You wander down the hallway, your movements sluggish and far away- you did not sleep well last night. Michael was not in bed when you woke. Yesterday he'd still been unwell enough to mostly remain in bed, but if he was up today... Fear had taken you at first. Thoughts ringing too loudly in your skull: he's gone. He's gone to kill someone again.
But muffled sounds passed between your bedroom wall and living room. Cartoons. Tom and Jerry. You couldn't help but laugh.
You changed out of your dirty pajamas- never having really changed much in Michael's sickness- and into something fresh. Jeans and a big sweater. You brushed your teeth and inspected your neck in the mirror. Though Michael's fevered and half-dreamed attack on you had irritated the delicate skin of your neck, the bruises he'd left were fading quickly into yellow-green shadows.
Two days have passed since Michael's fever broke. He must've still felt awful to not be more active- though he'd been walking around yesterday and was independent enough to not make you help him to the bathroom again. He'd even put the mask back on, slept in it next to you once you'd dragged him into the shower and washed the sweat from his scalp. But he had not been too terrible of a patient, less standoffish than he'd been before he was sick. Maybe he had learned he truly preferred to stay in bed and watch TV than to be a thorn in your side.
You doubted it, though.
And as you got to the entryway and the openings between kitchen and living room, you find him- back in his now clean coveralls and mask- sitting on your couch and watching Tom and Jerry. It's good to see him up, you decide. The mask turns slowly as he acknowledges your presence.
"I'm making coffee. Do you want some?"
He nods. You smile, but try not to make a big deal about his continued communication. He still would not talk- you aren't sure if he even remembers how at this point- but he's at least more forthcoming with affirmative answers. 'No's are still silent or warning wrist-grabs. But maybe you'll get him to shake his head one day, too.
You pour grounds into the coffee maker and pick out the two mugs at the front of your cabinet. One is black with little red hearts on it, the other is a plain gray. You kind of want to give Michael the Valentine's Day cup, just to see its cutesy aesthetic in his big, indelicate hands. You decide against it- just in case Michael is feeling less generous today. Besides, you'd probably enjoy it too much and knock him out of a good mood if he happened to have one.
You stand in the kitchen and scroll through your phone as you wait, leaning against the entryway molding to peek into the living room, not too unlike what Michael does when he lurks near you.
The little black appliance beeps obnoxiously loud and you move back to it. You make your cup first, before starting to call back to him, "How do you- oh," The mask is already behind you, Michael cornering you in your little kitchen. It is not fear alone that makes you shiver, but his sudden proximity just another reminder how easily he could end you. The empty eye holes stare down at you; he does not reach for the cream and sugar.
So you do, turning away from him- turning your back on a murderer!- and towards the counter again. You pour one spoonful of sugar into the gray mug and glance over your shoulder- he does not nod, gives no indication to help you. You spoon another. Still nothing. You do another. The mask is unreadable and you wonder if he's having you pour sugar into an empty mug for no reason. Well, there is a reason: because he can. You wonder if he smiles under his mask. You know he doesn't.
You add one more spoonful of sugar- deciding that if this time you still get no response, you'll get out of his way so he can make his own coffee. But he does; in place of a nod Michael reaches for the creamer and puts it in front of you. You huff- at least this sort of unreasonableness you can deal with. It's childish, but hey. It's not showing up at your door with a bloodied knife or demanding to cum on you yet again.
The thought of that has your hands shake as you pop the top to the creamer and pour in as much as you do. He nods this time and you finish his mug with dark coffee. He takes it without a word, without even stirring it, and returns to the living room. You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. Even as comfortable as you've become around him, his inner dangerousness is never lost on you.
He'd tried to kill you while half-asleep in a fever dream. His urge to kill is strong- but you're fairly sure you've come to understand what made him leave both nights. Each time, you'd threatened his power. The first, you had broken the peaceful little trance you'd lived in, taking care of a murderer without any idea of who he was. The second, you'd disobeyed him.
He wanted to kill you those days- and he'd held the knife against your skin, had curled his hand around your throat.
But he didn't kill you.
You don't even know if he knows why. But you think you know what drives you to keep letting him in, to keep bandaging him up despite the source of his injures. To let him crowd into your kitchen and silently demand you make his coffee while he stands there and watches. The self-hatred for daring the care about him is wearing off now, replaced by a warm and enjoyable acceptance.
You stand in the entryway to the living room and watch as he rolls up the bottom of his mask and sips the steaming coffee. He recoils slightly and you want to scold him for it being too hot- but that won't make him stop. He'd drink more just to spite you. Maybe he'll let you kiss his burned tongue better later.
You take your seat in the living room and give your drink a moment to cool so you don't face the same tongue-burning as Michael. You watch the screen in silence and enjoy the silly animation he's let play. His presence, the shape on your couch, the soft sounds of him drinking, his low and steady breathing is all comforting, knowing you're not alone in the house.
When he finishes his surely too-sweet coffee, he leaves the gray mug on the coffee table and rolls the latex down again. What is it about the mask that he needs? You'd much rather have that silvery-white scruff and scarred face than the blank, expressionless mask. It's not a matter of trust, you know that much- he let you take care of him without the mask. He's even willingly taken it off for you twice now. Maybe one day he'd be comfortable enough to leave it off, or maybe he just likes how it makes you uncomfortable if you look at it too long.
