It's warm when you wake. November has somehow been left behind for a heat more fitting of July. Sweat gathers on the back of your neck, the small of your back. You want to kick the blankets off, to strip off your clothing and let the fan cool you- only to have large, so very warm hands find the skin of your sides. Deliriousness is snapped from you, every nerve firing in sync, adrenaline flooding- Who?
And the hands press you down, firm, but not unkind.
You blink, your head rushes to fill in the blanks. That's right. He'd shown up in the middle of the night the last times he'd stayed with you- you almost expected the inverse; now that you'd invited him to your room, he should've left and finally enjoyed your guest bedroom. He'd stayed. He wants you to stay. You smile softly, letting your eyes close again. There is something here.
At some point in the night, you'd wrapped your arms around him. It should be distressing, but with the solid, warm touch under your shirt, you can't complain. Your hands curl under his shoulders, forearms pressed close to his sides. More than that, the rest of you hasn't moved very much- at least as far as you can tell. You're still chest-to-chest with a murderer- who is very, very cozy.
You should be panicking, shouldn't you? He's not exactly safe... But you're too comfortable, too actually blissfully happy under your blankets, far away from the expectations of the real world, to care much what you should do.
You lie like that, drifting in and out of a light doze- listening to his heart beat under your cheek and breathing as the sunlight begins to fill your room. Other than the hands at your back, Michael makes no attempt to truly hold you or show any affection, if this was supposed to be affectionate in the first place. He certainly felt something unusual for you, he still has not killed you, but perhaps him holding you down and refusing to let you leave was not actually-
Your heart constricts.
It was curiosity, that's all. He's been alone and isolated for five decades, it was need- the physical need for touch and human compassion and absolutely not the soft, delicate thing you felt deep inside your rib cage, was not the anger and concern that lingers when you bandage him. Your fingers tremble, twitching and scraping against the thick fabric of his coveralls. There was no label to capture the strange and tumultuous feelings Michael brings out in you. You doubt he would.
Full awakeness returns, and you're acutely certain of Michael's alertness. There's no drowsiness about him, no sleep-addled unconscious movement or snoring or half-dreaming cuddling. You lift your chin and peer at his mask, find only the darkened eyeholes. How long has he been awake? If you haven't moved at all, he definitely has not either considering you're almost entirely on top of him- he must've been keeping you there all night.
Why? That's the question it always comes back to. Why not kill you? Why come back? Why stay here?
He's unknowable, completely inaccessible, even without his mask. But masked, now, you may as well have laid with a mannequin. All humanity is distant and far off, any trace of emotion hidden under one more layer of protection. You search the blackness of his eyeholes. You want to know how he thinks, why he does what he does, but at this point you'd settle for just what he thinks.
You press against the mattress and push yourself up- his hands remain flat on your back, but offer no resistance. You still speak anyway, "I need to get up." There's no acknowledgement from him, but you crawl off him without being dragged back.
You take a moment to stretch; having been apparently corralled into the same position all night leaves your back aching oddly. You pretend not to feel the eyes between your shoulder blades and silently adjust the thin tank top from how it had slipped down your shoulders. Last night's... events have left your clothes soiled and uncomfortably sticky-
Sticky. You grimace and touch your neck- pain sparks on your skin. It's hot and tender and with only the slightest exploring you find the first of what you assume is many, many scabs in the shapes of Michael's teeth and thin flakes of something that fall away at the first brush of your fingertip. You don't wait for Michael's permission to get up and make your way to the bathroom mirror.
The bed creaks behind you, footsteps echo yours.
The mirror reveals the damage left from Michael's attention. Your whole neck is bruised. Between his choking and his biting, your skin has turned royal and maroon, isolated spots bright red with scabs and dried blood. The softer, playful nip to your chin was still hard enough to elicit a half-circle just beyond the corner of your mouth. But where he bit you first, where he'd sunk his teeth into you and you'd feared he would rip your throat out, is raised and glowing. You touch it, and trace the shapes of incisors and cuspids, perfectly recreated as outlines in your skin. It still stings and you can feel the deep-set wound he's made.
And on top of it all was a peculiar film of clear-white streaked across your chest and neck. An unsettling mix of nausea and arousal settles deep inside.
The white mask appears behind over your shoulder and you look to him. He did this to you. He does this to people- does worse to people. Does he- you can't hide the revulsion- does he attack people like that? You'd never really researched his crimes before you'd met him, but you didn't think...
You don't think he'd really have time to... do much. And kill so many people on the same night. You plead with him silently, but all you're rewarded with is a slow tilt of his head, and a slower descent of the mask as his gaze trails from your face down to his handiwork in the mirror.
You glance at those empty black eyes again as you reach for a wash cloth. Today, he does not stop you.
Cold water makes you hiss, but cools the heated skin. The evidence of his release wipes off easily, but you let the cool, damp cloth sit on your neck to help with the inflammation while you brush your teeth. Still need to get him a toothbrush.
Through it all, Michael does not move. He's still crowded close to you in your little bathroom, but too far for you to feel his coveralls or warmth. The taste of mint replaces dryness and you spit, rinsing your mouth, then ringing out the wash cloth and wiping your face again. You should really shower.
Would he let you?
Hunger pulls at you, but showering first would be easier. You seek out his gaze again. "Did you eat..." you hesitate, steer away from the reality of it. "while you were... gone?"
He does not reply for a long moment and you begin to worry. You'd hoped, perhaps in vain, that last night would have left him a little more amicable and then- you watch his shoulders shift, the slight movement of his mask. He nods, cooperative again. You don't want to ask what. You nod as well, psyching yourself up and trust your instinct "Can you wait before I make breakfast? I want to shower."
And amazingly, he nods again. Relief loosens the tight muscles of your back. A genuine smile graces your lips in the mirror; you hope he can tell. From a stack on the counter, you grab two towels. You turn towards the shower- and find a blue wall. You can't help but yelp and step back, peer up at the expressionless mask.
He's not angry. You're starting to get better at understanding what he wants and how he expresses it- and it's not anger that makes him block your door. If he didn't want to allow your shower he would not let you, would've taken your arms in his huge hands. No, it's... something else.
