Halloween E-Book

John Passarella

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The official novelization of the highly anticipated revamp of the classic horror film Halloween.In 1978, Laurie Strode survived an encounter with Michael Myers, a masked figure who killed her friends and terrorized the town of Haddonfield, Illinois on Halloween night. Myers was later gunned down, apprehended and committed to Smith's Grove State Hospital. For forty years, memories of that nightmarish ordeal have haunted Laurie and now Myers is back once again on Halloween, having escaped a routine transfer, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. This time, Laurie is prepared with years of survival training to protect herself, her daughter Karen and her granddaughter Allyson, a teenager separated from her family and enjoying Halloween festivities.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

Acknowledgments

About the Author

HALLOWEEN

THE OFFICIAL MOVIE NOVELIZATION

HALLOWEEN

THE OFFICIAL MOVIE NOVELIZATION

BY

JOHN PASSARELLA

TITAN BOOKS

Halloween – The Official Movie Novelization

Hardback edition ISBN: 9781789090529

E-book edition ISBN: 9781789090536

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: October 2018

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Cover Image © 2018 Universal Studios. All Rights Reserved.

© 2018 Miramax, LLC. All Rights Reserved. MIRAMAX and HALLOWEEN are the trademarks or registered trademarks of Miramax, LLC. Used under license.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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For my wife, Andrea Passarella,

who declares her favorite movie & favorite

holiday with the same word,

HALLOWEEN

1

SMITH’S GROVE, ILLINOIS

Decades of funding neglect had reduced Smith’s Grove State Hospital to a depressing cement and cinderblock psychiatric purgatory, an institutional eyesore steeped in perpetual grunge from which emanated a mélange of sour odors ineffectively masked by a haphazard dash of harsh disinfectants. Overhead fluorescents fought a losing battle, a literal dying of the light, as some tubes flickered warnings of imminent failure. Meanwhile, the incessant buzzing threatened to scour from the troubled mind any last vestiges of sanity. And yet, despite her gloomy surroundings, Dana Haines struggled to contain a nervous excitement.

They had an unprecedented opportunity in front of them. All their planning and preparation had led them to this moment, a major coup. While Aaron signed the requisite paperwork at the security station’s check-in desk, Dana removed the digital recorder from the bag slung over her shoulder, switched it on, slipped headphones over her ears, and held the embedded microphone close to her mouth. “Check, check.”

Aaron exchanged a look with her, mirroring her anticipation.

With the hint of a smile, she tilted the mic toward him.

“Testing, testing,” he said in his measured, professional voice. “One, two, three.”

With an approving nod, she said, “Ah, sticking with the classic.”

“Appropriate, yes?”

“Of course.”

She held the recorder at arm’s length, sweeping it through a slow arc from left to right. Even on this side of the security station, disturbing sounds bled through in unexpected bursts: a bout of maniacal laughter, fists pounding on a metal door, a mournful wail. For a fleeting moment she acknowledged that a normal person would react to everything she’d seen and heard thus far by vacating the premises. But Aaron Joseph-Korey and she were cut from different cloth. They followed the story wherever it led. And their brand of stories never led them to day spas and sandy beaches.

“You need to sign the waiver,” Aaron reminded her.

Momentarily confused, she frowned. “Waiver?”

“Enter at your own risk and all that,” he said. “The usual.”

“Of course,” she said. “Walk the walk.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.” Setting down the recorder, she picked up the pen attached to the clipboard at the security desk and addressed the guard facing her. “Where do I sign?”

Wordlessly, the guard jabbed his index finger at the line on the bottom of a form she didn’t bother to read. One disclaimer was like any other, an institution’s preemptive evasion of responsibility distilled into the simple declaration that, if anything bad happens, it’s not their fault. Or another way of saying, you were warned.

Behind the desk, other security guards viewed monitor feeds, although one focused on a game of computer solitaire while another riffled through manila folders in an under-the-counter filing cabinet. Behind them, facing the security window overlooking a common room, a nurse with hair pulled into a severe bun switched on a turntable and placed the needle over a spinning record. After an initial hiss, the needle found its groove and “Pick Yourself Up” from Swing Time played, piped through wall speakers otherwise reserved for a PA system.