You drink your coffee and watch Jerry elude another of Tom's swipes.
Gravel sprays, grinding noises echoing up your driveway. Ice runs in your veins. The peace of the moment is gone, cold tension sparking every nerve. Your coffee sloshes in the cup as you struggle to set it down before you're up and dashing to the entryway. A glance through the peephole in your door confirms the worst possible scenario: a dark green Crown Vic pulls through the dust cloud.
Your voice is small and far away. "Michael." He's already standing behind you in the hallway. "Leave, out the back. I'll talk with them." You don't wait for his confirmation, already twisting the deadbolt and stepping out onto your porch- pulling the door closed behind you.
Please get out of here-
Two men step out of the car, you recognize one with his icy, piercing gaze and short, dark hair. The other you don't know- he's stout with a young, round face, sandy blonde stubble peaks from under his nose. You steel yourself and do your best to find the same inner strength that controls Michael's expression. It's easier than you think and by the time the porch's first step creaks under the first state policeman's weight, you feel centered, grounded. All you have to do is buy time.
"Morning, officers." You greet, and manage to actually sound cordial.
"Good morning." The new man says. There's no joy in his voice. "Mind if we step inside to talk?"
You hesitate- Michael should've left by now, but had you left anything out of place? He should be silent enough to sneak out even while you're outside with them. You size them up and assert yourself. "We can speak right here."
"That's fine for now." The detective you met last time dismisses you. "You said the last time I was here you knew your neighbor, a Mr. Edward Morton?"
Your heart races, you lick your lips. Think of Michael and his cool, collected nature. "Not very well, mostly by reputation. I've only met him once."
Piercing Eyes answers. "Three nights ago he was murdered."
The catch in your breath isn't fake- at last now you know who Michael had found that night that he'd wanted to kill you. "That's horrible. What can I do to help?"
The new, short officer's brow knits together. He glances to his partner as he speaks. "We'd, uh, actually like you to come with us and talk somewhere private."
It was all going to come crashing down now. You don't now how they know, but they do- all you can hope is that Michael is far enough away that they won't be able to track him. You'll never see him again- You can't hide the tremor in your voice, "Am I under arrest?"
Cool blue eyes bear down on you and you want to sink into the ground. "Should you be?"
You want to panic, want to jump off the side of your porch and sprint into the trees. But you can't. You have to buy time, any second more that you can get before they have half the state police out here looking. Your palms sweat. You'll go away for life. You open your mouth, try to think of something better than Of course not
You don't realize what's happening until it leaves your mouth as a light, strained, "Michael."
The short one's face screws up in confusion or disgust- the blue-eyed officer's face lights up, ecstatic at your near confession. Neither of them follow your gaze, neither hear him, because he does not want to be heard.
The knife slides in near silently; the only noise is the short officer's sudden wet gasp. His eyes grow wide and round, irises shrinking to tiny eclipses around huge pupils. Red bubbles around his mouth and he coughs-
You stumble back to your door. The other one turns, hand already reaching at his waist-
A huge hand wraps around the man's throat and shoves him back into one of the columns around the stairs. He sputters- and something cracks in his throat. He stares, for the first time, into the lifeless latex.
Michael angles his other hand and the shorter stranger slides off his blade and down the stairs. He lies face up, his mouth moving in silent prayer as blood erupts around him. The knife turns- and in one clean motion, Michael buries it into the chest of the detective. He gasps, beats weakly at Michael's shoulders- and is rewarded with the sickening twist, steel scraping on bone that makes the man howl for only a moment.
The one on the ground grows quiet.
And everything is silent except for Michael's heavy breathing and your shallow gasps.
The shape of a man before you retrieves his knife- your knife- and lets the detective slide down the wooden column, leaving a red stain on the wood. Gore drips from the blade, glinting off the shiny metal. You stare at it, watch as another thick drop splashes to the porch.
What would happen to you when he needs to move on? You knew the answer then.
Not even tears grace your face, shock driving all emotions from your body until you're left with only a numb acceptance. You close your eyes. Just make it quick.
But the kiss of his blade doesn't come. First, you only hear his breathing, muffled and yet amplified under the mask. Even the birds have stopped their chirping in the presence of a predator. And then a single creak of the old wood as he steps closer.
You force your eyes open, flinching hard, your lip quivers. He stands there, still and solid. The knife is loose in his hand and drips slowly onto the wood- the wood you'd cleaned so recently. Your eyes drift up his body- taking in the sight of fresh, crimson bloodstains on the navy fabric. You'd cleaned so many out- and now you've seen them made. You find the mask. It's clean for now, but you know it won't be for long.
He doesn't raise the blade, does not do anything more than stare down at you. You raise yourself up with the help of your door. Your knees shake under you. Your throat is dry and the words come out hoarse. "Are you going to kill me?"