He likes to surprise you, you think- or perhaps reiterate the power dynamic you had. Just something to make sure you know that he could stop you. You touch his side and feel the shape of his ribs. You see nothing behind the mask. The barest pressure makes him sidestep, and you slip into your bathroom. Maybe it's just an excuse to have you touch him again.
You turn the knob and let the water begin to heat, hanging the towel on the end of the curtain rod. You have your thumbs hooked into the hem of your pants before you realize a problem: breathing behind you. You lift your head and look over your shoulder; the blue wall has returned to your doorway. He's not as close now, only lingering at the door frame- but he's trapped you, blocking the door.
Steam begins to gather and you need to make a decision. You bite your lip. He's already bitten and bruised you so damn hard... if he was going to keep creeping about your house and fighting his way into your most taboo fantasies, this was fairly low on the list of battles you'd hate yourself for not picking.
You keep your back to him and begin with the tank top. He'd already seen you near shirtless last night, has already grabbed your breasts twice- this wasn't much more than he'd already known. You could live with him knowing what your spine looked like. The air is cool and makes your nipples begin to harden, but the steam escaping from behind the shower curtains soothes them. It takes you a moment longer to prepare for the rest of it.
His breathing- continuous and even, steady despite what he's watching you do- is calming. You're twisted in the head. You hold onto the hem of your pants- fuck it- and take the elastic of your underwear in hand too. You push them both down in one movement. Cold air swirls around you as you step out of your clothes. You grab the shower curtain and enter the tub before you can hear if he has any sort of reaction.
You lift the pull on the faucet. It's freezing; one flash of a second has you jolting under the spray. And the shock melts away as it heats up. Stress oozes from you, starting at your head where your hair flattens down around you, streaming water over your face. You breathe in deeply and feel the warmth settle deep inside. It's meditative; everything beyond your thankfully nearly-opaque shower curtain has faded away into the pounding of water on ceramic.
You knew he was still out there, of course. You close your eyes to spray and wipe at your neck again, trying to make sure the worst of it is gone for sure. The hot water makes the bites hurt again, bringing blood back to the surface in the bruises, but you can live with that for now. When you open your eyes again, the shadows through the curtain has changed. He's stepped into the bathroom.
You stiffen and wait. You don't know what he'd do, why he'd let you begin to shower if he just wanted to interrupt you anyway. Heat urges your muscles to keep letting go, despite your senses on high alert, the little prey voice in your head repeating he's there, he's here
Minutes tick on. He doesn't move. It should be all the more terrifying. And yet.
You pop the top to your shampoo. It's cool and slides over your scalp in a soothing way. You close your eyes and work it into your hair, dragging fingers through to release all the dead tangles trapped. Michael Myers is waiting outside your shower and somehow, there's something other than fear taking root. The suffocating danger he exerts is far away and gone; you know the damage he can do if he wanted it. For now, he doesn't. And for now, your shower is cozy and the feeling of grease leaving your hair and rendering it soft and fluffy again is near orgasmic. Days of stress and guilt come off in sheets- layers of grime shed under the hot spray.
You pour on body wash and inhale the floral scent. White cream sliding over your shoulders is becoming too commonplace. You follow it with face wash and massage the cleaner over your face with your eyes closed.
And all the while, the shape behind the curtain does not move. He could really hurt you here... Was he guarding you? Could he see you through the curtain? You wish again you could know what makes him tick. Just knowing if you were supposed to feel safe rather than losing your mind would go a long way.
A coolness sneaks into the water. You rinse before it truly turns tepid. Fresh and clean, you turn off the water while you drip. You squeeze the worst of it from your hair, water cascading down your back. After a moment, the pull drops down, water spills from the faucet- and finally dies away.
With the door open, the heat of your shower dissipates quickly. You retrieve one towel from the back and wrap it around yourself. It's not quite large enough, leaving a visible gap where it should overlap. But it's good enough. Holding the first towel in place with your elbows, you grab the second towel and pull it over your head. Again you squeeze the water free, and the towel dampens.
You curl your fingers around the edge of the curtain and pull it back. Cold air rushes around you, every inch of exposed skin erupts into the goosebumps, a shiver starting at your shoulders. And then, you shiver for a different reason. Your guest has not moved from his new position just outside your shower. You pull the towel around your body tighter and shift the gap so it's over your side.
The first creeping tendril of something more than hunger hangs in the air. You meet his gaze. "I have to get out now." As you reach out to, again, ease him back and out of the bathroom, you wonder when you'll realize you're sticking your hand in the wolf's mouth. But thus far he'd allowed it. And thus far when he did not like something, it didn't particularly matter how close you were to him.
With one hand still on his chest, you catch a blurry glimpse of yourself in the mirror. The open door had dispersed the steam, but still the surface was foggy- you wiped it clean with a fast swipe- only then did you truly look at your hands.
The hot water had agitated the bruises, huge purple splotches erupting over your wrists where Michael had nearly crushed them; your neck is no better. The worst of it could've been covered by a large scarf, but now you can see long finger marks all the way up to just below your ear, a half-circle on your chin lit up red where he'd bit you more playfully. Of course, playful in comparison to full bite that had broken skin and left you crying was not as playful as you'd prefer.
You were a mess.
No wonder he wanted to see you. He did this to you.
In the mirror, his hand raises- and lands on your neck. An inhale is caught in your chest as he traces one line of his hand from one side of your neck to the other. Your nerves misfire; your skin sings and screams at the touch, sore and delicate and refusing to forget how lightheaded you'd been under him before he could even choke you.
His hand falls away. You urge him further back, until you can finally escape the bathroom to make it to your dresser.
You still had other problems. Michael is on a roll for being uncomfortably persistent when you wish he'd give you more space. When he'd lurked in your bedroom before, you simply didn't change in front of him. But now... you're soaking wet with only two towels to cover you. Even if it wouldn't be dreadfully uncomfortable for multiple reasons, with the November chill seeping through the cabin's walls, you'll risk catching a cold.
You'd rather not find out if Michael is a good caretaker. You doubt he is.
"You could wait outside." You offer bleakly, but already know. No- He knows exactly what he's doing. He stands, statuesque in your room, having followed you within two feet of your dresser. You aren't even rewarded with a head tilt. He's not going anywhere.
