"Let's get inside. It's chilly out here," Jessica said, pulling the hood of her faded gray hoodie over her head. The fabric hugged her damp hair, and the way she tugged the strings tight suggested she wanted more than just warmth—she wanted comfort, shelter, safety.
Without waiting for Michael's reply, she stepped away from the parked car and moved toward the curb, her sneakers crunching softly against the gravel. The neighborhood was quiet, almost unnervingly so, the kind of silence that felt staged rather than natural. Halloween night should have been alive with children's laughter, rustling candy bags, and distant porch chatter. Instead, there was only the hollow sound of her footsteps.
Jessica climbed the short set of stairs leading to her porch, the wood creaking faintly under her weight. Her house stood painted white, no different from most of the others in the neighborhood—a carbon copy in a row of suburban shells. Yet, to her, it was home. Reaching the door, she dug into her pocket, retrieved the brass key, and slid it into the lock. The metallic click echoed louder than it should have in the night's stillness. She pushed the door open slowly, peeking into the dim corridor beyond before her hand found the light switch.
With a muted snap, the hallway flooded with pale yellow light, swallowing the shadows and—if only for a moment—the tension clawing at the back of her mind. The faint smell of lavender cleaner and old wood greeted her. She exhaled, shoulders easing slightly.
Turning back, she expected Michael to be right behind her, but instead, she saw him still lingering by the car, eyes darting across the street like a guard dog refusing to lower its hackles.
"Are you coming?" she called, fatigue bleeding into her voice. Her body begged for rest. The adrenaline that had kept her wired through the evening was fading fast, leaving her hollow and trembling inside.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming. Just gimme a sec." Michael's tone was distracted, his head swiveling from side to side as though expecting something—or someone—to leap out from the shadows. His movements were sharp, jerky, fueled by tension.
Jessica frowned, impatience tugging at her features. "They're probably just asleep. Don't worry about it." Her voice carried no conviction, but she was too tired to entertain his paranoia. She stepped fully inside, leaving the door ajar for him.
Michael muttered under his breath, "Asleep? At this time?" His words were swallowed by the night as he finally followed her up the steps. In his chest, a different fire burned—not fatigue, but the sharp, gnawing paranoia of a man who had seen enough horror movies to know how this script went. He wasn't about to be a victim. No way.
Inside, Jessica kicked off her shoes and called back over her shoulder, "I'll heat up some leftovers for you. Bathrooms on the second floor if you need it." She disappeared into the kitchen, the hum of the fridge and the faint clatter of dishes following her.
Michael opened his mouth to protest. "You don't have to do—"
Grrrrrlluuuurrrk.
His stomach betrayed him with a deep, echoing rumble. He froze, eyes widening in embarrassment. Shit.
Thankfully, Jessica didn't seem to hear.
Without saying a word, he took her offer and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Each step groaned faintly beneath his weight, and every groan made him flinch. His paranoia had him flicking on every light switch he could find along the way. Each bulb hummed to life, casting pools of safety in the suffocating dark.
The hallway upstairs stretched narrow and plain, with two closed doors on either side and the bathroom sitting square in the middle. The frosted glass window in its door reflected his cautious face as he pushed it open.
Inside, the bathroom smelled faintly of lemon soap and shampoo. He lingered on the threshold, scanning every corner, even pulling aside the shower curtain just to make sure no knife-wielding maniac crouched inside waiting to strike. The paranoia wasn't ridiculous—not to him.
Satisfied, he approached the window above the sink. His fingers rattled the latch. Locked—tight. "Good," he muttered under his breath, a smirk tugging at his lips. At least she's cautious. Gotta respect that.
Peeking out, he saw the stretch of woods beyond the houses, branches like skeletal fingers swaying slightly in the night breeze. Further out, near a faintly lit clearing, sat an old playground. Rust clung to the metal frames, but he could just make out a see-saw rocking gently, the moonlight silvering its chipped paint.
And there—two figures. Kids, maybe twelve at most, sat perched at either end, staring straight ahead. No laughter. No motion. Just sitting, as still as statues.
Michael squinted, rubbed his eyes, then shook his head. "Heh. Kids these days," he muttered, shrugging off the unease prickling at the back of his neck. None of his business.
He yanked the curtain shut and began peeling himself out of the cheap costume clinging to his skin. Within moments, he was naked, goosebumps prickling across his arms and chest. He turned the faucet of the tub and the shower sputtered to life.
A rush of icy water struck his shoulders. He gasped, flinching backward as the chill sliced through him.
"Pfffhhhhh!" His breath hissed out, steam fogging the mirror. He clenched his teeth, adjusted the knob, and slowly allowed his body to relax under the stream. The water coursed down his back, washing away sweat and grime. For the first time since this nightmare began, he felt a sliver of calm.
But calm brought memory. And memory brought dread.
I'm in a horror movie world. His thoughts raced as cold droplets trickled down his spine. And with, the curse, this kinda luck? No doubt I'll end up marked—maybe by Michael Myers himself. Just my damn luck.
The thought curdled in his gut, threatening to send him spiraling, but a sudden sound yanked him back to reality.
Creeeeaaaak.
The bathroom door swung open sharply.
"AAAHHHH!" Jessica's high-pitched scream rang out as she froze in the doorway.
Michael's body reacted before his mind caught up. Adrenaline shot through him like a jolt of electricity. His muscles snapped tight, and instinct hurled him into a one-legged Taekwondo stance, hands raised like a seasoned martial artist facing down death itself.
Jessica's face burned red as she stared hard at the tiles. "Oh my God—I'm sorry! Force of habit! I forgot you were in here!" Her voice trembled with embarrassment.
Her cheeks flushed crimson, eyes glued to the floor. "S-sorry!" she stammered again before bolting out and slamming the door behind her.
Water pattered around Michael as he remained frozen in stance, dripping wet, one leg raised, ass clenched. He looked less like a terrified man and more like some enlightened kung-fu monk caught mid-flow, balanced between panic and absurdity.
For a long moment, he stayed locked there, trembling—not from fear, but from the ridiculousness of it all.
And then, slowly, he exhaled.