Halloween IV: The Ultimate Edition (7 page)

People had been there. But what happened to them? Well, that was something Loomis intensely feared.

A Hank Williams tune was sounding forth from an old transistor radio behind the counter. Loomis moved forward toward its direction, quietly and heedfully.

“Is anyone here?”

It took another step for him to see the waitress, stretched out across the floor, obviously strangled, cold eyes staring thoughtlessly into nothingness.

“God in heaven.”

Loomis stepped back again, his feet faltering and causing him almost to stumble backwards, his hand brushing against the cash register at his side. The machine clamored, and this startled him even further, causing him to jump. His breath was heavy. His hand reached for his chest, his heart pounding rapidly, and he felt that at any time it would beat its way out of his body, striking the inner reaches of his chest cavity until it was free, finally to silence. Another thought: perhaps, at the slightest wrong turn, at any given moment, someone else would do it for him.

Someone he knew.

Someone he feared.

Once, five years ago, a patient had become hysterical in a psychiatric ward and hurled himself at the doctor. He had no other choice than to use his cane in self defense. It had become a sort of impulse. He realized he had left his cane within the sedan. No matter.

In his coat pocket was a gun, a nickel—plated, 9mm Smith and Wesson. He pulled it out. For what he was up against, what he feared was still there, perhaps in that very diner, he knew that this gun would prove just a useless as the cane. His eyes searched for the slightest movement---ears for the softest sound. His hands were shaking as he held the gun, unsure as to whether he would be quick enough if he came in contact with

A telephone
. There was a telephone under the counter. A trembling hand felt for it, his eyes never leaving the area before him. Then he looked down and saw to his disappointment that the receiver had been crushed. It was as if someone had simply lifted it and broke it within his grasp.

Dammit
!

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something. A figure. It was standing at the diner’s far end in the shadows. Loomis swung around, pointing the gun feverishly.

There was no one there.

A door stood opened where he thought the figure had been. There was a sign indicating with a red arrow where the restrooms were. Another sign indicating public telephones. A silent video game with a cardboard sign taped over the coin slots reading OUT OF ORDER.

Blinking, Loomis crossed over to the open door. Carefully, he peered inside and discovered a dimly lit hallway leading into a series of back rooms, two of which were marked WOMEN’S and MEN’S. Mounted onto the wall across from them to the right were two pay phones, the receivers torn away. Frustrated, the doctor turned and stepped back into the main room. What he saw then made him freeze. Terrified, he could say nothing; he barely let out a single breath, his heart nearly ceased its frantic beating.

There It was.

It was just standing there, motionless, occupying the space where the body of the strangled waitress lay; where Doctor Loomis had been only a few minutes before. Hospital gown now absent, the shape now wore mechanic’s coveralls. His face was shadowed, yet Loomis could feel his cold gaze---that awful, hideous gaze.

Loomis held his gun up at eye level, attempting relentlessly to aim, his finger trembling against the trigger, his arms far from rigid.

Silence.

Then, finally, Loomis spoke. “
Why now
? No answer.

Loomis continued, a nervousness in his voice. “You’ve waited ten years. I told them to let you burn. I knew this day would come.”

The shape stood, remaining there, silent and still. The diner was so incredibly tomblike at that moment that the doctor could detect the figure’s steady, oppressive breathing, even from his distance.

“Don’t go to Haddonfield,” Loomis demanded, lowering his gun. “If you want another victim, take me. But leave those people in peace.”

Yet another moment of silence. Then, finally the dark shape turned and walked away toward the door of the kitchen.

At once, Loomis again raised his gun. “Goddamn you, Michael!”

The overwhelming silence of the diner was now interrupted by the booming thunder of three rapid shots. Michael was down, fallen behind the counter.

Loomis waited.

Nothing.

Quickly, he raced over to the counter. Brushing aside dishes and glassware, he cautiously leaned over the side.

Michael was gone; there was only the body of the waitress.

His first impulse was to continue into the kitchen itself, as this was the only direction Michael would have gone to. Still, he would have heard something; a shuffling, perhaps. It was as if the thing could disappear and reappear at wil1; as if he were a ghost. But the bodies were evidence he was no ghost. His second impulse was simply to turn and get the hell out of there, and he did so without further hesitation.

Outside in the warm breeze, he walked across the dusty expanse, the sounds of his soles on grit echoing throughout until they met the asphalt across which stood the service pumps and his sedan. His eyes scanned around, behind him and to his sides, expecting to see something, waiting for something to happen. The mechanic’s garage was nothing but a shadowy cavern. Thoughts swept through Loomis’ mind, making him paranoid to his circumstances. The figure could suddenly appear from the mouth of the garage, or surprise him from behind. What a wonderful trickor-treat that would prove to be. Or he could be--- did he leave his car unlocked? Yes, of course he did. As he drew closer to it, he slowly raised his gun, knowing, however, it would most likely do him no good.

Suddenly there was a sound; it came from behind him. It was the sound of a car door slamming. He turned. It came from the garage, echoing, ringing in his ear, then---silence.

“
Michael!
” he called out amidst the quiet. His voice joined the echo of the car door in a reverberating dance with the flurry of the wind. His gaze went to the side of the building, the space between the chain link fence.