He keeps managing to ride the line between uncomfortable and dangerous. Maybe you shouldn't give him credit for not being as horrible as he possibly could be, but he's already a murderer. You doubt it's decency that drives him to not assault you- in any manner- but it leaves that same constricting feeling around your chest.
Why doesn't he kill you? You thumb at the corner of a towel. If he only wants you for sex why not just take it? He's clearly fine with hurting you, with pushing past your boundaries in too many ways to count, but why not go all the way?
The question haunts you, but another wave of shivers forces your hand. You retrieve underwear first. You turn away, giving Michael the same view as he had as you undressed. The air is crisp, and you nearly stumble forcing each leg into the leg holes and pulling the fabric up. There's no water to hide the catch in Michael's breathing this time.
The rest of your outfit is less important, but your dwindling clean clothes is an issue. You settle for long jeans that stick to your damp legs and a thick scoop-neck sweater that does little to hide the damage to your neck. It's for the best- the skin there is inflamed and irritated now; a turtleneck would only make you want to scratch at it.
You keep the towel on your head, blotting it again on your skull until your hair is only slightly damp. From there, you let the towel rest over your shoulders to catch any drips.
You turn back, and find your statue exactly where you left him.
You need to do laundry. That's easy- just throw stuff in and then you can make breakfast with whatever is left in the kitchen. That makes you grimace. You need to run to the store again. You'd only gotten stuff for a few meals when he'd been here several days ago. Guilt and depression had minimized the damage you'd done to the pantry, but not entirely.
With the hamper still in the laundry room, you grab whatever articles of clothing you can carry from the floor and where you'd dropped the pile of dirty clothes when he'd first arrived. Including the embarrassingly damp underwear from in front of the shower. You'll pretend it was just from the shower and not Michael's teasing or having to sleep with his thigh between your legs and yet so unsatisfyingly far away.
Only when you actually go to leave the room does he move to follow. Stiff steps that don't quite align with yours down the hallway- stopping at the doorway to the laundry room again. You dump the clothes in the washer and measure out detergent. You need more of that, too. You need to make this shopping trip today. You could even pick up a razor for him; his beard was not too terribly unruly when you'd found him and you wonder what exactly he preferred to keep it at. If he even noticed.
Maybe you should make it an electric.
With detergent and softener in, you close the drum and set the dial. The machine hums to life, turning the load and weighing it. You step over to the dryer- and find your once bloodied shirt on the floor. Must've fallen when Michael got his coveralls. You pick it up and turn it in your hands-
It's in surprisingly good shape; where fresh blood had smeared onto you is nearly invisible. If you hadn't known where to look, you probably wouldn't have noticed. You place it on top of your dryer for now, and turn back to the hallway. Time for real food, but first-
He stands, unimpressed with your domestic routines. "I'll make food now," You try to persuade him. Nothing. You sigh and wonder if this is the price you must pay for getting two nods from him. His chest is warm and you feel the strong beat of his heart under your palm as you guide him away from the door. He's big enough and the hallway is just tight enough that you have to slide chest to chest to get around him. He doesn't seem to mind.
The kitchen is a mess. You'd be sheepish about the state of it if your guest were anyone else. Dishes from the last few days have piled up, half-eaten food left out in your sluggish, guilt-ridden existence. Could be much worse. A shadow stands beside the wide opening to the kitchen, but does not pursue you inside. Fine enough, you needed the space anyway.
The fridge is sparse. An unopened carton of eggs taunts you, but you push them aside. Truly breakfast materials are running low, so you look over into the pantry. Maybe you had pancake mix and syrup? Or oatmeal? Would he like that? A tall, unopened box pressed into a corner catches your eye.
You pull it down, and look. On the front there's a large bowl and spoon, little brown squares floating in perfectly white milk. It's cereal, alright- but you had to recall why you even had this weird off-brand chocolate thing.
One of the clerks at the local grocery store- she'd given it to you quite a while ago. You grimace and check the expiration date; in theory it would still be good for another few months.
They were pulling it from the shelves, making space for something else- they'd be off the inventory after midnight and they still had a pallet of them in the back. She gave you one, just because. The rest were split up among the associates- she'd winked as she smuggled an extra away from the pile and out to her car. The memory still draws a smile to your lips. Maybe you'll see her again today.
You'd never actually gotten around to trying the cereal. You pop the top open and look; the plastic bag is still in impeccable shape- should still be good.
"How do you feel about cereal?" You ask your shadow- nearly forgetting to look at him in case of the ever elusive response. You get none this time, your shadow remaining half-hidden around the molding. He's vocal about disliking things, you tell yourself. He must be alright with this then.
You pull open the bag- and the sweetness of chocolate fills your nose. It takes no time at all to retrieve two bowls, two spoons, and the half-empty gallon of milk from your fridge, now with little more than a quarter left. You walk both bowls out to the living room- you set one on the coffee table in front of where Michael had usually claimed, and the other on the side table next to your chair.
He remains in the hallway- which is good, because you also grab the milk and cereal box and take them out to the living room. Michael said he'd eaten while he was... out. But you had a feeling it wasn't exactly a meal and probably more like snatching something from someone's house after-
You scold yourself and redirect: the point is, he's probably still hungry. Only when you are fully seated in your chair and flicking on the TV does Michael emerge from your hallway and take his place on the couch.
You don't put on the news.
An education network plays children's cartoons, and fuck it- it'll be better for your mental health to watch Tom and Jerry than sit through another report about the ongoing investigation and manhunt. For the man in your living room. Staring at you. Hungry.
You blink at him. He sits, stiff and inhuman looking on your couch. Maybe one day you'd get over having Michael fucking Myers sitting in your house like that's a normal thing that people have happen. You motion to the bowl, "Should eat before it get soggy."
He doesn't look away. His piercing eyes are hidden somewhere in that deep darkness, but for now the mask does more than disguise himself; it's protecting you. Seeing those eyes again would only make your stomach flip and clench until you were lost in him. The thought alone makes your heart flutter; you want that. But you haven't had real food in days, and even though this cereal is new and not your preferred one, that chocolate smells damn good on your empty stomach.