The mask tilts precariously off to his right. It's not a yes. It's not a no, either. You swallow and try to reclaim some balance. For now, you have your safety to worry about. You live pretty far out of town, off the country highways and the trail up to your house is long enough- you should be able to clean up before anyone notices. You don't know how long you'd have before the rest of the state police comes looking, though. And if they were here to arrest you... A chill runs down your spine. They were expected back.
Your throat feels thick, "We have to get out. They'll come looking." Michael's hand tightens around the knife. You shake your head.
He steps closer again- your inhale is sharp, just edging onto a scream, tears finally burning at your eyes because oh god, he's going to kill me now and Michael turns the door knob behind you. You stumble back, into the entryway. Michael walks past you, uninterested.
He takes a sharp right into the kitchen- and you hear the jingling of your keys. Right. Okay. Your thoughts race, and you shake, mumbling "Okay, okay," to yourself more than to him. You grab the first aid kit in your room and throw a change of clothes for yourself into a bag. What else did you need? What else could you carry? You blindly make it to the living room and grab your phone, charger, and wallet. You pull your shoes on without socks. Michael stands in the entrance to the kitchen, you pass him and open a drawer.
He watches, silent as ever but slowly tipping his head as you dig out a paperclip and begin to bend it straight. Your hands shake so much, it takes you several tries before you can wedge the end of the paperclip into the tiny hole on your phone. The SIM card pops out, so tiny and now malicious.
You wish you could tell someone you were okay. But if they knew you were unharmed, they'd know you were with him. You were really doing this. You stuff the SIM card in your pocket, just in case. You stuff two rags into the messenger bag and look to him.
Shock truly sets in- Michael leads you from the house, walking past the bodies of the two officers without even looking at them. You don't look either, but can't suppress the whimper that escapes at the splash of your foot coming off the last step. He doesn't even look to you.
You wipe your shoes in the grass as best you can before climbing into your car. Two sets of footprints your mind whispers. They'll know. They'll know. You can't think about that now. You feel instead Michael's jerky, imprecise control of your car- the jerk of him riding up on the parking brake, and finally reversing down your driveway, your house shrinking as you make it out to the road.
You don't think you even closed the door.
You only drive twenty minutes before the neon sign catches you. The little second-hand shop should've just opened. "Hey, stop there." You point. "Pull around back, there's a big tree next to the dumpster." He does so. It doesn't occur to you until you're already parked that it was odd he'd listened.
You check the bag and grab your wallet. "I need to get you a change of clothes. You'll attract a lot of attention looking like that. Just, stay here. I'll be fast."
You are fast, even manage to avoid awkward chatter with the night owl opener who was too busy yawning to pay attention to your purchases. You give her a ten dollar bill and tell her to keep the change. You hope the clothes fit alright- but you don't have time to complain if they don't.
You take the plastic bag back to the car- and don't find a mask waiting for you. Instead, it's warped and strange-looking on the center console. Michael stares at you, face bared to the world, from the driver's seat. You close the door and nod to him you're ready to keep going. Again, the start is a little choppy, but it gets better once he makes it back to the road.
You don't really think about where he's going. If it was you at the wheel, you'd jump on an interstate and drive until you needed gas, then maybe drive some more. But Michael seems to have a destination in mind- and that's alright. Your brain needs the rest from thinking, so you watch as the scenery outside your window changes from your sweet, quiet town to long, empty fields where the season's corn has already been harvested. It's quiet. He doesn't turn on the radio, does not speak to you, does not even look away from the long, gray expanse of highway. You don't even know what direction you're heading. Would he go north or south? Or get out of Illinois altogether?
You doubted that- escape twice only to go back to his hometown? He won't go far. A big, blue-painted sign catches your attention- and the little square under it that presents in big, block lettering: ATM
You don't have to say anything- Michael already pulls into the right lane to take the exit to the rest area. The road curls, presents a breakaway for runaway trucks, and then curls again into a cement monolith surrounded by a massive parking lot. Two semis were already pulled in close. Michael chooses a spot in the far corner and turns off the car.
"Gonna grab some money." You say, already unbuckling yourself and walking briskly to the center. You shiver and dread that you did not grab one of your jackets. Jackets you'd probably never see again. In your house that- You shove it down. Not useful. You need to take out your money right now, figure out how much you have left in your savings and what all you could do with that.
The rest stop is almost vacant; a mother carries a whining child into the women's bathroom, a trucker sits outside smoking and checking his phone. You ignore them to go straight for the ATM. It beeps as you slide in your card- giving you a pop up that you'd have a fee.
You double check your balance and grimace at the meager remainder of your money. It would have to be enough- or really, it would have to be enough to start. You have a strong hunch on how Michael survives outside of Smith's Grove and sooner or later it would come back to that. You withdraw it all and the machine spits out six fresh, crisp twenties.
You fold them and shove them into your pocket- and find the SIM card. You pull it out and look at it, the tiny little silicone chip that stored so much personal information. You open your phone just to double check the warning message- No SIM Card Installed. Your hand trembles as you put away your phone, but carry the SIM card in your palm. Out front, the trucker has moved on to calling someone, ranting about hour limitations. The mother and child have not returned yet, and there's only one other normal car in the parking lot: a maroon minivan with a little stick figure family stuck to the rear window- a stickman, a stickwoman (which was only a stickman with a skirt), and a small stickgirl with a little stickdog following behind. You place the SIM card behind one tire and walk away.
