HADDONFIELD, ILLINOIS
Halloween Night 2018
Mick’s Bar and Grill might not have been the fanciest place in town, but it was one of the most popular—especially on Halloween. Or rather, as the sign taped to the bar’s front window proclaimed, Hallowine, Open Mick Night. Mick was, as one might surmise, not known for his finely honed sense of humor. Outside, the bar looked more like a VFW than a tavern; a plain, unassuming building, complete with the stars and stripes flying from a flagpole in the parking lot. As for inside… it was kind of a dump, to be honest. The wooden floor was deeply stained from years of spilled alcohol of various types, and the tables and chairs were long overdue for replacement. The tabletops were scored with graffiti—much of it filthy—and the chairs were so wobbly you felt drunk the moment you sat down. The design of the place was simple: bar on one side, stage on the other, the rest of the floor for patrons to drink, dance, and do whatever they felt like as long as it didn’t bring the cops to Mick’s door. Flatscreen TVs were mounted at intervals on the walls, normally for patrons to watch sports. But tonight they were tuned to The Thing, a horror movie about a shape-changing alien terrorizing the increasingly paranoid personnel of an isolated Antarctic base. Hallowine was in full swing, and the place was packed with working-class men and women, many in costume, having a good time as they got sloppy drunk. On the stage, illuminated by lights mounted on metal stands, the identical Garcia triplets—dressed in matching mermaid outfits— sang karaoke. Well, they tried to sing. Mostly they kept messing up the lyrics and breaking into laughter, to the delight of their audience.
New arrivals Marcus and Vanessa Wilson made their way through the crowd, searching for an empty table. Marcus thought they were going to be out of luck, but they found a small table for two in the back, near a raised section enclosed by a wooden railing. Marcus and Vanessa were an attractive African-American couple in their late thirties, and tonight Marcus was dressed as a doctor, with a white lab coat and a stethoscope draped around his neck. Vanessa’s costume was “sexy nurse”—a choice Marcus approved of wholeheartedly. He especially liked how she’d put her hair into pigtails, tied with curly black ribbons that dangled down to her bare shoulders. Cute as hell. He smiled as he pulled a seat out for her. She took it, but not before giving him an upset look. He sighed and sat down next to her.
“Don’t be mad at me, Ness. I thought that was gonna be like a holiday pizza party with a bunch of coworkers, not a threeso—”
“Your vulgar-ass boss acted inappropriate,” Vanessa said. “You gotta stand up for yourself in these situations.”
He sighed again, more deeply this time. “That’s right. You’re right. Stand up for myself. First thing tomorrow morning, I’m gonna walk into work and quit that job and punch Mr. Mathis in the damn stomach. You’ve got me real fired up now.”
She gave him a skeptical look, but she had the grace not to comment.
The table closest to theirs on the raised level was a high-top with four seats around it. Two women and a man—all white—sat there, leaving one seat empty. Marcus glanced up at them, curious. The man looked to be in his late forties, maybe early fifties, as did one of the women. The other woman was older, though, closer to seventy, he suspected. None of them wore costumes tonight. After the fiasco at Mathis’ house—seriously, whose boss invites a colleague and his wife over to have sex with him?—Marcus had convinced Vanessa to come to Mick’s and try to salvage something of the night. He hadn’t thought about stopping at their house so they could ditch their costumes and get into regular clothes, like the people sitting next to them. Now he wished he had. After what Mathis had tried to pull, Marcus doubted Vanessa enjoyed wearing her sexy nurse outfit. Worst of all, Mathis had been the one to suggest their costumes! They’ll be ironic because you really are a doctor and nurse! he’d said. It’ll be a hoot! He wondered how long Mathis had been fantasizing about seeing Vanessa decked out as a sexy nurse? The more Marcus thought about it, the angrier he got. Maybe he really would punch the sonofabitch in the stomach tomorrow.
