Michael grabbed the keys from the hook in the foyer before moving into the garage. His eyes squirmed and then settled as he located the light switch. He jabbed at the button beside it and the garage door came to life. He studied the jumble of keys in his hand, all of its purpose had gone dead now. A couple of pumps of the key-less entry and he was sitting behind the wheel of a jet black Audi and tap dancing on the candy coated rev. He checked the fuel indicator . . full. And with a diesel engine to crunch tire on, it would bridge the five hour gap between his toes and Long Point, Illinois very nicely. He set the GPS and smiled.
With open road came enough leisure with which to settle his mind on some tunes. He plugged in the i-Pod he had gathered on his way out the door. He toggled at the concert panel, tapping the media selection into life and fingering his way through a stack of entries. Dr. Henley Warren had been an academic of some repute, but his taste in music? It was shit for. Michael switched over to satellite radio and pumped up some White Zombie before turning his attention to Warren’s smart phone.
Dr. Warren had lived the retrofitted American dream of the baby boomer generation. He had morphed from counterculture propagandist to stock market gangster, after which he moved his doctorate into a cushy tenure at a university. The sonofabitch had been a someone thanks to humping the backs of real someones.
Warren’s writings on cognitive dissonance produced four books, after which he scavenged the realm of Disassociative Identity Disorder for his profit. It was the chapter entitled “The Mythology of Michael Myers” that sealed the doctor’s fate. In the chapter, he opined on a culture that glorified monsters. As Warren saw it,
Our deification of fictionalized characters such as Michael Myers speaks of a nation whose lonely eyes are woefully out of focus. We created Myers from the ether, his existence a dubious counter punch to an establishment whose dictates have impaled all hope.
Warren wrote of Michael Myers as if a stranger. Despite having gained an audience with him in 1981, five years after Myers murdered his entire family in cold blood. He wrote of Myers as if clueless to that meeting. As if never having known that Michael Myers was a fictional representative of a real event.
But he knew, all of it. Warren had first learned of Myers through a little known scribe whose article on the Myers family murders in a weekly periodical was retracted in November of 1976, a week after it ran. The author of that piece, Reid Loomis, was the editor of the Long Point Herald. A brilliant writer, and a drunk. No one batted an eye when the story was retracted. And no one was shocked when Reid was found dead in his bathtub a couple weeks later.
The composite of Michael Myers happened into being on the crumbs of that long lost article by Loomis. It’s afterlife was achieved when a little known director by the name of John Carpenter bought the ‘premise’ from a government agent at a poker game in Los Angeles. For twenty bucks. After which Carpenter turned the nightmarish events into a rhythm sectioned profit center, never knowing how right he had been.
Urban legends work best when there is no one left to blame. And with Michael Myers imprisoned in a government facility for the rest of his natural born life, all that was left was the money to be made off those murders. Warren’s meeting with the fifteen year old Myers was of a classified nature. The Myers family murders had been sealed. Permanently.
This cloak of darkness had come as the result of an experimental drug born of Dante’s worst tale. HR-9 was developed by a team of U.S. Army doctors in the hopes that once the drug was perfected, it could be given to combatants. It would introduce a killing machine the likes of which the theater of war had never seen. Soldiers who were tireless, merciless and inhumanly strong.
Thomas Myers was a doctor in the program. His son, the last known casualty. The ten year old Myers had wandered down to his father’s basement office on Halloween night with his bag full of treats. When he found his father asleep on the sofa, he swapped a milky way bar for one of those pink discs on the desk. They looked like smarties, his favorite.
Hell was unleashed shortly thereafter when Michael bludgeoned his father, along with his mother Judith. After which he turned his attention to his teenage sister Audrey and his infant brother Jason. Michael was finally apprehended by police, running the streets in a blood crazed ruin.
Technology had gone wicked in its depth and reach since Michael had been shuttered away to a government facility in New Mexico for the rest of his natural born life. But Michael had kept up. He possessed thirty-seven years worth of unencumbered education on the world and now that he was free, he was prepared to show his full reach.
He would never own a permanent residence. His mind possessed volumes of information on cities and towns and hamlets- from San Diego, California to Estcourt Station, Maine. His whereabouts would prove as impossible to nail down as the wind. He would hide in the plain sight of cities that concerned themselves with low flying airliners and homemade bombs and striking Congressmen. He would go small town whenever those big brother subsidized empires started gaining on him.
Dr. Warren’s smart phone held names that mattered, Names that had once helped to make that horrible night in 1976 possible, and names that had helped to bury it. Names that were going to pay dearly for such a thing, just like Dr. Warren, whose head was resting comfortably at the bottom of the aquarium in his living room. To those who had passed, Michael would take his rage out on their families. It wasn’t fair, but neither was losing your life to a pill that never should have existed.
Michael set the Audi into cruise as his body went lazy on the leather seat and his brain went blank, in preparation. All those years of wondering what he might do with a life on the other side had served to turn his patience heavy. Now, he was busy slimming the purpose of it all into shape.
His new life would start in the sleepy bedroom town of Long Point, Illinois- better known to fans of cinematic horror as Haddonfield, He would visit a retired sheriff by the name of Laurie Strode and he would lay his response to Thomas Wolfe on her corpse, and it would read simply.
You can go home again.