The trucker has not noticed. You keep your eyes down. A man trots through the center of the rest stop and hurriedly pushes open the men's room door. You return the way you came- and find a black truck with peeling paint parked a half-dozen spots away from your car. The driver's side door is ajar. Your car is empty.
Your car is empty, the driver's side door left ajar. Alarms ring in your head- your car is empty- until you hear the soft sound of a zipper being pulled up. You wish he'd just stopped to pee, but you have a sinking suspicion there's something more. Michael hikes up the incline to the parking lot with easy steps despite his sprained ankle. Your breath catches in your throat.
You've never seen him in normal clothes. He looks good- the black tee you'd grabbed is just a touch too tight and clings to his chest, the jeans a good enough fit. You can see plain enough he's half-hard and as you look down further you can see why. He wears the same blood-soaked boots and just past the edge of the embankment, tucked into some bushes, is a man's body.
Michael carries his filthy coveralls in one hand and throws them into the tiny backseat of the truck. You grab your bag and his mask and climb up into the passenger's side. He turns the key, the old truck's engine struggles to turn over, and the radio plays country. He turns it off before you make it back out to the highway.
He must have a specific destination in mind- he follows exits to switch highways that only bring you further and further out into empty miles of farmland. You can't complain. The truck is louder than your car and the rushing sound of air slipping through the old frame is more comforting than you want to admit. You can almost imagine you're just taking a day trip somewhere, the first time you'd go out with him.
The sun reaches its zenith and beats down on the old truck, the light glinting off the exposed metal of the hood. You don't know how far you've made it, but the barren fields give way to gas stations and then to a tiny hamlet of a town. Michael pulls off the highway at a green sign labeled Crestview and within minutes you find yourself in the middle of a pleasant, quiet residential district. Michael slows and drifts through the streets.
He's hunting for something. You scan the long rows of houses- it's midday, there's no one out, no teens for Michael to hunt. Maybe he's looking for shelter, somewhere to stay for awhile- you don't even want to know where he stays of his own free will. But you let him circle, let him scope out whatever it is he needs to see- including slowing to a crawl past a tiny house with a weathered and half knocked-over FOR SALE sign stuck in the yard.
You wonder who owns it, how hard it was to sell a house in a town that hardly makes it to the map. It's not a pretty building; clearly built in the fifties and aged poorly with pastel brickwork and a little raised cement porch with spray-painted white metal chairs on it. There's a wire fence along the side, backed up to a wooden fence, and only a tiny decorative gate stands between Michael and getting in.
But there's a dinginess to the windows, the curtains out of place- you doubt what's inside is anything close to livable.
"There's probably a motel." You offer. You see one blue-gray iris slide to you. "I have enough money for tonight, at least."
You think he'll reject the idea and you'll silently accept the fact that being on the run with a wanted murderer means giving up basic luxuries. Like a bed, probably. Michael has stared you down at the foot of your bed too much for you to even entertain the thought of him getting more than three hours of sleep normally.
But the truck jerks forward and you begin to slide through residential streets and back out toward the highway. A seriously dilapidated sign features half a sun rising over a blue background, the text a barely legible Sunny Side Inn. Michael does not pull in- instead, he passes it and pulls into a parking lot four lots down. You want to thank him, but you doubt he'd even care.
You make sure everything you have is in your bag- and grimace at the sight of Michael reaching into the back to obtain the coveralls. The blood has at least dried by now, but you're still loath to put them in with your clean clothes. But what choice did you have? You go to grab for his mask as well, but he's faster- pulling it close to him before you can touch it.
He's unreadable as you search his face for meaning, but don't fight him on it. He still wants whatever it is the mask gives him, you just hope he doesn't wear it out in the open. You stuff the coveralls into your bag and pull the zipper. He does not turn off the engine, does not even make a motion to get out.
"Ditching the car?" You guess and are rewarded with only silent stares. You sigh and nod to yourself- if he hasn't left you on the side of the road, if he hasn't killed you yet, he must still have some interest in protecting both of you. You get out, climbing down the running board and out onto the roughed-up concrete. You step away from the truck and watch Michael through the window- he stares at you for a long moment, then turns back to the steering wheel and the truck jerks forward and pulls away.
You turn away and walk through the parking lots- passing by a breakfast joint that was surprisingly busy and a McDonald's that had more cars in the drive thru. You don't make eye contact with any of the patrons. The third lot is some kind of shop with sunflowers painted in the window and a sign in curly letters that reads Chloe's but you can't make out anything discernible in the darkened windows.
The motel has a faded baby blue paint job, making it look ghostly and pale now; the roof used to be painted a canary yellow and has actually fared better than the bricking. The complex can't have more than twenty rooms, set up as two blocks of rooms in a single line with only a small break in the middle for a breezeway.
The office is small, but a neon open sign hums and invites you in. The door jingles as you open it and inside you're greeted with carpet that has not been changed since the eighties and has not been cleaned since the nineties, long-ingrained stains camouflaging with the ancient brown patterning. You nudge the fibers apart with your foot and make the disturbing discovery that the roots of the carpet are actually orange.