As Dana scooped up her recorder she focused her attention on the common room’s three occupants. A lab-coated doctor, whose wavy hair and full mustache had almost made the complete transition to gray, spoke to a slump-shouldered patient flanked by a grizzled security guard while trying to write on a prescription pad. Frustrated, he shook the ballpoint pen, tried again, and tossed it in a nearby trash can before removing a more elegant pen from his lab coat pocket.

Beside Dana, Aaron whispered, “That’s him.”

The doctor completed the prescription, signed his name, tore off the sheet of paper, and passed it to the guard. As the guard turned to escort his charge back to his room or the hospital pharmacy, Dana glimpsed the name stitched on the breast pocket of his uniform: Kuneman.

Though she had instinctively raised the mic toward the security door during the exchange, she doubted it was sensitive enough to pick up details of the brief conversation, especially over the peppy music that had, thankfully, drowned out the incessant buzzing of fluorescent lights.

The doctor glanced up at his visitors and nodded. Aaron sported khaki trousers and trainers with his gray wool overcoat and a long blue-gray checked scarf. With her long maroon coat, Dana wore a knee-length brown-and-tan patterned dress, brown hose, and suede ankle boots. Not her idea of casual, but too late now to wonder if they should have dressed more professionally for the meeting. Besides, they’d presented themselves as journalists. Might as well look the part.

The security guard closest to the window pressed a button beneath the desk, triggering the loud buzz of the door lock mechanism disengaging and the metallic squeal of security bars retracting. A green light flashed on as the doctor pushed open the door to greet them.

“Good afternoon,” he said with a thick accent. “I’m Dr Ranbir Sartain.”

“Thank you for taking the time to meet with us,” Dana said, wondering if he’d view their British accents as similarly thick. “We were hoping to have this opportunity before he is transferred to the new facility. Glass Hill is far less accommodating.”

His disdain evident, Ranbir said, “Glass Hill is the pit of hell. Underfunded and short-staffed. For years he has been kept here to be studied. I suppose the state has lost interest in discovering anything further.”

Considering their present surroundings, Dana imagined Glass Hill must be spectacularly awful. Perhaps they employed medieval torture devices to keep their patients in line.

“Well…” Aaron said. “That’s why we’re here.”

Best to assure Ranbir up front they were on his side.

Dana glanced down at her recorder. “Do you mind if I record this?”

Sartain smiled agreeably. “Why not?”

Once they were inside, the door lock buzzed again, this time with the unnerving finality of a sprung trap. Ranbir escorted them down a dim hallway, past one shuffling patient who avoided their gaze, mumbling to himself as if completely unaware of them. The disturbed faces of other patients, some with clinical escorts, many behind barred doors, flashed by them, frozen moments of fear and confusion, hope and resignation, agitation and resentment. Dana paused briefly, caught by the sight of a patient with unkempt hair, his lips pulled back from yellowed, uneven teeth. He grimaced and squirmed, plucking imaginary insects from his body and crushing them between his fingers before hurling them aside. In an endless loop, he muttered, “Too many, too many, too many…”

In a nearby room, a wizened old man sat in the corner, arms wrapped around folded legs, staring into the distance as he rocked back and forth with metronomic regularity.

Too many seemed lost in their own minds or trapped in an unwelcome reality. Unlike the needle of the nurse’s turntable, they hadn’t found the groove to move forward and knew only the hiss and crackle of not fitting in, of unfulfilled potential.

Dana pulled her attention back to Sartain’s voice, grateful she’d been recording him, so she could go back and listen to anything she might have missed. His accent, at least, helped her focus on his words. Raising the mic, she asked, “How long have you been working with him?”

“I’ve examined every case file written on him,” Ranbir said. “I was a student of Dr Loomis before he passed away. Then I lobbied the University of Illinois to be assigned to Michael myself.”

“Any progress?”

“He has been seen by over fifty clinical psychiatrists. And with each, many different opinions.” He paused for effect. “Loomis concluded that he was nothing more than pure evil.”

“And do you agree with this diagnosis?”