You look away from white latex and pick up your bowl. Already the brown of the chocolate has discolored the milk into a creamy milkshake-like color. You take the first bite. They're actually not bad, very sweet and crunchy. The chocolate smell has nothing on the flavor- and you almost wonder if this isn't just balls of chocolate.
You focus on the TV and a fresh set of antics from the animals on screen, but relax and smile to yourself as Michael looks away from you and rolls up the bottom of his mask. You definitely would need to get him a razor; the silver of his beard has begun to puff out into something more than intentional scruff.
The morning continues in silence. It's more comforting than you'd like to have someone around, especially because since Michael had looked to the TV he has not looked back at you. His interest in most things is a hard to plan for nonexistence, so this was a nice turn of events. You don't have to worry about the heavy, steely eyes on you this morning- instead, you find yourself taking his role.
You watch the muscles in his jaw as he chews, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. Each time his tongue peaks out to lick his lips, how his lips drag against the spoon. You're as creepy as he is.
The thought makes you look back to your bowl. You eat quickly before the last of the chocolate squares can become too soft. No, you're not as creepy as him. You're so much worse. He kills people and you make him breakfast. He shows up bloody and you bathe him.
Your body sags in the chair, your morning quickly deflating. You want to kick yourself; you were having a good day, despite... everything about your circumstances. You were not going to let the annoying little voice in your head get you down- no matter how cruelly right it was.
You sneak another peak at Michael; he hasn't noticed your turmoil, or is pretending not to. Or he just doesn't care. All were surely viable- but from his continued invisible stare at the screen, you'd like to believe it was the first option. You drink the milk, now looking like a true chocolate milk; despite the appearance, it's not as sweet as you expected.
You finish the bowl and set it aside, content to just look between Tom- now stepping on a rake- and Michael. A thought occurs- and nearly has you crying. Michael was... how old when he was locked away the first time? Six? No wonder he was enraptured with the show. And... Tom and Jerry was certainly old enough- had he seen it before? If one of the really old episodes came on, would he remember it?
How much access to TV had he had in the years he was gone, and what would the staff even let play? Maybe if the internet cooperates you could pirate some modern cartoons for him, too. The thought of Michael watching some of the pastel-colored shows that so continuously emphasized softness and kindness and compassion made you smile. Maybe he'd prefer shows like Tom and Jerry- comical, mindless cartoon violence where peace was so very tenuous.
Michael finishes his bowl of cereal. He holds it for a long moment- before placing it on the coffee table and reaching for the box. You smile. The cardboard is tiny in his hands, his pouring technique so obviously underused as the squares rush out. Only three manage to escape the bowl, but he has no compunction about picking them up from the table and dropping them back in with the rest. He pours the milk- and as uncivilized as he is, leaves the cap off the jug.
There's hardly any left now and you don't particularly feel like correcting him, so you leave it be.
It's cathartic. The silly, over the top sound effects from the speakers- an obnoxiously persistent cat doomed to fail to Jerry's protagonists' power. And yet, at the end of the segment, the world would reset itself and spin on, ready for another set of TNT in a pie. You watch and thinking of nothing at all.
Even during the commercials, for the first time in days, you find the emptiness of your head soothing instead of overwhelming. You float easily between superficial thoughts and meaningless ideas, the muffled sound of Michael crunching away. You keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the same knock at your door that had shaken the previous peace. Time drags on in the more pleasant way- and you watch as he mimics how you drank the milk from your bowl.
A murderer should not be so endearing.
The only distraction came in the form of a distant musical jingle from the laundry machine. You blink out of the stupor, and stand. With Michael's mask rolled back down, you figured he was done, and put the cap on the milk, and took the dishes and milk back to the kitchen. Aside from the milk which you put back in the fridge, you would have to clean up later.
You head down the hallway to the laundry room. You pop the front of your washing machine and move handfuls of damp, heavy, clothing into the dryer. You're cleaning the lint trap when you realize you're not alone. He stands in the doorway again, cartoons still playing far off. You lift one eyebrow and wonder why he felt the need to follow you- but accept it. He's done weirder; as far as you can tell, he's not aroused, so that's a huge step up.
You move on, turning the dryer on and having to repeat the same dance as earlier. He backs off at the touch, and lets you pass with the same awkward side step that brushes your bodies together. And as you pass by, you can feel a tenseness. It makes you stop in the narrow hallway and look back to him. You'd been having such a nice time, what's he so worked up about?
"Oh!" Your outcry seemed to startle him- his shoulders drawing even tighter. "Your bandages!" Stupid, stupid- you had even told yourself to check them in the morning. You head back to your room to grab the medkit. He follows close behind, and you shoo him towards the living room. "Go sit down, I'll be out in a second."
But as you enter your room, you know he's dedicated to following you today. The kit is still at the foot of the bed, open and messy- and you curse at yourself. You kneel to pick it up- and look to Michael's feet. You look up to him from the floor and frown sharply, point to his wrapped ankle. "You need to go sit."
He doesn't. You should've at least predicted that much, it doesn't make you want to smack him any less. If only he could've worked with you in a more productive, normal way. You sigh- at least this time he's not just lurking in your doorway. You step around him and lead him back out into the living room. As you set up, you watch him walk; he's not limping. You knew his ankle was sprained- maybe the bastard really just doesn't feel pain.
He sits obediently, and your routine of undressing him is just that much easier. The zipper pulls easily. You start with his gunshot wound. You peel the bandage away- and find another clear-pink stain pressed to the gauze. You think that's still normal for a really serious wound- but god do you wish you could get a doctor to look at him.... You know he won't. Even if you could find a doctor who wouldn't run screaming. You apply a fresh bandage and, annoyingly, tell yourself to check it before you sleep tonight.
You move to the other arm. The wound that had been bleeding last night is scabbed fully now. It's still an ugly wound, the skin is raised and warped, almost wrinkling across the edges. You swipe your thumb across the thick red clump. Here on his bicep- that has the same softness wrapped over deep, dense muscle, the damage is shocking. There's no drainage or discoloration, so for as torturous as the injury looks, there's no need to worry as far as you can tell.
You move down that arm, carefully extracting him from the sleeve to access his hand. Despite the severity of the wound- he'd lost the majority of two fingers!- the skin there is closing quickly. The bandages are clean, so you replace them and tell yourself you won't have to check them until tomorrow. Around the white squares, the burns are lightening. Pink, shiny, raw flesh giving way to pale scars. It's good- you touch his hand, inspecting it and turning it over, looking to his palm. You trace your finger along the thin crease that starts just between his pointer and middle finger, down out to the side of his palm.
