Lonnie pulled his Altima up to the curb in front of the Myers house. He parked, then turned off the headlights and killed the ignition. None of the lights were on, including the porchlight, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad sign. It was late, after all. The house looked nothing like it had forty years ago, when he’d tried to enter it on a dare and was scared away by a mysterious voice. Years later, when he’d been interviewing Samuel Loomis for his book on the Boogeyman, the doctor had confessed that it had been him hiding in the bushes, waiting to see if Michael would return to his childhood home before dawn, and he’d been the one who’d frightened off Lonnie. They’d had a good laugh about it.
The house had been completely renovated in the decades since, making it look like it had only recently been built, even though the damn thing was over a century old. The realtors, Big John and Little John, had purchased it and fixed it up, and while to certain older folks in town it would always be the Myers house, it no longer held the same stigma as when Lonnie had been a child. It was hard for a haunted house to keep its spooky reputation when it didn’t look haunted anymore. At one point, Lonnie had been considering releasing an updated version of his book, and he’d tried to interview the two Johns, wanted to ask them what it was like to live in the most infamous house in Haddonfield. They’d politely declined, however, saying they didn’t want to stir up their home’s lurid past, as they called it. Lonnie had understood and hadn’t bothered them again. They were nice guys, and now that he was here, he hoped like hell that their theory about where Michael was headed was wrong. He didn’t want to think of anything bad happening to the two Johns.
He turned to Cameron and Allyson. Both were doing their best to put on brave faces, but he could see they were trembling. They were scared shitless, and he couldn’t blame them. He was too. He regretted throwing his booze out the window earlier. He sure as hell could use a drink right now.
“The key is that we stick together,” Allyson said. “He can’t take us all at once.”
Despite how frightened she was, Lonnie was impressed by how steady she managed to keep her voice. She was a tough kid, and he was glad his son had found her. She’d be good for Cameron, would help smooth off some of his rough edges.
Lonnie came to a decision then.
“I’m going in alone.”
“What?” Cameron said.
“Mr. Elam, please…” Allyson said.
“Fucking dummy,” he muttered to himself. “Bringing your kid to the belly of the beast.”
Too many people had died tonight. Marion, Vanessa, Marcus… and Lindsey had been severely injured. He couldn’t let Cameron and Allyson go up against a killing machine like Michael Myers. They had too much to live for. Now him, on the other hand…
Cameron gave Allyson a look, as if he was worried that Lonnie was losing it.
“Dad?” he said.
Lonnie stared straight ahead as he spoke. “I don’t want you to live the way I have, Cameron. Never feeling like you’re enough. Drinking away your fear and self-hatred.” He let out a long sigh. “Driving away the girl you love because you’re living in the past. Obsession can kill as effectively as any knife— it just takes longer.”
The three of them were silent for several moments after that. Finally, Allyson spoke.
“With all due respect, Mr. Elam, do you really expect me to sit by and watch while you go into that house and confront the man who killed my father?”
He turned and gave the girl a weary smile.
“No, I don’t expect you to do it. But I’m asking, Allyson. For your sake—and for my son’s. Just stay here. Honk if you see anything suspicious. And protect yourself.” He nodded toward the sawed-off shotgun nestled between Allyson’s end of the front seat and the door. He then placed his hand on Cameron’s shoulder, and it was his turn to try and put on a brave face.
“See you at the finish line, buddy.”
Before either Cameron or Allyson could say anything, Lonnie got out of the car, gun gripped tightly in his right hand, flashlight in his left, and started walking toward the house.
* * *
Allyson and Cameron watched nervously as Lonnie went up the front walk and onto the porch. Allyson had been by the place numerous times before, and she was well familiar with what it looked like these days. How could she not check out the Myers house from time to time? She was Laurie Strode’s granddaughter, after all. This place loomed large in her family’s history, was practically a holy site in a twisted way.
Lonnie turned on his flashlight and shined it on the porch, looking left and right, making sure it was clear. The current owners had erected Halloween decorations: a zombie woman in an old-fashioned black dress standing next to a red-skinned devil in a black suit holding a pitchfork. Normally, she might have thought them cute, but not tonight. Tonight they seemed sinister, ominous.
Lonnie rang the doorbell, which Allyson thought was absurd, but then she remembered that the house had new owners. Lonnie couldn’t exactly break the door down and go charging into the house looking for Michael. Not only might he scare the owners, what if they had guns? Lonnie could end up getting shot as an intruder. No one answered the bell, though, and a moment later, Lonnie tried the door. It was unlocked, and he pushed it open and— after giving Cameron and Allyson a last look—went inside. He didn’t close the door behind him, which Allyson thought was smart. If he needed to get out of the house in a hurry, he didn’t want to have to screw around with trying to open the door again.