“Evil is not a diagnosis,” Sartain replied. “Under my care, we implemented a holistic form of therapy. Since that time, his tendency for violence has essentially been erased.”

Aaron asked, “His response to your specific treatment has been effective?”

Sartain turned to look at them as they continued down the corridor. “We left two kitty cats in his cell overnight and both were retrieved unharmed.” Smiling, he spread his hands. “I hate to disappoint you.”

Aaron stopped walking. “So, are you telling us that there is no similarity between the homicidal maniac that made headlines in 1978 and the… amenable patient of this institution?”

Sartain laughed. “Michael Myers is an evolving, aging animal like we all are. And although we have worked very closely with him, these halls display the limitations of my analysis.”

Nodding, Dana took in their surroundings again. Stone walls, steel doors, iron bars. A caged animal, she thought.

“Loomis saw Michael as an animal in the wild,” Ranbir continued, leading them farther down the hall. “He witnessed human behavior at its most primal, while the rest of us only have the opportunity of observation in captivity.”

Sartain paused at a heavy door and removed a key from his trouser pocket to unlock it. “A bigger cage,” he said as he pulled open the door and led them out into the hospital’s courtyard, “is still a cage.”

Dana blinked, her eyes adjusting to the change in brightness despite overcast skies. She pulled the headphones from her ears and let them rest around her neck. Here and there it seemed as if the sun might break through the cloud cover, but she would bet against it. She sensed a storm brewing.

In the open air, surrounded on all four sides by two-story white concrete walls and barred windows, the courtyard offered plenty of space but no real sense of freedom. After a while, a patient might have the sensation of roaming in a wide pit with a concrete floor decorated like a checked game board, with alternating squares of muted red and gray. No bushes or trees to provide a link to nature. No murals or decorations to engage the mind. Sterile, Dana thought. No mental reprieve from institutional confinement.

As Aaron and she followed Sartain, Dana noticed a man with burn scars on one side of his face, his neck contorted at what must have been a painful angle. Perhaps he’d become accustomed to it, adapted to the limitation. With the passage of enough time, she wondered, could any infirmity or limitation become normalized?

All the patients in the courtyard wore shackles, wrist and ankle manacles connected by chains around their waists. In their drab white hospital inmate tunics—some with a stenciled “S.G.” or “Smith’s Grove” in black letters—they could walk, but not run, their overall mobility limited. An older, balding man with long wispy gray hair trailing from the sides of his head walked under the protection of a white umbrella. To Dana’s right, an old man with sparse gray hair and burn scars on his face clutched the arms of his wheelchair as a clinical escort pushed him along the perimeter of the courtyard. A dark-haired man—young enough to be a teenager—stood within the confines of a single muted-red square as if performing mental calculations to determine which square he should move to next. The fingers of both hands, held at his sides, rippled from index to little finger in a repeated pattern. Several other patients shambled along in their shackles, content to traverse a space much wider than the confines of a cell.

“Our patients get fresh air and sunshine, a view, proper exercise, a healthy diet. It pains me to see him transferred to a ‘less than desirable’ facility.” Sartain pointed to an open area at the center of the courtyard. “There he is. He can speak. He just chooses not to.”

Aaron and Dana both stared in the direction Sartain had pointed, anxious to get the first glimpse of the subject of their visit. There! She spotted him—the shape of a man—a man who had assumed mythic proportions in her mind, a man who had slipped the bonds of his humanity to become something else, something other. Malevolence incarnate. But that was precisely why they had come: to strip away the misperceptions of urban legend and expose the man, to understand what had shaped him and motivated him to commit his heinous acts. Rather than something unknowable, he was a mystery to be solved.

Beams of fractured sunlight had begun to slice through the cloud cover, dappling the courtyard with intermingled sections of light and shadow. To Dana it seemed as if a veil were lifting.

The Shape stood sixty feet away, shackled to a block of concrete on the ground, like an anchor, in the middle of the courtyard, his back to them. A yellow-painted square created a twenty-foot frame around him. Tall and strong—but aged. Close-cropped gray hair, but mostly bald now. Urban legends didn’t age, but he had. Forty years left no one unscathed, not even him.