But you still had one last wound to inspect. You clear your throat and leave his hand, moving instead uncomfortably close to his groin. The older wound you'd seen yesterday is just below his navel, messed with the curly gray hair there, and long and thin, hooked at the end where whatever had cut him had jerked at an angle. It's long since closed, the scab itself is dark and aged, paling around the edges.
And it's yellow. You touch his skin and can't hide your worry. The skin around the wound is burning hot with fever, a crystal-like remnant of previous drainage still clinging to the edges of his scab and hair. "Fuck, Michael..." You ignore the twitch the brings to his legs, and focus on the infection before you. Was there anything you could even do? Short of getting antibiotics, you were just have to wait this out- but how bad was it?
You dig through the little red bag to pull out an electronic thermometer. Michael is already putting his arm back through the sleeve, pulling the zipper up.
"I need to take your temperature." You offer the little plastic device. He sits, steadfast. "It'll only take a second, please?"
There's a peculiar dip to the mask. It's not a shake, so you try again. "Michael, the cut on your stomach looks infected, I need to know if you have a fever."
You move towards him, aiming for his still-exposed chest. hoping your touch would calm him into compliance- as it does with getting him to step out of the way. His hand catches your already bruised wrists. You hiss, but only from the existing injury- in fact, his grasp is looser than usual. It's still firm, a threat lingering under his fingertips. You whine, seek out his eyes. "Michael, please..." If only you could make him understand- "You could get really sick."
He presses his fingers in. Pain radiates up your arm and you whine- "Okay, okay."
He releases you in an instant, hand returning to their previous task. The zipper clicks softly as he pulls it up all the way, Your fingers prod experimentally at your wrist, rubbing the skin and urging the pain to abate. He'd get sick. You have to try again. "What if I just feel your forehead?"
He does not move, he's returned to his very neutral position upright on the couch. The stinging still lingering in your wrist makes you think twice about reaching for him again. You sigh. He's tough, you tell yourself as you put the thermometer away, he can handle himself.
And that was very true, on both accounts. He'd done so much damage, taken so much damage and just kept going. He'd done it all half-blind. He was fine without you. At this point you would not be surprised if he is immortal- looking at him, you felt sure he'd be going on long after you were gone.
Which may still be soon.
You zip up the first aid kit and set it aside. The television has switched off Tom and Jerry and onto something more recent- but clearly was not new. Michael's mask tilts at the intro- flashier and brighter than Tom and Jerry's. But as it plays, his head returns upright. It must be good enough, because his attention does not return to you as you sit, exhausted in your chair.
Instead, you turn to your phone- plugged in on the end table. You spend the first few minutes moving through articles on infection is an anxious haze. Getting him to stay in bed to recover would be damn near impossible, but you could at least prepare food ahead, especially if you went to the store today. You never did make that soup- but you still had everything for it. You'd had just enough energy- or perhaps, were already on emotional autopilot when you'd dropped all the cut potatoes into a tupperware and thrown them into the fridge.
With at least the beginnings of a game plan, you move away from google and to social media. You don't stay long. In such a small town, you follow some of your neighbors- and their posts are littered with frightened posts, angry at the local police, advising others on how to be safe. You try to ignore it- until someone has reposted something from the state police- a wanted poster.
It's not a good rendition; clearly having been a digital picture that got printed, copied at an angle, then scanned online again. But the likeness is there; an older man with thinning, silver hair and stubble, a severe, impartial face, and the curved scar across his eye. Even with the distorted contrast, you can pick out the intensity of his gaze and the milky unseeing iris of his left eye. It feels wrong. Like you're committing some sort of betrayal just by looking at his face- as poor a recreation as it is- without his permission.
You scroll down, and the poster includes a description of the mask he wears now: white latex of a man's face, brown synthetic hair tied into the scalp. Very aged, cracked.
The town was on high alert; Michael's little spree had drawn the attention squarely away from Haddonfield and into your backyard. The cops would be back.
The thought echoes: the cops would be back for you. For Michael.
You back out of the app- back to google. You tap the search bar and type it out: Michael Myers. You look to the man on your couch. He stares at the screen in front of him, the mask reflects green from something on the television. You search.
The first result is Wikipedia, and under the big blue link is a preview: Michael Myers (born October 19, 1957) is an American spree killer... You look away. It's like an invasion of his privacy. Not that he respects yours. And yet, you swipe your finger and close the tab. Even disregarding the privacy... you don't know if you can handle the truth of it all. You know who he is, you've seen the wounds and scars he carries and the blood in his suit that was not his own. He kills people.
You don't need a list of the dead. Your conscience is already heavy enough with the unnamed, unnumbered dead in your own damn town. Was his Wikipedia page already updated with that? A new section on his page dedicated to his escape and new string of murders. Would you be on there too one day? Would you get your own page or would you be relegated to nothing more than a footnote in the Myers biography?
You lock your phone, put it face down on the end table again. Michael is oblivious to it all as far as you can tell. Your stomach churns and you stand. His eyes are on you instantaneously, all attention to your television dropped.
"I'm going to start dinner and let it sit, then go out and get some stuff. Is there anything you need?"
Michael stands, his back stiff- he dominates the room, suffocating the words in your throat. He doesn't have to speak, you can already see the absolute in his posture. You will not be leaving this house. He's well enough to stop you this time.
You wilt, but keep trying, "You need bandages... I have to stock up."
He steps towards you, trapping you between himself and the chair behind you. Your neck pinches as you look up to see him, towering over you as he is. You can't understand it- why is he so unpleasant today? You want so badly to puff up your chest and straighten your shoulders to show him you're serious, you need this, but you can't.
When Michael doesn't want you to do something, you don't do it. And he does not want you to leave today- he doesn't want you to leave him at all considering his needy following you. You feel your eyebrows come in tight as you consider- was this about last night? It had to be, he wasn't doing this before.
Your lips part, you inhale through your mouth. The thought is as intoxicating as it is scary; something changed last night- he'd finished in your underwear, had played with your breasts and let you leave. Something about actually doing anything with you must've started this. You can feel the flush in your cheeks.