"Can I help you?" You jump, and find yourself facing a young man with thick-rimmed glasses and a cluster of acne over his cheeks behind a fake wood counter. A black polo hangs ill-fitted and wrinkly around his shoulders, but bears no name tag.
"I need a room." Your voice wavers, but he doesn't seem to care.
"One or two beds?"
You hesitate, thumb at the hem of your sweater. "One."
"Cool." He says, types something into a computer behind the counter. The keyboard is old enough to click loudly as he types. "That'll be fifty-nine dollars and-"
You thumb out three twenties and offer them.
"Who uses cash anymore?" He mumbles, but takes the bills and sticks them in a register, counting out a handful of coins for you. From a rack of keys on the wall, each hung with a big plastic key chain with a number on it- of which only the six is missing- he gives you nineteen. That's fine. Far from the road.
"Check out's at eleven, coffee's available from five to ten." He drones on in a clearly practiced script, motioning weakly to a little table with a big coffee pot, currently empty. "If you need any help, there's a placard on the side table."
You thank him in a small voice, and he responds only with a "uh-huh" and opening his phone behind the counter. The door jingles as you leave. You squint at the daylight reflecting off the concrete. It should be warmer for how bright it is outside, but considering Michael had apparently dragged you through northern Illinois, there's no soothing spring sun coming any time soon.
You walk along the strip of motel rooms, finding a little blue compact parked squarely in front of the room labeled six with a lopsided metal symbol that had once been properly screwed in pace. Nineteen is, of course, all the way at the end- second only to twenty, which sits vacant. Maybe you should've asked for twenty. Maybe that would've drawn unwanted attention.
The key turns the lock and you step inside to the same orange-brown carpeting that's been severely worn near the door. The bed, pressed up against the corner furthest from the door is in better condition. The comforter is a pale yellow with floral rose print, stiff with too much starch, but the sheets underneath are satisfyingly crisp and a shockingly clean white.
You sigh and lay down. And for the first time all the emotions you had shoved aside break free. Anxiety rushes over you first; tears bursting from your eyes- a sob rips from your throat. You clamp your hands over your face and press your eyes closed, but it's too late. You shake as another sob is caught in your throat and you mourn. Your life is gone. It's over. Everything you've ever known, your house-
Had the police already torn your house apart? Had they found the week's worth of dirty bandages? Would they question your family? Where can you go now?
You wrap your arms around yourself and roll to face away from the door, pull the blankets up around your shoulders. The sheets aren't terribly warm, but the pressure feels good. You wish he was here- at least you wouldn't feel so completely alone against the world.
You cry for a while, reason it as being good for you, a natural reaction, and probably better to do while Michael is out. All were true, of course, but the reality was that you couldn't have stopped the onslaught of tears if you tried. So you lie in a cheap motel bed until your eyes hurt and there's no more tears and you shake.
The too-early dusk is already approaching through the curtained window when you roll onto your back and fish out the remote from the drawer. The television is old, a big box CRT-type and the reception is as fuzzy as expected. You never expected to be so excited for boring daytime TV. A soap opera is on; a glamorous countess recalls her tumultuous relationship with a drifter.
You watch, sniffling, as the show gets more dramatic- a doctor cries over a lost patient and a woman plots her revenge on the countess. It's stupid and somehow that's nice. It's something other than your life.
The show ends on a cliffhanger of a character you don't know returning home and as the end theme plays, you realize you've made a very vital mistake: Michael is still not here. He doesn't know what room you're in, he doesn't have the key.
You're sure he could figure it out; he's painfully observant. But doing so may risk more lives if he runs into trouble.
You don't need more blood on your conscience. You can prevent that.
You rub your face dry and grab the room key and step back outside. The cool air irritates your red, itchy eyes. The setting sun casts long shadows parallel with the rows of rooms, two more cars have materialized in the parking lot- neither of them are old, worn-down, black trucks which is good, you think. You look around and find no other people out. Past the entrance, even the country highway is empty- not a single car passes as you stand there.
Maybe he's keeping his distance for now. Or maybe he's behind the building, waiting for a sign from you? You nearly trip just walking again, but you make it to the end of the row. Beyond that the parking lot curves around to go fully behind the motel row, followed by a thin strip of grass and a chain link fence. On the other side of that is a vacant lot, overgrown with yellow-brown weeds. You look around there too, but find nothing. No very still old men or curious white masks lingering.
You pick at the hem of your shirt and start around the back of the motel. More empty concrete greets you. From this side you can see the strange boutique and beyond that the McDonald's which still sports three cars in the parking lot. The breakfast place even further seems to have shut down for the day; the lights are off and you see no cars or people around. Not even Michael.
You bite at your lip and fight the panic truly starting to surge through your system. What if he didn't come back? What if he had one of those dark urges while he was getting rid of the car? You steel yourself and keep walking around the perimeter. The backside of the motel has air conditioning units lined up one after another, each tied into the one in the rooms, each surrounded by tan gravel that's spilled out onto the cement of the sidewalk and the road. The little breezeway that separates the two sections of rooms is empty, save for a small trash can with an ashtray on top.
