror stories andjust leave me alone
?

Oh, what the hell.

Hoffman picked up the phone to his right and dialed. At last there was silence in the room. If he could only get this over with

“Yes,” he spoke into the receiver, “this is Doctor Hoffman at Ridgemont. We had a patient transferred there just last night, Michael Myers. That’s right.”

Loomis
 waited, impatient. Suddenly, Hoffman’s face was overcome by a touch of dejection.

“I see,” Hoffman continued. “All right, thank you.” And he hung up the phone. The room remained silent for a moment, Loomis awaiting the inevitable. Hoffman continued his gaze upon the desk, not looking up, not ashamed that he had been wrong. On the contrary; it was still
Loomis
that was crazy. It was still Loomis that was
wrong
. Of course everything was all right. But tell a man like Doctor Loomis that and see if he agrees with you. “They’re two hours overdue. But they don’t feel that it’s a cause for concern ”

When he looked up, he found that he was conversing with empty air. The doctor was gone, the door still swung wide against the file cabinets.

Dammit
!

“Loomis,” he called out, and he was answered only by the repercussions of his own voice throughout his head. “
Loomis
!”

***

Doctor Loomis marched across the puddled pavement in the direction of a half-dozen blue OFFICIAL USE federal sedans, his hard black shoes splashing droplets of water onto the legs of his dark brown slacks. He stormed over to the nearest vehicle and opened the door to the driver’s side with a key from his pocket keychain. He heard a distant voice behind him; perhaps it was the voice of reason, but regardless, Loomis was not a reasonable man in the face of unreasonable urgency. But he recognized that voice, and this was the very reason why he did not turn.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Hoffman said, catching his breath. He had been running.

Loomis continued into the car, slammed the door shut and rolled down the window. His words were hurried and desperate. “To find
It
.
It
has a single relative left alive the daughter of Laurie Strode. She’ll be Its target now.”

Hoffman gripped the edges of the car door with despairing urgency. “For godsake, just listen to yourself. Michael Myers is a threat to no one.”

Even after ten years,” Loomis replied, starting the engine, “you still have no idea what you’ve let loose.” Then, “What are you doing?”