Above you, his head tips off to his right. He'd read the change of expression- but did he know what you felt? Did he even know that he himself was doing this?
At this range, you barely have to move to touch his hip, hardly more than your fingertips brushing against his coveralls. "Okay." You concede and rub the fabric with your thumb. "I'll stay in today."
You push the chair back enough to be able to slip by him. You'd hoped he'd return to sitting on the couch and resting his ankle, but he's just as much of a stubborn bastard as you expect. You cross the threshold into the kitchen and are acutely aware that he's lingering in the entryway again. A glance reveals he's even standing in the same place, halfway hidden behind the molding.
You want to scold him so badly, to tell him to go sit, please, because you're only hurting yourself more by being up- but you've already gotten a taste of his take on compromise. You plead with him silently, begging the empty holes of his mask to reconsider- and when he does nothing but breathe slowly in and out, you move on.
The longer the soup could sit, the better it would be. You take out the already cut potatoes and inspect them- and deem them to still be good enough to boil. You peel and chop the remaining tubers and ignore the way your hand shakes when you withdraw a knife from the block. You do not look at the extra empty slot.
When you're done, you pull out a large pot, fill it with water and stock and your potatoes, and set it on high. On another burner you put a skillet down, then turn back to your fridge.
This was the first time you've really cooked for him. Eggs and toast don't count, and everything else you've scavenged from your pantry. You hope he's more accepting of your cooking than he is of your independence.
From the bottom drawer, you find your cut of chuck beef. Still sealed, it's in perfect condition. With your audience of one, you cut the meat quickly- already ready for his gaze to leave you. It doesn't. It's fine. All you have to do is brown the beef, cut onions and carrots, and leave it all to boil for a while.
It goes much slower with him watching you. Every time the knife clicks against the cutting board, you think of him standing over your shoulder the last time- and though you wish he'd part your company, you're at least thankful he's staying as far back as he is. If he tried that again... you don't know what you'd do.
The smell of cooking meat fills your kitchen, and even so soon after breakfast, your mouth waters. It'll be a simple dinner, but it should be good. You really hope it's good.
He stays the whole time. You scrape the last of the carrots in- the entire bag you'd picked up, doubling the vegetables in the recipe for Michael's already substantial appetite. You give the pot a quick stir before putting the lid on and checking the time. In a while you'd come stir it again and check it.
You move on to the much needed cleaning. Although you were fairly sure Michael did not give a single fuck about the state of your kitchen or the rest of your house- it has hard, actually, to think of things he did care about- the act of cleaning took your mind off things. It's mindless, lets you stare out the window over your sink and out into the thin trees and piles of red-orange-brown leaves with the soothing sound of water running.
You don't know how long it takes, but you can hear a new theme song playing in the living room before you're done. You take your time with the knife- some forbidden part of your brain all too aware of the eyes on you and his fixation with knives. You clean it and rinse it, watching how the stream flattens and cascades off the blade. You wonder- and hate yourself- what would it look like with blood? What was it that Michael saw?
You set it in the drying rack and push the thought from your mind. You don't have to look to know he's still there, but you do anyway. But you do notice- his weight has shifted, like he's leaning out from behind the molding. You look around the corner, his mask turning to watch- and your face falls. His weight is on his left foot, the right one lifted slightly with only his toes touching the hardwood.
There's no use pleading with him. You give the pot another stir before turning back to him and motioning him towards the living room. He doesn't move without you. This dance is becoming tiresome- you walk back into the room and take your same chair. He follows- and this time you can see how he's favoring his left leg. He sits, and not for the first time, you wish he'd just be more forthcoming if he's in pain.
You shoot up again- and point a finger at him, demanding that just for once he'd listen to you. "Stay there."
You nearly sprint back to the kitchen and open your freezer. Under your ice maker, there's a long, blue item, gently sagging. You take it- squish it to make sure it's still flexible- and wrap it in a spare ratty kitchen towel. You wish you were surprised that Michael was already to his feet again. The mask tilts suspiciously at your hands.
You move next to the couch and take the same throw pillow that he'd bloodied when you first found him. "Sit."
You can feel the narrowing of his eyes. Seems he's getting tired of this, too. He complies. He's already been uncooperative enough today, you don't bother asking. You put the pillow on the coffee table and lift his leg to set it on the pillow. You feel the muscle of his calf tighten as you touch him, but does not resist you. Ideally you'd get him to lay down so his ankle could be higher than his heart, but you figure this is hopefully good enough.
And with his leg elevated, you lay the ice pack across his ankle. "That's going to be on and off every twenty minutes. If it starts to hurt, please tell me? Or just move it yourself." You wait- at least trying to make sure he understands, and to your surprise, the mask dips once in a nod. This time you can't help the smile that spreads.
You retake your seat, hopefully for a bit longer this time.
You cycle his ice pack a few times and stir the soup until the potatoes have become soft and edible. It smells delicious, but you know the longer it sits the better it'll taste. So you go back to the living room and ask, "Are you hungry again yet?"
And Michael makes a noise. Just one, very softly.
You heart leaps in your chest, eyes growing wide, your mouth parting in sudden shock and-
did he speak and you missed it? Was it a groan of pain? You go to him- suddenly frantic if it's the latter. He was shot and stabbed and lost two fingers without a whimper, if something had him in pain now-
The mask does not move, tipped slightly back and into the couch cushion. The noise comes again, still soft. But this close, you can tell what it is: a snore. So quiet you'd nearly missed it, but so close to him you can see through his eyeholes: the slight line of his eyelashes, lowered and still on his cheeks.
Michael Myers is asleep on your couch, with tiny snores escaping from his mask.
He hasn't passed out at all the whole time he's been here... Your window of opportunity is limited. As stealthily as you can, you press the backs of your fingers to the small exposed part of his chest, just below the mask. As you suspected: his skin is hot to the touch. You need to get to the store.
It's only in the early afternoon, but already the autumn weather brought encroaching darkness. You could run out, get food and bandages for him, even a toothbrush. Some medication to keep his fever down. Probably make it back before he even wakes up... you step away and go to get a scarf. It's cold out, but more importantly, your neck is a bruised mess. More than just an embarrassing hickey, someone would either stop you or just call the cops...