You make it all the way up to the office and find a tiny beat-up looking gray Camry that has to be at least fifteen years old. A variety of colorful baubles hangs from around the rear view mirror. Probably the clerk's.
As you approach the highway, it occurs to you that you actually have no idea where you are. The other side of the highway has a gas station with truck parking- one semi with a purple trailer sits half-visible, some kind of automotive garage sits to the right. The quiet town is off behind that.
You round around the front, pass under the sunshiney sign. The office's curtains are pulled open, inside the clerk has headphones in and is bobbing along to some unknown rhythm. You watch and wonder if this is how Michael stalks, the clerk entirely unaware of your presence. A white and black car rolls along the frontage road- you gasp and back off behind the motel long before it pulls into the parking lot. The police car is near silent, no lights or sirens playing- but it cuts a sharp turn and parks in front of the office.
You press your back up to the painted brick and close your eyes, try to focus on calming your heart down. Maybe they weren't here for you. You head back down the walkway- you'd just go hide in your room. Nowhere else to hide out here, really- at best you could lay down in the weeds in that vacant lot, but you'd have to climb or circumvent the fence. And if they weren't here for you, you might only draw attention to yourself. Your hands shake, you wish Michael was here.
You pass by the breezeway-
An iron arm closes around your middle, a hand covers your mouth- reaches all the way from one side of your jaw to the other. You can't even scream, too shocked to even fight- until you're pulled back against a wide chest. That shouldn't make your eyes close, shouldn't make you melt back against him in relief. You touch his wrist, but he doesn't let go of your chin.
Instead he turns you in his arms- and presses you up against one brick wall, his palm still held over your lips. He steps in close to you, traps you between his arms. You expect the scruffy beginnings of his white beard- and get only white latex. Without his coveralls, the effect is much stranger- before his shape under the thick mechanic's fabric was completely obscured, but now you can see the soft curves of his biceps, the shape of his chest. And still, the mask hides his face.
You stiffen, pat at his wrist again- he tilts his head, but moves his hand down to your shoulder. You whisper, "The cops are here."
He straightens, his fingers closing tighter around your shoulder. Michael moves off towards the front of the breezeway, towards the parking lot- and you know that tension in his shoulders, the heavy presence that radiates off him. He'll be seen. It's still light out, it's in public, there's too many people- he's going to get caught, you'll lose him-
You panic, grab his arm- he spins to you, his hand ready to push you back to the wall- and you surge upwards.
He shoves you back, the impact knocks the air from your chest. There's copper on your lips, the bitter taste of dirt and latex lingering as you stare up at him. You can count your heartbeats as he holds you there- you wonder if he'll kill you for stepping over some invisible, undisclosed boundary. His right hand locks just under your jaw, forces your chin up. With his left he grabs the mask by its hair and tugs it off in three pulls-
He drops the mask beside him. His eyes are burning- you can hardly breathe. You've ruined it this time. But there's no tightening of his hand at your throat, no cracking of the delicate bones there.
There's no warning. His mouth crashes against yours, nose colliding painfully and making you gasp. Michael takes advantage. He's messy, unpracticed, but all-consuming. He bites at your lips with the same ferocity he'd shown your neck, pulling at the thin skin until you're whimpering, grabbing at his arms. His tongue dips into your mouth, demands control as he tastes you properly. Stubble scraps across your chin and cheeks, only making the skin more sensitive.
All you can do is take it- he gives you no other choice. With one hand at your throat, you can't even chase him, can hardly tip your head to seek his mouth in return. Your lips quiver, and he finds them again, incisors sliding off and plumping your lips further as you shake. The warmth resurges in full force between your legs- and Michael steps closer, presses the full length of his body against you, traps you between lean muscle and hard brick. He's hard again, through the denim he's pressed up against your hip.
You can hardly manage a soft, desperate "Michael." He growls, deep and low and it resonates in your core. Your nails bite into his arms and you beg against his teeth, "Please, please,"
He leans away- you strain against his palm to follow him. His breathing is still so steady and even, as you're coming undone already. You tremble against him and he is unfazed, staring down at you. The only hint of reaction lies in his pupils: black nearly consuming the icy blue.
His switches hands- his left holding you in place while his right slips down between your bodies. You want to cry- he's going to touch himself, find his cock in his pants and make you watch as he finds relief again. But he only steps to the side, grinds up against the right side of your hips- as his right hand pops open the button to your jeans.
You stiffen, inhale sharply, "Michael, no." His thumb presses down over over your jugular and silences any further protests. He works your zipper down with the other hand and cold November air makes your skin prickle. Your vision narrows, a fogginess making your head feel light- and his hand loosens. You blink and try to regain your balance, too aware of the motion of his hips, the heat pressed against you. You whimper, fight back embarrassed tears as his fingers slide along the outside of your panties, cupping the warmth and wetness they find.
Your body moves of its own accord, rocking down against his hand. You swear, for only a fraction of a moment, one corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. His hand slides back up and you want to whine at the loss of what little sensation you had- until he's slipping under the elastic hem and you can feel the full warmth of his hand against you. Your mind wants him to stop, you're so exposed out here, and yet every nerve in your body is set alight, your legs spreading to welcome him closer.
