'Fuck you mean go look?' Micheal shot the woman a look, incredulous. His brow furrowed deep, lips curled into a grimace.
"What you think this is—a horror movie?" he muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
The husband glanced at him. Their eyes met, and for a brief second, both men shared the same look of mutual disbelief.
'Go look? That's some white people shit,' Micheal thought to himself.
Jessica's voice broke through, sharp and annoyed. "Why are you two just standing there? He could still be in there."
She took a bold step toward the car.
Micheal's stomach dropped. He deadpanned, exhaling like a tired parent watching a toddler run into traffic. "Jess, get yo' ass back here! If there's a psycho murderer in that car, the smartest thing to do is not get close." He yanked her back, his fingers firm on her arm. "You tryna get all of us killed?"
Her face twisted in frustration. "What's wrong with you?"
But before Micheal could answer, the woman who had screamed earlier bolted back toward the pub, heels clattering, desperation in every stride. Jessica hesitated, then followed her, leaving the two men behind.
Micheal and the husband squinted at the car, staring at the darkened windows as if squinting hard enough might reveal the shadow inside. The night seemed to stretch, silent but for the faint hum of the streetlamp above.
The man finally extended his hand. "Name's Marcus."
"Micheal," he replied, shaking firmly.
Soon, the bar doors flew open. A flood of men spilled out, armed with bats, pipes, and sticks. Tommy Doyle led them, his face twisted with eagerness, a baseball bat gripped like a crusader's sword.
The mob surged toward the car.
Suddenly—
vrrrrrrm
The car's engine roared to life, the headlights flooding the parking lot in blinding white. At the same time, haunting opera music blasted through the speakers, so loud it rattled the glass. A voice shrieked in Latin, eerie and unholy, carried on static.
The crowd froze, a ripple of unease passing through them.
The radio began to shift wildly, cycling through stations at breakneck speed. Snippets of voices burst out—"Praise be to—static—kill him now—static—help me—static—" before settling back on that same twisted opera, louder than before.
Tommy's jaw clenched. He stepped forward, raising his bat.
With a shout, he swung.
CRACK!
The bat struck the car's window.
vrrrrrrrm!
The car roared like an animal and shot forward.
"MOVE!" Tommy shouted.
The mob scattered, men diving to the asphalt as the vehicle lunged. Tires screeched, rubber burning the air.
Micheal barely escaped, leaping sideways as the car's bumper clipped his jacket. He hit the ground hard, rolling across the gravel.
"Shit!" he cursed, breath ragged, pushing himself back to his feet.
vrrrrrrrm!
BANG!
The car swerved, slammed through a fence, and crashed violently into a nearby power station. Sparks exploded, wires screamed as electricity snapped across the metal. The stench of ozone filled the air, thick and acrid.
The mob rallied, shouting, weapons raised, surging forward.
Tommy, first to arrive, yanked the driver's door open. His eyes darted inside—
Empty.
Nobody was there.
The seatbelt dangled uselessly. The opera music cut out into dead static. Blood smeared the backseat in thick, dark streaks.
"Shit…" Tommy whispered.
The mob murmured in confusion, frustration bubbling into anger. Their voices rose, a chaotic din.
Micheal stood apart, a step behind the rowdy crowd. His chest tightened. His breath hitched. A chill slid down his spine, crawling cold over his skin. Goosebumps pricked his arms.
"Are you okay?" a voice pulled him back.
He blinked. Jessica stood in front of him, her hand brushing his arm. Her eyes were wide, worried, softer now than before.
"I'm fine. You?" Micheal asked, forcing calm into his voice.
"I'm okay," she murmured, though her gaze flicked nervously toward the car. Her voice dropped, heavy. "No one was in there… but there was blood. A lot of it."
Micheal nodded slowly, his eyes locked on the wrecked car. He knew what was coming, he remembered now. The mob would band together, chasing after Micheal Myers, and most of them wouldn't make it out alive at the end.
I need to get the fuck out of here.
"Let's just go. I need to rest—think I broke a rib," Micheal lied, putting a hand over his side for effect.
Her concern deepened immediately. "Really? Should I take you to the hospital?"
He shook his head quickly. "Nah, nah. I'll be fine. Just need a bed." He started walking toward her car without waiting.
Jessica hesitated, her gaze flicking to the mob one last time, then followed.
Soon, the car pulled away, headlights cutting into the night.
The interior was quiet, save for the hum of the engine and the faint hiss of the radio. Micheal leaned his head against the seat, staring at the blurred town lights passing by.
"You live far from here?" he asked, voice low.
Jessica's hands tightened slightly on the wheel. "Not exactly. My family lives on the outskirts—quiet, peaceful. But I rent a house here in town."
A song drifted faintly from the radio, melancholic piano keys echoing through the cabin.
"Why'd you move into town?" Micheal asked, glancing at her.
She bit her lip, her expression dimming. "I'm finally eighteen. I just wanted distance. My dad's… controlling." Her voice faltered, eyes fixed on the road. "Overbearing."
Micheal studied her. The faint glow of passing streetlights traced the sadness hidden in her face, painting shadows beneath her eyes.
Daddy issues. Great. He thought it, but didn't say it.
Jessica inhaled softly, her voice quieter now, as though afraid to let the words free. "I find time away from them peaceful. Less suffocating. But… I still visit on holidays."
Micheal shifted. "What about this one?"
Her knuckles whitened on the wheel. "No. Not Halloween."
The silence in the car grew heavier, the piano on the radio now sounding like a funeral dirge.
"Why not?" Micheal asked gently.
Jessica's eyes shimmered faintly, though no tears fell. Her voice cracked, raw. "Too many bad memories. My granny was killed by Michael Myers. Forty years ago. On his spree."
Her lips trembled, but she forced herself steady. "Every Halloween feels like a curse in my family. My mom lights a candle for her. My dad… he just drinks."
Micheal stared, his chest tight. "Damn. I'm… sorry."
Jessica shook her head. "Don't be. I never knew her. My family barely speaks about it. Like silence will make it less real. But every year, the grief hangs in the air. Heavy. Like she's still bleeding in the room with us."
Her eyes stayed locked forward, though her jaw quivered. "Halloween's just another day for everyone else. But for us? It's a wound that never healed."
The car was quiet except for the song fading into static.
Micheal said nothing. He just sat back, the image of that masked killer flashing through his mind,
And somewhere, in the dark streets of Haddonfield, something was moving.