In your bathroom mirror you try to cover up the nips he's dressed your chin with, with mixed success. At least those you could explain away as love bites. You look nearly presentable, even kind of nice with your necessary accessory.
You grab your keys and phone, and take one extra moment to look at Michael and make sure. He's breathing and still out cold, not having moved at all. You can do it- in and out, real fast. Before he knows.
You leave and lock the door behind you, shuffling out to your car. The engine turns over, and as the headlights illuminate your house, you watch your windows carefully in case a shadow had appeared. Nothing. Your house was quiet, untouched, the light from the television filtered through curtains but otherwise dead.
You pull away.
You move through the grocery store with lightning speed, too aware of your limited time window. If you were lucky, illness would knock him out for a reasonable time, but considering this was the first time you'd seen him sleep and not fucking unconscious you had doubts. Not even an infection would keep him down, as desperately as you wish it would. It might slow the healing on his wounds, but at least it would keep him off his ankle before he really hurt it.
You grab more bread, milk, some sandwich meat and cheese, a hastily grabbed bag of salad mix and dressing- he does need something more green once in a while. You slide through the pharmacy area and grab ibuprofen for his fever, plus burn cream- most of it had closed and didn't seem to be bothering him-- not that anything ever did, and a whole box of big gauze dressings.
Around the corner you grab a plain black toothbrush. Done. Food and medicine, that should be all you need- you glance over the aisle signs to think if there's anything you're missing. And as you're looking, you hear a sniffle.
You look- there's an anxious looking man at the checkout furthest from you, but he's not paying attention to you. He looks around, leans over the little moving conveyor belt to peer out at the front door. He jumps- reaches for something under his counter as the motion sensor doors open- and an older woman shuffles into the store. The man folds forward, presses his face into his hands.
There's another sniffle. You look around, and find a customer service desk a few feet from you. The kiosk is painted green in the store's color, but the lights are all off and nobody stands behind the counter. You move your cart out of the way and approach the fake wood counter. You lean over it- and find someone tucked under the lip.
You try for soft, "Hey,"
She cries out and shoots upright, wiping her tears away with alarming speed. "Sorry! Can I h-help you?" She hiccups. She can't be more than 16 with her red hair in a tight bob. Her eyeliner is streaked and smudges under her hasty rubbing. Her apron has a name tag stuck to it, Deirdre
"Are you okay?" You ask- and feel a little stupid. She's obviously not. For a minute it looks like she's going to wave you off with some poor excuse, before her lips waver, her eyebrows pulling in tight. Her mouth puckers, her eyes pinching closed as she begins to cry again- but no noise escapes her. She claps her hands over her mouth as she sobs.
You reach across the counter and hope you come across as comforting, you touch her shoulder. She nods so you wait- she tries to choke out some words, but finds nothing. She sniffs hard, "I'm sorry, it's just-" Her lips warp again and she fights back another sob. "I hate this so much, why is this happening to us? She never deserved that..."
You stiffen, news reports playing in your head. "What?"
She wipes at her face again, makeup irreparably damaged now. She glances around, as though whatever haunts her will appear in the first shadow. "He killed Irene. Nobody wants to say it, but everyone knows it was him."
Ice rushes through your veins. Your soothing touch turns stiff. "Irene?"
She nods. "It was horrible, there was so much blood." She shakes her head, looks at the floor, but her eyes are unfocused. "It was Myers. We're all on edge now, just kind of hoping he's moved on..."
"Myers?" You repeat dumbly, "As in... the killer?"
One unpinned piece of hair sways as she nods. "He got out. Just before Halloween, killed a bunch of people over in Haddonfield. He just, stopped." Her voice cracks and begins to rise, "They all just stopped looking for him! Like it was over!"
Your mouth turns dry, stare mutely as fresh tears spout from her eyes. You need to get out of here, need to get back to Michael-
"Oh, Dee." You jolt, spin to find a man with salt-and-pepper hair stepping behind the counter. "Shh, shh..." He draws the redhead into his arms, she lays her head against his shoulder and weeps. He turns to you, brown eyes soft and kind in a way you haven't seen in- "I'm sorry about that."
You can barely keep your mind together- You say something to him that you've forgotten as soon as they words leave your lips and he nods, going back to stroking the girl's arms.
You push the cart down to the check out. The jumpy man startles at your presence, but swipes your items with swift fury. Your hand shakes as you punch in your PIN. The other cashier gives you your bags without a single word passing between you.
You leave in silence, making it all the way to your car before it catches up to you. You drop the bags in your trunk and sit in the driver's seat, can't even get your keys in the ignition before you feel like dead weight. He killed Irene. It had to be him. Which means he's killed your neighbors- not just the dozen faceless people in Haddonfield or however far he'd gotten when he left, but people you know.
The guilt crashes over you and you are lost under the waves. Your forehead meets the steering wheel as you double over. Hot tears fall over your cheeks but you don't make a sound.
You're home. You stare at the house, unseeing as you blink and rub at your itchy eyes. The drive home was all gone, nothing of the dark streets had imprinted itself on your memory. Your hands tremble on the wheel and you steady yourself before you can turn off the engine. It doesn't change anything. You press your head back into the headrest, pinch your eyes closed. He did it days ago. He didn't know. You're already guilty of helping him.
You close the car door and grab your bags. The car honks when you lock it- you cringe, hope Michael's still out cold. You could use a while longer without having to look at him, masked or not. If you saw him now... You want to kick yourself, the mean voice in your head ready to gloat. You'd already known what he is. Did you think he'd somehow left that behind? That it wouldn't affect you? If he was up now, you doubt you'd do much more than collapse into a puddle of new tears. What would he think of you crying? He's not the comforting type.
You haul the bags up the steps to the porch and set them beside the door while you fish out your house key. They jingle, cold in your hands, a shiver making you miss the keyhole the first time. You turn the key- and your heart stops cold in your chest.
The tumbler does not fall. It's already unlocked. You stand there, holding the key but not opening the door and run through the evening over and over. You locked the door on the way out. You locked it. You're sure.