A middle-aged white man approached the group at the high-top table above Marcus and Vanessa. It seemed the fourth member of their party had returned, carrying a bottle of what looked like champagne by the neck. When he reached the table, he set it down, then took the empty seat. Marcus didn’t mean to eavesdrop on their conversation, but the group was seated so close it was hard not to. Plus, it was a lot better than listening to the triplet mermaids attempting to sing, attempting being the operative word.
The fiftyish woman—pretty, straight brunette hair hanging past her shoulders, wearing a light gray jacket over a black top—picked up the bottle to examine it.
“Nice one, Lonnie,” she said. “Champagne?”
The man who’d fetched the bottle—thick brown hair, beard that was showing signs of gray, dressed in a red flannel shirt—poured a measure in the woman’s glass. They all had champagne glasses, and Marcus had a feeling this wasn’t their first bottle.
As the man poured, a woman wearing a cow costume—with four plastic breasts on the front instead of an udder—tried to squeeze past their table. She bumped his elbow, which caused him to jerk to the side. A bit of champagne sailed through the air and splashed Marcus’ shoulder. Marcus scowled up at the man, but he went back to pouring, seemingly unaware of what had happened.
“It’s like a white peach Cristal,” he said. “Very sous bois, which is a French term that suggests there’s a vegetative mushroomy quality—”
The other man at the table—hair cut close to his scalp, severe features, dark gray sweater, black T-shirt—had been on his phone. He put it down next to his currently empty glass, and when he spoke, he sounded worried.
“Hey, guys. Laurie’s not answering. Straight to voicemail again.”
The woman with the shoulder-length hair was nervously picking apart a paper napkin. She wasn’t paying attention to what she was doing, and some of the pieces drifted down to land in Vanessa’s hair. Vanessa quickly brushed them out and glared up at the woman. She didn’t notice.
“She struggles,” the woman said. “Depressed then suicidal then paranoid. Every now and then I get a Christmas card—”
The man with the buzz cut interrupted. “And with all the shit happening today… I mean, two homicides at a gas station…”
Marcus was startled by this bit of information. He hadn’t been aware of any murders. He looked to Vanessa, and she appeared just as surprised as he was.
The man with the champagne had moved on to filling the rest of his companions’ glasses.
“Stop it, Tommy,” he said. “We don’t know if he was even on that bus. Probably just a bunch of lunatics and pedophiles.”
The older woman—reddish hair, maroon cardigan worn open over an olive-green shirt— had been silent up to this point. Now she removed a metal cigarette case and a classy lighter from her purse. She took out a cigarette, placed it between her lips, and ignited the lighter.
Before she could touch the flame to the cigarette’s tip, Champagne Man said, “You can’t smoke in here.”
Smoking Lady gave the man a sour look, but she killed the lighter’s flame and put the cigarette back in the case. She then spoke, her voice raspy from decades of sucking on cancer sticks.
“Even if he was on it, Smith’s Grove has their patients sedated and bound for transfer. He couldn’t escape.”
Champagne Man filled his glass last, then he set the bottle in the middle of the table and took his seat.
“Not anymore,” he said. “Eighth amendment violations. It used to be an eye for an eye. Now it’s political correctness. Too many lawsuits after patients swallowed their tongues and shit themselves.”
Vanessa winced at the man’s words.
“Can you imagine?” the brunette said. “If he did escape, Haddonfield would self-destruct.”
Marcus let out a loud theatrical sigh, hoping that the four of them would take the hint and keep it down. But they kept on talking loudly.
Buzz Cut raised his head and cocked it to the side.
“I hear more sirens out there…”
Smoking Lady shook her head. “You’re paranoid, Tommy. He’s not coming for you. He’s not trying to murder any of us.”
Champagne Man drained half his glass in a single gulp. “And, brother, if he is, I’ll be the one to catch him. I’m gonna put his neck in a noose. Been waiting my whole damn life. Am I right?”
He let out a loud braying laugh that had more than a tinge of hysteria to it.
Vanessa had had enough. More than enough. She gave Marcus a look that said Do something—now!