Suddenly, Loomis pivoted back to the front of the garage as the boisterous sounds of a truck engine emanated from within garage on the right. Loomis plummeted out of the way as the tow truck burst through the closed door of the far left garage. Glass and wood splinters flew in the truck’s wake, taking to the air and hurdling in every direction, some soaring into the doctor’s side, sending him headfirst into the gravel in a space near the chain link fence.

There was no time to lie there. There was no time to be stunned like a rabbit in shock. The doctor scrambled to his feet and ran, just as the truck thunderously collided into the station’s fuel pumps and in turn crashing into the Ridgemont sedan, octane spewing forth from all directions, sparks spreading through the air like fireworks. Occasionally turning back to witness the violent swamp of flames, Loomis continued to run. Suddenly the pumps explode into a brilliant, burning flash of black and luminous orange, flames scorching and consuming the ruptured housing of the garage and adjoining diner. In turn, underground tanks began to detonate, the destruction rocking the surrounding ground. The sedan burst into flames.

Loomis fell to his knees. He gazed up in the direction of the catastrophe, an arm flung helplessly against the brilliant flashes, shielding his eyes; he attempted to shut himself out from the deafening flame roar and the concussive explosions shattering the remainder of the diner, first blowing out the windows, then in turn bringing the entire foundation to instant ruin. Meteors of wood showered in fragments around him, and he managed a feeble barrier around his head and face with his coat. He then brought the coat down from his eyes, his face pasty white with fear. Intense fear. His body racked with shivers. Suddenly he was no longer bent over in the dust....

....he was no longer bent over....

....there was no longer any dust....

....there was just simply....

Flames, intense, burning flames….

….
and he could smell the charred flesh              his own charred flesh, as the men in long heavy coats surrounded him, working over heaps of fire, and for a moment he swore he was

In hell. Oh, Jesus. Oh, God. I’m in
hell….in
hell….            

....and as they pulled him out, he was still burning, helplessly burning             

....and then he was back again, back within the surrounding dust and debris, but he could still hear voices. At first he could not recognize the voices, but then his mind somehow blotted out the rest, and he could here something familiar, something crying out relentlessly....

…….
don’t save him, for chrissakes, don’t.

And he realized to his horror that it was
his
voice he was hearing, his voice long ago; his memories, distant and remote.

But the flames were there, the flames of the present; the dust was there, staining his face and hands. Yards away, a telephone line junction pole burned, its base shattered by the explosion. Suddenly, the entire pole toppled over, away from the exhausted and terrified doctor. Phone lines began to rip loose and dangle, spurts of electricity danced and quivered on asphalt and gravel.

The tow truck was nowhere in sight; but for that matter, Loomis didn’t bother to look. He knew where It was headed. He knew what would happen tonight.

As he sat up, he rubbed his eyes from the momentary blindness caused by the intensity of the burning fumes and the smoke. Then he stood up. Determined, he walked on in the direction of Haddonfield.

He knew what he must do. He knew what
someone
must do. Anyone. For if the police and the people from Smith’s Grove or Ridgemont do nothing, blinded by their own absurdities and their own discernment, the town of Haddonfield would see a horror the likes of which no one had even seen in
ten
years, because this time the horror would be much greater.

Michael Myers would return to his home town.

And tonight, this night, was Halloween.

Chapter Eight

A bell sounded the anticipated ending of another tedious day of elementary school, and the many anxious children rushed from their classrooms and flooded the hallways with their presences and their shouts of laughter. They knew it was Halloween, and they knew that tonight they would once again get their bagfulls of candy and neat-to-eat treats. They
should
be anxious; for this occasion only comes once a year to those fortunate enough to have costumes and participate in such a festive time of year.

Jamie, however, actually
was
fortunate, for every little tike her age who resided in Haddonfield had fortunate families to come home to. She just looked---well, she looked
odd
, being the only child in school without a Halloween costume to show off to her fellow classmates. Everyone else had some sort of outlandish costume; rarely did she spot someone with something ordinary or simple. Most every child had a parent who was virtually an expert with needle and thread, or had a few extra bucks to spend for that extra set of clown shoes or those furry, floppy ears to make that Cocker Spaniel outfit look just right.

But nooo, Jamie didn’t have a costume on, not so much as a mask, and it wasn’t because her parents were poor or her mother didn’t have time to sew anything together. It was simply because
she didn’t want one
.

Now, there wasn’t a sin in that; it wasn’t a crime. But every other kid seemed to think so. Even that bratty little kid Kyle, the one with the clown suit with those stupid floppy shoes (couldn’t he
trip
in shoes like that?), had to make her feel like she was committing a crime, and a real nasty one at that.

“Hey Jamie, where’s your costume?”

She was just passing the playground, right near the monkey bars, on her way through the grass and headed out the chain link gate to the outside walkway. She turned and saw him. He was with a small band of cohorts and peers, and kids who simply came to watch little Jamie cry. It was like that, almost always. Almost.

Yet another kid: “Where’s your mask? Or are you wearing it?”

That was it; Jamie had to speak. “I don’t need to wear a stupid costume.”

Kyle teased, “That’s because every day is Halloween at Jamie’s house. Right, Jamie? Cause your uncle’s the Boogeyman. Right, Jamie? Right, Jamie? Your uncle’s the
Boogeyman!”