You turn the knob and push open the wood. The evening programming for the network was playing, an older, more serious animation was droning on around the corner, washing the entryway with changing neon colors. The characters speak loudly, but you listen closely- and find no breathing, no snoring, no Michael.
You step inside and drop the bags by the door, close it behind you. You walk the house in a daze; there's no one on the couch. The guest bedroom is empty and so is the common bathroom. Even your room is dark and silent, no murderers waiting for you inside. That's somehow worse.
You would rather him be lurking in your house, furious and bloodlusting, than out there- hunting. He's already cursed your town once.
You put the food away in the kitchen, barely keeping your mind together enough to remember what should be going where. You ball up the plastic bags, lay out the other sundries on the counter and move to throw the bag of bags under your sink.
You pretend you do not notice another empty slot in your knife block.
You repack the medkit in near silence, unpackaging the burn cream and bandages to stuff them into the pockets of the kit. The plot of the cartoon playing was lost on you, your eyes barely seeing more than the square red bag.
You even place the black toothbrush on the counter to your bathroom, not bothering with the pretense of putting it in the common bath. With that done, you have nothing to do but wait. He returned last time. You can feel it deep inside; there's something different about how he looks at you, there's still some reason he hasn't killed you. He could've waited for you to return and instead he is out killing someone else. There's meaning in that, somehow. He'll be back.
You can't wait here.
You take a thick coat from your closet and head back out to your porch. The old wood creaks as you sit on the stairs and look out into the darkness. It's bitterly cold, a soft breeze fighting to cut through your windbreaker, but stinging at your face. The moon is only about half full, but there's enough light for you to see a fair distance around your house and off into the woods before shadows hide the multitudes of trees.
Time is fluid around you, your thoughts as loose and meaningless as the leaves that tumble past. The same horrific mantra you'd hoped you grown past resumes in your head: You did this. You killed Irene, you helped heal him. You left him alone. This was your fault.
And yet- you know that's not true. You didn't make him kill people. You didn't know who he was- didn't even know if he would kill you. Your only flaw was caring for a human- how horrible. Unforgivable. You're a monster as much as he his.
You pick at the hem of the coat, angry tears gathering. You shouldn't care about him, should've turned him in as soon as you realized what he was. Why couldn't you stop?
One bloodied shoe appears before you- then the other. His approach is perfect and silent, a ghost moving through the grass and trees. You scan upwards, and any lingering doubts about his activities of the night evaporated before your eyes. The blade still hangs in his hand in reverse-grip, dripping crimson. Further up and you take in his mask, nearly glowing in the silvery moonlight, take in the fresh, scarlet blood splattered across white latex.
He hardly moves, still and tall, imposing in the darkness. You stare at the expressionless face, at the black, empty eyes and hold his invisible gaze. Has he been watching you? Waiting for you? You can hear his breathing now- heavy and labored, wet through the mask.
The murderous impulse is still in the air- you can feel it radiating off him in waves. If he killed you now, you'd understand- you still deserved it. Can't even find it in yourself to run from him- you know he'd win eventually. All you can do is shiver and stare at the strange man you've invited into your home, stiff and tall and bloodstained as he is, looking down at you over the nose of his mask. He steps forward, raises the knife- it flashes in the light and you pinch your eyes closed, look away.
The knife clatters noisily on the gravel.
You flinch- eyes snapping open to stare at the gory blade on the ground, looking up to him. His hand is half open, still raised. His arm wavers and you scramble up to your feet. There's something wrong-- his breathing stutters- he falls. First to his knees, his palms catching his weight, before they, too, give out-
And once more, there is a body in the leaves.
Your heart pounds in your chest and you stare down at the blue of his coveralls, the mess of synthetic hair that obscure the mask's features. You could call the cops now, tell them he just appeared- but you're already moving forward, rolling Michael over onto his back. You're close enough now he could seize you, snap your neck before you even knew what was happening-- and though that drives a cold spear through your stomach, you don't move away.
You hold your ear close to his mask and listen- he's still breathing. Heavy and raspy- faster than his usual deep inhales. You touch the skin of his chest, just below his mask line, and he's boiling. The infected wound. It must've been worse than you thought.
You don't have a choice, not really.
As far as you can see, there's no new slashes to his coveralls, no soaking spots on the fabric, no blood that shouldn't be a victim's. You drag him up the stairs, and once he's in the entryway you go back outside to get the knife. It's scarlet and dripping with gore all the way to the handle, still warm to the touch. You take it inside and put it in the sink, something to deal with later.
With bloodstained hands you peel him out of the coveralls and check him again for new injures. You find only scorching skin, his chest flushed and pink. The cut on his stomach is inflamed, vile pus crusting around the wound. If only he'd come back sooner the first time.
Getting his clothes off entirely was easier than you'd thought- he's heavy, but once you got it past his waist, you can peel it off his legs with ease, only have trouble getting the bundled cloth over his bound ankle (which was still swollen). Seeing him nude except for his mask should be much more disconcerting than it is, but you've already seen him hard. He's cum on you. Marked you. This is practically clinical in comparison.
You lift him by his shoulders and hope you're not hurting his gunshot wound. It's a straight shot down the hallway, but maneuvering him into the turn to your bedroom is harder than expected. The whole time, he does not wake. You don't know how you lift him, but pulling his weight over your shoulder and pushing hard with your knees, you can force him up onto your bed.
You hesitate there- but decide to take the risk and face his wrath later. You take the latex in hand and work it up over his chin. It gets caught on his nose, but after that-
His eyes are closed, lashes gently laid on his cheeks, lips slightly chapped and parted as he pants, his face as unemotive as always. You cover him with the blankets and change out of your sweater and into a set of sleep clothes. You could take the guest bedroom. That would be the right thing to do.
You're fairly sure you'd wake to him next to you anyway. He hasn't left you alone a single night since he's been here and if he'd fight through his sickness to kill, he'd surely fight through it to end up in bed with you again.
The memory of Michael's warm skin, the soothing surety of his pulse under your ear haunts you- and you can't say it wasn't nice. While he sleeps, absolutely unconscious to your distressing decision-making, you crawl under the covers of your bed.
You scoot closer, lay an arm over him- he's burning hot, but the fever will do him good. There's little you can do for him now, so you press your face against his side and hope, just once, you will be lucky.