He remembered what she’d said when they’d first sat down. You gotta stand up for yourself in these situations. There had been an implied criticism in those words, and Marcus had to admit it was a valid one. He’d never been an assertive person. All his life, he’d gone along to get along. He’d go to the mat for his patients, but in his personal life he hated confrontations, would do whatever it took to avoid them. But he didn’t like this about himself, and he sure didn’t like the way Vanessa was looking at him, as if she expected him to wimp out and do nothing. Again. So he did stand up—literally. He rose from his seat and turned toward the group at the high-top table.
“Hey, guys, would you mind dialing down the volume a tad?” he said. “My wife and I are trying to watch the talent show.” He tried to keep his tone pleasant. Being assertive was one thing, but he didn’t want to be a dick about it.
He braced himself in anticipation of the group being defensive, maybe even belligerent. But they were genuinely apologetic.
“Sorry about that, man,” Buzz Cut—Tommy— said.
The others gave Marcus embarrassed smiles.
“Appreciate it,” he said. He turned to Vanessa, feeling flushed with victory. What he’d done might not have been a big deal for someone else, but for him it was huge. “I’ll get us a drink. You relax.”
She smiled and gave him an approving nod.
As Marcus maneuvered his way through the crowd toward the bar, he thought maybe tonight would turn out to be not so bad after all.
The sister mermaids had finished their act before Marcus had left the table, and now a man dressed as a cowboy—complete with spurs—had taken the stage. He leaned close to the mic and said, “Tonight I’m gonna recite some of my poetry for y’all.”
There were some groans in the audience, along with a smattering of polite applause. Marcus tuned the man out as he began reciting. Amateur poetry was definitely not his thing.
Marcus and Vanessa weren’t exactly regulars, but they came here often enough for him to recognize the bartender—Mick himself. He was a beefy white guy in his early fifties with shaggy blond hair, a goatee, and intricate sleeve tattoos. He wore an orange T-shirt with black letters on the front that said This IS my Halloween Costume.
Marcus’ eyes were drawn to a mounted baseball bat hanging on the wall behind the bar. Every time he saw it, he wondered why it was there. Had to be some kind of story to it, but he didn’t feel as if he knew Mick well enough to ask. Maybe someday.
“Two session IPAs, please,” Marcus said.
“Sure thing.” Mick didn’t move off right away, though. Instead, he glanced in the direction of Marcus’ table. Or more precisely, to the group sitting nearby.
“Don’t be bothered by those motherfuckers, Doctor. They’re friends of that crazy lady that survived Michael Myers in the seventies.”
“Really? No shit.” He shot a look at the group before turning back to Mick. “You mean Laura Stropes?”
“Laurie Strode. They get up in here every year on Halloween, and you know… tears in their beers. Don’t sit too close.”
As Mick poured two beers for Marcus, he noticed a small cardboard donation display on the bar top— Tips for Treatments, it said. The display featured photos of kids with spinal muscular atrophy, and above their smiling faces in a cheerful font were the words Love Lives Today! Marcus paid for the beers with cash, and after leaving Mick a few dollars for a tip, he slipped what remained of the change into the donation slot. As a doctor, he could never pass by a donation display raising funds to treat medical conditions without giving something, even if it was only a little—especially when the money went to help kids. Vanessa teased him about this sometimes, told him he had a bleeding heart, but he knew she felt the same way.
He carried the mugs back to their table and sat down. The cowboy recited one more of his deathless works—titled “Ode to a Lost TV Remote.” When he finished, people applauded—more enthusiastically than Marcus expected—and he stepped down from the stage. Then to Marcus’ surprise, Champagne Guy came down from the raised level, glass in hand, crossed the bar, and hopped up onto the stage. He leaned into the mic and began to speak.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce our next thespian. I used to bust his balls when we were kids, but now he’s all grown up, and he’s become a most captivating bird whistler!”
The crowd applauded and Tommy—looking more than a little reluctant—came down and joined his friend on the stage. He too brought his champagne glass, his full almost to the top. The two men gave each other a quick hug, and then Champagne Guy left the stage and headed back to their table.