Beyond the painted square two security guards stood watch on either side of him. Other patients roamed the rows and columns of painted squares nearby, but all stayed well clear of the yellow warning zone. Despite any mental infirmities they might possess, their sense of self-preservation remained strong enough to keep them far from his reach.

While Dana had struggled earlier to contain her nervous energy, Aaron’s excitement had simmered beneath the surface, almost unnoticed, until this moment, with Michael Myers in their line of sight. Aaron stepped forward as if entranced by The Shape.

“I’d love to stand near him and get a sense of his awareness… or lack of awareness.”

“Make no mistake,” Sartain said. “He is aware. He was watching you as you arrived. When he’s not out here in the courtyard, he walks from this window to that window, to the other. Observing things.”

Aaron exchanged a look with Dana. So close, and yet neither of them knew what would happen next. Not that they expected Michael Myers existed in a state of catatonia, but what did he think, what did he feel—if he felt anything—after all this time? Finally, they hoped to have some answers.

Dr. Sartain addressed Aaron, “And perhaps you’d like to tie your left shoelace. Mr Tovoli, the gentleman with the umbrella, has a fixation for such things. Underestimate no one.”

Without their having noticed, the patient holding the white umbrella—in preparation for rain or to ward off the sunlight—had drifted into their orbit. As Dr Sartain spoke, the man bit a fingernail and smiled at them in dark delight.

An embarrassed expression flitted across Aaron’s face a moment before he bent down to tie the lace of his gray trainer. Disappointed, umbrella man wandered off. Dana thought she heard him sigh.

After Aaron composed himself, Dr Sartain said, “Step up to the yellow line. No further. Do not pass the line under any circumstances.”

Sartain exchanged meaningful looks with the security guards, no doubt seeking reassurance that nothing had upset Michael Myers leading up to their visit, anything that might trigger an unexpected reaction or violent behavior. One guard gave a slight nod, which Sartain returned.

He ushered Aaron and Dana to the yellow line on the concrete. The Shape, shackled within the painted barrier, did not turn to face them. Sartain called out to him, raising his voice a level above his conversational tone, “Michael. I have some people who would like to meet you.”

Impatient, Aaron cleared his throat.

“Michael. My name is Aaron. I’ve followed your case for years, and I still know very little about you. I want to know more about that night. About those involved.”

His back to them, The Shape stood motionless.

And silent.

No reaction whatsoever to Sartain or to Aaron.

Growing a bit uncomfortable with the continued silence, perhaps, Aaron sought to pry a reaction out of him. “Do you think of them? Feel guilt about their fate?”

Nothing.

Aaron looked to Dana, shrugged. She stepped close to him. To lend moral support, but also in preparation for what would come next.

“Do you remember Laurie Strode?” Aaron asked. Generalities hadn’t penetrated his indifferent veneer, so maybe specifics would. One particularly specific detail.

At the mention of Laurie Strode, The Shape stretched his fingers—and then his hands became still at his side. Sartain noticed the brief movement.

“Did she remind you of your sister, Michael?” Aaron asked, seeking a breakthrough. “Is that why you chose her?”

The Shape half turned toward them. For a breathless moment, Dana thought he would respond… but then nothing. Frustrated, Aaron looked back at Sartain. The time had come, per their discussion prior to the visit. Understanding the meaning of Aaron’s inquiring gaze, Sartain nodded, giving permission for them to proceed.

Aaron took a deep breath and looked to Dana.

Of course, she knew exactly what he wanted.

She unzipped her bag.

Aaron addressed Michael: “I borrowed something from a friend at the Attorney General’s office. Something I’d like you to see.”

As Aaron reached inside Dana’s shoulder bag, she noticed a slight trembling of his fingers. He pulled out a portion of a white Halloween mask, a piece of Michael Myers’ history.

Sartain moved forward to observe the exchange.

Clutching it by the fake hair in back, Aaron held the full mask out before him, like bait or a lure, designed to provoke a reaction—any reaction.

The Shape stood motionless.

But the other patients in the courtyard became restless, agitated, pacing madly. Concerned, Dana looked around. It’s as if they sense something on an atavistic level inaccessible to us, she thought. Heedless, Aaron continued to hold the mask at arm’s length, like a silent accusation.