His middle finger dips between your lips, skates right off the top of your clit- your mouth falls open, your head lolling back against the wall. Michael seems to like that- he ducks his head and you find teeth on your neck again. They don't sink in this time, but his bites are still demanding, leaving dark impressions over the healing bruises on your throat.
His fingers dancer further, their exploration made easy with the slickness that seeps out from deep inside. He roams, following some unseen pattern, dipping and circling near your entrance, dragging the wetness there back up to nudge at your clit. You whimper, push against his hips in a silent plea. You don't know what you want- the teasing pleasure, drawing out this heat as long as he has feels so good, your whole existence shrinking down to a burning need, or for him to push his cock into you and claim you, to take what he's wanted since he first met you.
He bumps against your clit again- you shudder through an inhale. You can feel him pause in his nips, his hot breath cascades over your sensitive skin- and he brushes against your clit again. You bite your lip and do your best to turn away from him. He seems to understand now- he fingers center over your clit and circle, slow drawn-out traces around it until you're writhing in his grasp, bucking under him as he bites again. It feels good- so fucking good, pleasure tingling inside you and yet you're so far, impossibly far from the edge. Your nails cut into his arms, your hips lifting in a frantic, useless attempt for him to touch you how you need.
Instead, his hand slides lower- even further away from your aching, swollen clit. You whimper, but he nudges into your entrance. And he waits there, even ceases biting at your neck again- you already know what he wants.
Your voice is hardly more than a breath. "Please, Michael."
He pushes in- his hand finds your mouth before you can moan, the noise muffled and warped by his palm. His finger is so much bigger than yours and moves unskillfully- moving inside you only once before withdrawing. You breathe in throughout his fingers, ready to spit another string of cries-
He pushes two fingers into you. The stretch burns in just the right way, filling you more than you've ever done to yourself. You buck, a strangled noise slipping between your lips and his fingers. Michael leans in close, scruff scratching your cheek, lips just brushing your ear.
It's low and deep and quiet, but unquestionably there: Michael shushes you. You whimper, pinch your eyes closed and try to calm down. It's hard when he's knuckle-deep and grinding against you. He must deem you quieted enough, because his hand leaves your mouth to slide into your hair and twist-
You sink your teeth into your lower lip, claw at his arms and don't make a noise. You can nearly hear the laugh in his breath before his teeth sink into the tender skin of your neck, his fingers beginning to move inside you. You can't stop the panting breaths that escape, but you choke down everything more than a soft whimper, the quietest praise for his touch- and even with so little you can give him, his fumbling, naive touch becomes more intentional. Each time he curls his fingers, each time he finds some special, hidden thing, your breath catches. He notices. He remembers, seeking out that place with each motion.
A groan slips past his teeth, quiet- as though he wants to hold it in his chest- and he grinds harder against you until you're sure he's bruised the skin just above your hip. He has to be close now; if he's been aroused since the truck stop, he can't last much longer. The thought scares you; he hasn't cared much if you finish in the past, even stopped you when you tried for yourself.
You clench down on his fingers, try to close your eyes, focus on the sensations he brings you- the deep pleasure that echoes inside, the scrape of his teeth down your neck and shoulder, nudging your sweater aside to bite where your throat meets shoulder. But it's not enough; the heel of his palm is just too far off, the pressure not quite right on your clit for you to be able to rise up to that peak. Your lip trembles, you pull him closer- want to beg to let you cum, to please, please, make you cum-
He ruts hard against your hip, presses you into the wall and you can hardly bear it-
Past your own frantic breath you hear it. A gasp. Michael goes deathly still, barely pulls away from your neck. You snap your head to the left- out at the back side of the motel, a figure stands at the edge of the breezeway. Thin and gangly, you recognize the clerk's voice, equal parts disgusted and not actually that shocked. "Fucking, come on, dude."
You push Michael back, just enough to make his hand slip free. You immediately miss the fullness, but you're spitting a quick and barely sincere "Sorry," before you can contemplate that. You pull Michael away before he can consider anything serious- barely giving him enough time to claim the dropped mask on the ground. You don't even rezip your pants. A quick glance at the parking lot tells you the cop car is long gone. Good. Perfect.
He follows you- and all you can focus on is the eyes burning into you, the weighted gaze on your back as you fumble with the keys in your pocket, shaking so hard you miss the keyhole the first time. But you get the door open, and stumble inside.
Michael turns the deadbolt behind him. There's no use pretending this time. You've denied yourself enough. You don't think he'd let you if you tried.
He stalks towards you. Slow. Methodical. You expect his eyes to dip to your heaving chest, your still exposed underwear, but they don't. He stares into you- all his quiet intensity, the mesmerizing gaze locking eyes with you as you step backwards. When your knees hit the mattress you scoot back and kick your shoes off, leaving them at the foot of the bed.
His knee presses into the mattress and makes it dip. It's all you can do to pull of your shirt as fast as you can, shimmying out of your pants and throwing them somewhere towards the television.