Now it was Tommy’s turn to lean into the mic. He looked uncomfortable as hell. Marcus had read somewhere that public speaking was people’s number-one fear. He didn’t know if that was true, but it sure seemed like it was in Tommy’s case. The man was pale, he fidgeted nervously on stage, and when he spoke, his voice was shaky with emotion.
“Oh, jeez. Lonnie put me up to this. I’m not here to whistle, though. I’m gonna… I’m gonna tell you a story.”
“Oooo! Ghosts and goblins!” someone in the crowd shouted out. This was instantly followed by someone else shouting, “Turn out the lights!”
There were scattered groans and snickers among the audience, but the lights dimmed—probably thanks to Mick—and the crowd grew quiet. Tommy took a gulp of champagne to bolster his courage and then began speaking.
“Any of you know the story of the Haddonfield Boogeyman? Too young to remember? Too drunk to give a shit?”
People shouted from the crowd.
“Bring back them mermaids!”
“Lookin’ good, Tommy! Lookin’ real good!”
“Freebird!”
“Show us your tits or get off the stage!”
Tommy closed his eyes, as if to center himself, and then took a deep breath. Something about his manner got through to the crowd, and everyone grew quiet once more. When the room was silent, Tommy opened his eyes and began talking. He was nervous at first, but his voice grew stronger and more confident as he went on.
“Forty years ago… a madman escaped from a mental hospital after being institutionalized for fifteen years. It was the night before Halloween. Three innocent teenage girls were walking home from Haddonfield High. They had sightings of a ghostly figure creeping through the town. A man in a white mask—or was it more than a man?—watching them. And before the night was over, three people would be murdered in this very neighborhood. And in the house next door, a babysitter and a young boy and young girl were brutally attacked by this stalker with a power beyond any mortal man. My name is Tommy Doyle. And I was that young boy.”
The bar remained silent for a moment, as if the patrons had no idea how to react to Tommy’s words. Finally, there was a smattering of applause which Tommy acknowledged with a brief nod. He then spoke once more.
“Tonight, join me in commemorating the victims and the survivors of Michael Myers.”
He reached for one of the stage lights and turned it to illuminate his friends sitting at their table.
“Lindsey Wallace. Her babysitter Annie Brackett was executed.”
The fiftyish woman with the brunette hair stood. She nodded to Tommy and wiped a tear from her eye.
“Marion Chambers. A nurse at Smith’s Grove, the hospital from which the Boogeyman escaped. Survived an assault.”
Smoking Lady stood, chin raised almost defiantly, as if she was daring the audience to judge her. Tommy continued.
“Lonnie Elam. Ghost hunter and historian of the legend of the Boogeyman. Escaped a face-to-face encounter.”
Champagne Man stood, glass in hand. He gave Tommy a smile and a wink.
Tommy went on, emotional now, fighting back tears. “It’s Halloween night in Haddonfield. When terror is supposed to be fun. When we hide behind masks and pretend we aren’t what we are. I’m an astronaut, King Arthur, Tarantula Man. You’re a werewolf, a skeleton… or a maniac in a white mask.”
Marcus had gotten so caught up in listening to Tommy’s story that he was startled when Vanessa reached over to take his hand. Her attention was also fixed on Tommy, and there were tears in her eyes as well.
“I’ve lived my life in fear,” Tommy said, “and watched others in this once-peaceful town plagued in different ways. Is he real? Who knows? Who’s next? Maybe not tonight and maybe not tomorrow, but the Boogeyman’s coming for me. He’s coming for you. But he’s not going to get us. Not this time. Because we will never succumb to fear. Never!”
He shouted this last word, and the crowd went crazy, clapping, cheering, crying. As Tommy stepped off the stage, patrons rose from their tables to shake his hand or clap him on the back. Marcus and Vanessa, without consulting, stood, turned toward Tommy’s companions, and reached out to shake hands with Marion and Lonnie, the two nearest to them.
Tommy raised his glass and turned his gaze to the ceiling. He didn’t shout his next words, but Marcus had no trouble hearing them.
“This is for you, Laurie! Wherever you are!”