Now there was nothing for her and Cameron to do but wait.
“I’m sorry about my dad,” Cameron said. “He’s just a little…”
Allyson couldn’t take her eyes off the front door. Inside, the house was dark, and all she could see was a great blackness.
“If Michael’s in that house, your dad is gonna be dead in five seconds,” she said.
She continued looking at the house, counting down in her mind. Five, four, three, two…
They heard the crack of a gunshot.
Allyson didn’t hesitate. “Go!”
She grabbed the sawed-off shotgun, threw open the Altima’s passenger door, and jumped out of the car, Cameron—pistol in one hand, flashlight in the other—right behind her. They ran onto the porch and paused at the open doorway.
“Dad?” Cameron called into the darkness.
Lonnie didn’t answer.
Cameron stepped toward the doorway, but Allyson grabbed his arm to stop him.
“Stop. Listen to me. We can run. We can wake the neighbors. We can call the cops. ’Cause if we go through that door right now, we might never come out.”
She was scared, yes, but she’d already lost her father tonight. She didn’t want Cameron to die as well.
“I can’t wait,” Cameron said, almost apologetic. “It’s my father.”
Allyson understood. She gave him a nod. Cameron turned on his flashlight, and together they entered the Myers house.
* * *
Cameron’s flashlight illuminated their way, but its feeble beam only did so much to hold back the darkness. Shadows surrounded them, and Allyson imagined Michael Myers standing in every one of them, hidden, watching, waiting for the opportunity to strike. Cameron held his pistol in firing position, and Allyson had the shotgun shouldered and ready to blast the first thing that moved. She swung her weapon back and forth as they proceeded, scanning the darkness, searching for a hint of white among the black, for Michael’s mask—his true face. The hall closet door was open a crack, and a faint orange light flickered from within.
Allyson had a sudden sick feeling.
“Dad?” Cameron said.
He walked slowly toward the closet door, Allyson at his side. When he reached the door, he stretched out his hand, hesitated, then swung it quickly open. Allyson had a flash of a grotesque face staring at her, and without thinking, she pulled the shotgun’s trigger. The weapon roared, the stock kicked back into her shoulder, and the face exploded into a hundred fragments.
Cameron shined his flashlight on the carnage. Sitting atop a mound of junk were the remains of a jack-o’-lantern, among the pieces a small broken candle, a thin line of smoke curling from its wick.
“Goddammit,” Allyson swore. So much for stealth. If Michael was in the house, he knew they were here now.
From upstairs, they heard the sound of a phonograph needle scratching across a vinyl record, followed by music—an upbeat jazz tune, a Halloween song that Allyson didn’t recognize. Then came three loud thuds, as if someone was striking something with a heavy object.
Cameron looked to Allyson. She nodded, and they headed toward the stairs.
They ascended slowly, weapons ready, Cameron illuminating their way with his flashlight. The music became louder as they drew closer to the second floor, and in this context, Allyson found the singer’s cheerful voice to be one of the creepiest things she’d ever heard. It was almost like he was inviting them up, and she thought of the line from an old children’s poem—Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. She shivered and gripped the shotgun tighter.
When they reached the second-floor landing, they saw a crack of light coming from a partially open door. They slowly walked toward it, and as before, Cameron opened it quickly. This time, however, Allyson made sure to get a good look at the scene before blasting away with the shotgun.
It was a study—bookcases, secretary desk, stereo system—and two-middle aged men sat on a love seat, as if they were enjoying the music. One wore a pirate costume, the other a pair of pajamas with small pumpkins on them. The handle of a carving knife protruded from the pirate’s chest, and the other man had a paring knife jammed in his neck. There was no sign of Michael.
Both men’s eyes were wide and staring, and Allyson knew they were dead. Still, she had to make sure. She lowered the shotgun, stepped to the love seat, and reached a trembling hand toward the pirate’s neck. She placed two fingers against his skin. No pulse. She did the same for the other man, touching the undamaged side of his neck. He also didn’t have pulse.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
The music was driving her insane, so she went over to the turntable and switched it off. The silence came as an immediate relief. She turned back to the doorway, expecting to see Cameron, but he was gone.
* * *
Cameron could see that there was no danger in the study. Michael had been here, done his gruesome work, and moved on. Cameron stepped out of the room and directed his flashlight beam down the hallway, the light shaking in his hand. He couldn’t get the image of the two dead men out of his mind. Michael had killed them, then posed their bodies in a grotesque parody of domestic coziness. What might he have done to Cameron’s father? What if Michael was attacking him right now, and he needed help?