“You recognize this, don’t you, Michael?” Aaron said, his voice elevated, his tone accusing, if only to provoke a response. Though worn, creased and frayed a bit at the edges due to the passage of time, the mask would be unmistakable to him. “How does this make you feel? Say something.”

A few of the patients started screaming. The young man stuck on his red square dropped to his knees and pressed his palms to his temples, moaning. The burned man in the wheelchair wailed, digging his fingernails into the ruined side of his face as if trying to expose the bone underneath.

Most alarmingly to Dana, some of the patients tested the strength of their chains, tugging their wrists and ankles against the unforgiving metal until their limbs began to bleed with their frantic efforts. She wondered if bloodied hands would be slippery enough to slide free. And once freed, would they try to stop the cause of their agitation, the presence of the interlopers?

And yet Aaron was undeterred. He shouted, “Say SOMETHING!”

By now all the patients in the courtyard had worked themselves into an uncontrolled frenzy, a chorus of madness. All but one.

The Shape remained eerily still.

2

HADDONFIELD, ILLINOIS

Already awake by the time her alarm clock buzzed, Allyson reached out and switched it off before the sound disturbed anyone else in the house. She’d always been a morning person, accused at times by close friends and family of being annoyingly chipper at dawn while they clung to their energy drinks or steaming mugs of coffee as if they were life preservers. A new day presented new opportunities, and Allyson figured, if you planned to seize the day, you might as well start with the beginning of it.

She’d picked out her workout clothes the night before, but the forecast called for a chilly morning, so she opened her closet door and flipped through the bustling row of hangers, sliding aside her tops until she came upon her gray quarter-zip running jacket with long pink-and-navy-striped sleeves, which paired well with her powder-blue running shorts. As she slipped on the jacket, she turned back to her room, her gaze falling—as if for the first time—on some of the childhood crafts and mementos she’d never tossed or boxed for attic storage. Middle-school crafts, a few stuffed animals, a Magic 8-Ball and a few items she’d probably be embarrassed to have on display if any high-school friends dropped by. At seventeen years old, she had a late-adolescent duty to move on and grow up, but somehow the transitional task of “putting away childish things” had never assumed any real urgency.

She closed the door to her closet—which surely had enough free space to hold at least a few of those childhood artifacts—made her bed and slipped out into the cool morning air. After putting her light-brown hair up in a ponytail she performed a few dynamic stretches to warm up before launching into her morning run. Even so, it took several blocks before she worked out the kinks in her stride and began to focus on her breathing and form. Once fully engaged in her run she felt as if she were meditating in motion, her breathing steady and controlled. Her movements fluid, natural, and calm, she passed a five-foot-high wrought-iron fence bordering a house now beyond the periphery of her vision. In the blink of an eye she caught a blur of motion and—

—a dog lunged at the fence, barking ferociously.

Allyson’s heart rate spiked, and she stumbled, veering from the fence, her last breath lodged in her throat. But the dog stayed on his side of the fence, no immediate threat to her, allowing her to regain her composure after several uneven strides. A few deep, calming breaths and the moment slipped behind her, but not forgotten. She chided herself for breaking one of the cardinal rules for running alone. Always be aware of your surroundings.

Her “seize the day” mentality had a relevant corollary: stay in the moment. Not always easy for someone her age. Like her friends, she tended to agonize over past missteps and then second- and triple-guess every future decision. With practically her whole life in front of her, she had as many ways to succeed as to spiral into failure due to poor choices. But that wasn’t the real worry. What if the paths to success were obscured and hard to find, while the roads to failure were broad? Or the ultimate fear—that success waited at the far end of a tightrope in a rough wind.

Slowing, she ran past a residential community garden and noticed many of the flowers and vegetables had died. Inside the garden, a woman wearing a red-and-orange saree wrapped a plant to protect it from the changing weather, the chill in the air. Breathing deeply, hands on her hips, Allyson stopped and watched the patient woman. Something in the way she handled the plant made Allyson think of a parent trying to protect her child from the random cruelties awaiting her out in the world.