The flashlight illuminated a closet at the far end of the hallway. Michael had put a jack-o’-lantern in the closet downstairs. What might he have put in this one?
Cameron raised his gun and walked slowly toward the closet.
When he was halfway there, he felt something warm and wet strike the hand that held the pistol. He looked and saw a dot of blood on his skin. It was quickly followed by another, and then a third. Cameron swung his flashlight beam toward the ceiling and saw an attic access door. Crushed between the door and the frame was his father’s face—half of it, anyway—one eye wide, mouth open in a silent scream, blood running from one of his nostrils, dripping like thick, crimson rain.
“Dad!” Cameron shouted.
Now he knew what had caused that series of heavy thuds he and Allyson had heard from downstairs. Michael had pulled his father into the attic and crushed his head using the access door. See you at the finish line, buddy, his dad had said. For Lonnie Elam, this was the finish line.
Cameron heard a soft creaking noise then. He lowered his head, turned, saw the closet door open, and then Michael was coming at him, moving with inhuman speed. Cameron had lowered his gun when he saw his dad, but he raised it again now, ready to blow away the bastard maniac that had killed his father. But he was too slow. Michael got to him first, wrapped a hand around his throat, drove him backward, and slammed him against the wall next to the staircase. The impact knocked the breath out of Cameron, his hand sprang open, and the gun hit the floor and slid away. Michael lifted him off his feet then, and Cameron clawed at the man’s hand, trying to free himself. But it was no use. Michael’s grip was like iron.
Cameron saw Allyson then. She emerged from the study, sawed-off shotgun in her right hand, blood-stained butcher knife in her other. She’d pulled the blade from the pirate’s chest, he realized. Smart. She approached Michael, aimed the shotgun, tightened her finger on the trigger…
Michael wasn’t facing her, but somehow he was aware of her presence. Still holding onto Cameron’s throat with one hand, he spun around and knocked the shotgun out of Allyson’s grip with the other. The weapon fired, but the pellets struck the wall, leaving Michael unharmed. Undeterred, Allyson gritted her teeth, lunged toward Michael, and stabbed the butcher knife into his gut three times in rapid succession.
In that moment, Cameron thought he’d never seen anything more magnificent.
Michael let go of Cameron’s throat then, and he fell to the floor. Before Allyson could strike a fourth time, Michael grabbed the back of her head and slammed her face into the stair railing. She gasped in pain, and then he lifted her up—she seemed to weigh nothing to him—and hurled her down the staircase. She managed to keep hold of the knife as she tumbled downward, but when she hit the bottom floor, Cameron heard a sickening snap, and Allyson screamed in pain. She dropped the knife, took hold of her left leg with both hands and shouted, “Fuck!”
Michael stood at the railing, gazing down at her. She attempted to stand, but her left leg bent back at an unnatural angle, and with a cry of pain she collapsed to the floor. She was injured, badly, and Cameron knew there was no way she could outrun Michael now.
His throat felt as if it was on fire, and breathing was an effort, but he knew he had to do something fast if he was to have any chance of saving Allyson’s life. His gun lay on the floor several feet away, and he reached for it now. Michael, again with that uncanny sense of his, spun around to see what Cameron was doing. He stepped forward and stomped down on the gun before Cameron could get his fingers on it. He then leaned down and picked the weapon up. He straightened and looked at Cameron, and for an instant Cameron thought the killer was going to shoot him. But Michael tossed the gun through the open door of the study. He then returned to the railing to gaze down at Allyson once more.
She’d managed to rise and was supporting herself by holding onto the stair railing and keeping her weight on her right leg. Even now, she was still fighting, and Cameron had never loved her more than he did right then.
Without taking his eyes off Allyson, Michael reached down, grabbed the collar of Cameron’s coat, and pulled him toward the railing. He took hold of the back of his head, and before Cameron could even attempt to resist, Michael slammed his head between two of the railing’s wooden supports, breaking them. They tumbled downward and struck the floor close to where Allyson stood.
Cameron thought he might’ve blacked out for an instant, but then his vision cleared, and he saw Allyson pull herself up onto the first step. She was trying to get to him, to help him. But he was stuck in the railing, unable to free himself, and he knew there was no help for him now.
“Allyson, get out of here!” he shouted.
Michael still gripped the back of Cameron’s head, and he felt the man begin pulling his neck backward, exerting enormous pressure. He didn’t understand how this was possible. Allyson had stabbed the motherfucker in the stomach three times, and he was still going strong. Maybe, he thought, his father had been right all along. Maybe Michael Myers really was the Boogeyman.
Then his neck snapped, and he fell into eternal night.