* * *

While Karen, Allyson’s mother, prepared breakfast, juggling her attention between bacon in a skillet, eggs in a frying pan, and a stack of bread for the toaster, Ray proceeded with single-minded purpose in slathering peanut butter over the catch of a mouse trap. Karen wondered if Ray anticipated the mouse gorging itself before the trap sprung.

“You see this?” Ray said. “I switched from marshmallow fluff to peanut butter. We’ll see if the little devil snatches it.”

“Leave any in the jar?”

“Oh, there’s enough for another trap,” Ray said.

Playing at the level of a background conversation, the countertop radio alternated between periodic traffic reports for the morning rush hour and the drive-time DJ crew laughing at an intern convinced the radio station was haunted. Karen assumed they were pranking the young man, but had trouble following the conversation as Ray had also turned on the TV for a dose of the morning news but had inadvertently switched to a channel whose programming consisted solely of earnest infomercials. “But wait, there’s more…” There was always more. A deal too good to pass up. For a limited time only. Operators were standing by.

After setting the catch lever notch in the opening to set the trap, Ray crouched to open the cabinet and reached toward the back to set it down. “Freeloader’s days are numbered.”

“Worried he’ll take a seat at the breakfast table?”

“You’re a lovely woman,” Ray said. “But you lack the killer instinct.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Karen said, laughing. She flipped an egg and absently brushed her hand against the skillet of bacon, burning a finger. “Ouch!”

“You okay?”

“It’s nothing,” she said, pressing her finger to her lips. An occasional minor burn was the price paid by a busy cook, the fine for multitasking in the kitchen.

“No aloe plant?”

“Keep forgetting.”

Fresh from her post-run shower, Allyson entered the kitchen in school clothes, a pink cardigan and jeans, fussing with her backpack zipper. She always seemed three steps ahead of everyone else in the house. Karen wished she had as much energy as her daughter. “Everything okay?”

“Stupid zipper,” Allyson said. “Always gets stuck.”

“Try some WD-40,” Ray said absently as he prepped a second mouse trap.

“Ew? Seriously? That stuff reeks!”

“What? It evaporates.”

Allyson yanked on the zipper. “Besides, the zipper teeth are caught on the cloth.”

While Karen doled out breakfast portions to three plates, she said to Allyson, “I rescheduled my last session, so I’ll be able to make it tonight.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Allyson said, finally freeing the zipper. “It’s not that big of a deal,” she added casually.

Maybe too casually, Karen thought.

“Of course it is,” Ray said, satisfied that he had a big enough dollop of peanut butter on the second trap to tempt the most suspicious of rodents. “You got into National Honor Society. It’s a very big deal.” With the catch lever in place, he carefully withdrew his fingers. “I was top of my shop class, making ashtrays and birdhouses.”

Allyson nodded at the mouse trap. “No instruments of death?”

“Unfortunately, inventing a better mousetrap has so far eluded me.”

Karen navigated to the kitchen table, carrying two of three plates. “And we’re looking forward to meeting Cameron.”

“I knew his father, Lonnie, and his Uncle Wames. The entire Elam family has a… reputation.”

Karen shot him a disapproving look. “Ray, c’mon.”

“What? You know about his situation,” Ray said, picking up the loaded trap. “It’s a relevant factor. The whole household is—”

As he turned toward a different cabinet he jostled the trap and it snapped in his hand, the hammer smashing his finger. Startled, Ray flinched, dropping the trap and what remained of its blob of bait to the floor. Blood welled up from his finger. “Goddam it!”

“Don’t look at me,” Karen said. “I suggested a humane trap.”

“That’s not fair, Dad,” Allyson said, failing to stifle a laugh. “Cameron isn’t like that. He’s a nice guy.”

Karen retrieved the third plate and set it on the table. Maybe, for once, they’d all have time to have breakfast together.

Ray walked to the sink to wash his finger under cold water then dabbed it with a paper towel. “I’m not saying he’s not nice. It’s just—you’re too smart to go out with troublemakers and dipshits.”

“You’re right,” Allyson agreed, since she thought of Cameron as neither one nor the other. Karen filled three mugs with coffee while Ray grabbed a carton of orange juice from the fridge.

Allyson sat at the table. “Did you guys invite Grandmother like you said you would?”

Karen exchanged a look with Ray, a knowing exchange between the adults Allyson pretended not to notice. But Karen had caught the quick flicker of her gaze before she poked at a fried egg with her fork.

“I did,” Karen said, after too long a pause. “Talked to her yesterday.” She took a breath before sitting. “She’s not going to be able to make it.”

Allyson grabbed her backpack sitting on the empty chair beside her and gave her mother a skeptical look as she pulled the zipper tight. “Really?”

Ray sat opposite Allyson, avoiding eye contact with her by directing his attention to Karen. “Bad morning for fingers,” he said to her. “Which one did you burn?”

Karen waggled it at him, her gaze remaining on her daughter, but when Ray kissed her finger, she couldn’t miss the disapproving look he gave her. Probably trying to tell her, Allyson’s not buying it. Pull the ripcord, bail out, before it’s too late.

Karen remained committed, for Allyson’s sake. At least that’s what she kept reminding herself. “She’s agoraphobic. In serious need of cognitive… um… behavioral—”

Fortunately, as Karen had begun to flail, losing more credibility with each word that passed her lips, the doorbell rang.

“Vicky’s here,” Allyson said. “I gotta go.”

“But you haven’t eaten any of your breakfast,” Karen said.

Allyson looked down at her plate then back at her mother. “I’ve had enough,” she said, letting the statement hang for a moment. After a glance at the fruit bowl on the table, she added to lighten the mood, “Ate a banana before my run this morning.”

“But—but, where’s the protein?” Karen asked as Allyson wound her way out of the kitchen.

“In a bar in my bag,” Allyson called from the next room. “I’ll eat it on the way.”

“You know,” Karen said to Ray, “I don’t believe she has a protein bar in her backpack.”

Ray pushed away his own plate and stood up, staring down at her.

“Karen?” Ray said with exasperation, shaking his head. “What the hell?”

3

By the time Allyson stepped outside, Vicky and Dave had retreated to the curb. Sipping mango bubble tea from a clear plastic cup, Vicky wore her denim jacket, decorated with her growing collection of metal pins, over a maroon ringer t-shirt with a white collar and dark overalls. Her red Converse high-tops added a splash of color. Her straight blond hair flowed over the leather strap of her large knit shoulder bag, which she carried instead of the standard high-school backpack. Dave, on the other hand, toted the expected backpack with the addition of a green canvas pouch slung in front of him, which—if Allyson had to guess—contained non-school-approved supplies. He wore his fur-trimmed hat, a flannel coat with Navajo patterns, dark-green cargo pants and scuffed brown boots.

Of course, they had no plan to leave for school without her. They’d stepped away from the front door in case Allyson hadn’t been the one to answer the doorbell, because Dave had already—big surprise—fired up a joint. As she joined them, he took a deep hit, no longer concerned about discretion.

“Off to an early start, Dave,” Allyson commented. Then immediately worried she’d come across as too judgmental after sitting through her mother’s performance.

“Medicinal,” Dave said.

“How’s that?”

“Don’t ask,” Vicky said, rolling her eyes.

“For school,” Dave said, grinning. “Raises my bullshit tolerance quotient.”

Vicky cast a sidelong look at Allyson. “Told you not to ask.”

Despite his nonchalant attitude, Dave trailed a bit behind them as they walked, effectively shielded from any approaching adults, keeping the joint low at his side when not pressed between his lips.

Every house they passed displayed a variety of Halloween decorations, but most had at least one jack-o’-lantern on their steps or beside the front door and faux cobwebs stretched across bushes, windows, or doorways. Except Allyson’s house, which was the exception that proved the rule.

Vicky nudged her with an elbow. “Something bothering you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You seem tense,” Vicky said. “Instead of relaxed. Like you usually are. After your morning run. What gives?”

“Yeah, well,” Allyson said. “My mom is a liar. She told me she invited my grandmother tonight, but she didn’t. She never even contacted her.”

“How do you know?”

“I called her.”

“Your grandmother?”

Allyson nodded.

“That’s bullshit,” Dave chimed in.

“What’s your mom’s deal?” Vicky asked. “Why would she say that?”

“She literally just tries to keep me away from her. Turns into a nutcase this time of year.”

“If I were you guys,” Vicky said, “I wouldn’t celebrate either. I’d put up a Christmas tree instead. Just skip over all the spooky Halloween shit, right?”

Feeling the effects of his joint, Dave nodded seriously. “Jumping to Thanksgiving would make sense. Puritans, cornucopias, plagues, starvation, slaughtering the Indians. That stuff isn’t creepy at all.”

“Dave,” Vicky said. “You’re rambling.”

“What can I say? I’m a ramblin’ man.”

“Oh, brother,” Vicky said, shaking her head. Turning to Allyson, she said, “Does she ever talk about it?”

“Pretty much all she talks about. It defines her life. She’s been traumatized ever since. You should see her house.”

“Freaky.”

Dave frowned in thought. “Wasn’t it her brother that cold-blooded murdered all those babysitters?”

“No,” Allyson said. “I think people made up the bit about them being related because it made them feel better. Like it couldn’t just happen to anyone.”

“I mean, that is scary,” Vicky said with a sympathetic shudder. “To have a bunch of your friends get butchered by some rando crazy person.”

“Is it though?” Dave asked. “I just feel like the world has way worse shit now. One dude just killing a few people, I don’t know.”

Vicky glanced back at him in disbelief. “Her grandmother is a badass and was almost fucking murdered, Dave!”

“And she escaped!” he said, taken aback by Vicky’s explosive reaction. “And he was caught! He’s, like, super-incarcerated right now.” He held up both hands in a placating gesture. “I’m just saying it’s not like the absolute worst thing that has happened to a person. By today’s standards.”

Vicky stopped in her tracks and whirled around to face him. “Shut up, Dave. Stop talking.”

“I’m sorry,” Dave said. “I sensed myself going on a rant and didn’t know how to eject. Sorry.”

Allyson was almost as surprised as Dave by Vicky’s defense of her grandmother’s ordeal. While Vicky frequently teased Dave, busting his balls now and then, her tone usually remained in the snark zone rather than emotional outbursts.

Noticing another jack-o’-lantern on a decorative bale of hay, Dave’s eyebrows rose, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. Or perhaps he merely wished to deflect attention away from his rambling faux pas to escape Vicky’s ire. “You guys cool if I explode this pumpkin head?”

With a flicker of a smile, Vicky said, “Yes, please.”

Allyson plucked the stem lid off the jack-o’-lantern. “Go for it.”

Dave fished what looked like an M-80 out of his jacket pocket and lit the fuse with the dwindling roach, which was almost short enough now to burn his fingers.

“Houston, we have ignition,” Dave said, dropping the firecracker through the carved opening. Allyson replaced the lid. Dave set the jack-o’-lantern on the sidewalk. Allyson could hear the fuse sizzling. “Go!”

As they ran clear of the blast zone, Dave yelled, “Wooooo! Happy Halloween!”

Allyson glanced over her shoulder at the muffled whump!

Orange chunks and pumpkin gore splattered the sidewalk, a nearby fence and the rear quarter panel of a white SUV. The three of them couldn’t stop laughing.

4

Basically, Laurie Strode had turned the backyard of her farmhouse into a shooting range. Although the term “backyard” in her case was an oversimplification. The rear of her property was bordered by wilderness, secluded from any neighbors who might file noise complaints or poke around where they might inadvertently place themselves in her line of fire.

Of course she could have honed her marksmanship skills at a traditional shooting range, reserving her land for holiday cookouts, family get-togethers, rounds of badminton and horseshoes. Hell, even a garden. But that stuff hardly mattered. Family was kind of a sore spot, though not by her choice. She had to honor her daughter’s wishes—as much as it pained her. And though she enjoyed lawn games as much as the next person, shuttlecocks and horseshoes were impractical for self-defense.

Besides, a backyard shooting range made regular practice as easy as rolling out of bed. Less likely to skip practice under those circumstances.

When it came to self-defense there were no excuses for Laurie. She hadn’t let her guard down in a long time. Not that it helped her psyche. She hadn’t felt safe—truly safe—in forty years. But she was prepared…