You reach for the hem of your underwear- already embarrassingly wet- and his hands catch your wrists. You whimper, think again of how he had so cruelly denied you while sick- and his weight comes forward, so easily pins your hands beside your head. He watches you for a moment, the trembling at your hands, your quivering lips, before he pulls both hands above you and holds them with one massive hand. His left hand.
The right comes before you- and presses to your mouth. The smell of your own arousal floods your nose. You lick at his fingers- and are rewarded with his eyes dipping to half-lidded for a moment. He presses against your lips, forces his way into your mouth. His fingers are so big they fill you, bump awkwardly against your teeth, but he doesn't seem to mind. You suck, wind your tongue between the digits as you clean them. It's sweet, thick, and flavorful- mixed with a bitter tang that lingers under his nails. You whimper, push your hips up against him- he retaliates by pressing his fingers down on your tongue, holding it there as you try to lick and tease him.
He slides his fingers forward, off your tongue as you lap at the tops. He pulls down, pushes your teeth into your jaw- and he forces your mouth open. Watches as your pink tongue licks your own slick off his fingers. It must be enough.
He pulls the two fingers free and wipes them obscenely on your chest, the saliva cooling quickly on your skin. Without looking away from you, his hand finds the hem of your underwear. You lift your hips so he can work them down and off your legs; Michael as other ideas. His fingers twist in the thin fabric over your left hip and tug- a cascade of seams pop and leave the clothing utterly ruined, but not off you just yet. His eyes narrow, his hand closes entirely around it-
It doesn't survive a second rip. The fabric shears, gives way under his strength. Only then do his eyes wander away from your face, meandering all the way down your torso. His thumb slips between plump labia, spreading your pussy open as he looks closer at you. You shiver under him and wonder if he can tell just how wet you are. From the easy slide of his thumb, he must know.
Only then does he let go of your wrists and begin to lean away. You start to sit up, to help him undress- and his hands are on you again, pressing you firmly into the mattress. The same warning he'd given you before; he wants you still. You nod your understanding, keep your hands above your head as he sits back on his heels, nestled right between your knees, and watches you, slowly cocks his head to one side.
You want to close your legs under the heat of his gaze, the muscles of your thighs traitorously trembling against him. He doesn't mind- you think he likes how he can make you shake with only a look. Even his patience does not last. You're disappointed but not exactly surprised as he pops the button to the jeans and unzips, hardly working the denim down at all.
He's painfully hard, the tip scarlet with need, cloudy wetness from his precum already smeared across it. He takes himself in hand, strokes slow and tight from root to tip, darkening the head for a moment, squeezing another droplet to the surface. He could finish himself right there- leave his cum on you again, mark you, bring you so close to finishing and still keep all the pleasure for himself.
You bite your lip hard and push away tears of desperation. He notices, a momentary tightening around his eyes betraying his observation. You inhale and try to control the shudder in your voice- and still can barely manage anything more than "Michael, please," He stares on, says nothing with his face. You whimper, cheeks burning and fight to push any words out. "Please, I- I need it."
His hand stills. He leans forward again, left hand winding into your hair as he leans over you. Warmth radiates off his body, but his eyes are cool and distant now that he's in control. He waits for a moment before tightening his grip, pulling your head back. You whimper and he lets go. He stares at you, waits for something that you don't know- he wants you to say something.
You can hardly breathe, your mouth dropping open, lips trembling. You want to please him, want him to move on, to touch you, to do something, but the words flee your mind, your voice trailing off into a futile keen. He pulls your hair again and you're ready to sob in frustration-
His breath is hot on your ear; the sudden sensation makes you jerk, pain lighting across your scalp. His voice is near hoarse from disuse, graveling and quiet- only for you. It's not compassion that drives him, not a genuine desire to know. He already knows. "Tell me."
You do sob, press your eyes closed so you don't have to look at him anymore. "You! I need you, Michael. Please, I-"
His right hand slides under the back of your leg, lifts and spreads you open. He shifts forwards properly until you can feel the heat of him on your inner thighs and then even closer. He sits up again, leaving his left hand to press your sternum down, keeping you flat on the mattress. You whimper, twist your hands into the sheets. Satisfied you aren't going to move, his hand leaves your leg and returns between you-
His other hand finds your hip, thumb pressing cruelly into the sensitive skin where he'd been rutting against you.
You open your eyes- and find him waiting. Just so he could watch your face as his cock slides against you, presses at your entrance before slipping up, the underside rubbing wetly on your clit. You bite down on your lip until you taste copper, will yourself to watch. He doesn't look away and this time he doesn't miss.
He presses in and he's just barely too big and you're just barely too tight, but you're so wet it doesn't matter. He slips in, pain and pleasure and the addicting sensation of being just so full of him rush over you, each sensation too strong for you to focus on anything except the fact that Michael Myers was inside you-
And with the tip in, it's easy for him to pull you close, to sink deeper and deeper until you're seeing stars, your mind shutting down, everything in you overwhelmed at the intrusion, at this part of yourself you've been missing. He presses against something deep inside, a pressure just this side of uncomfortable behind your navel- but it's not enough. Both hands settle on your hips, keep you still as he drives against it. You choke on a noise, feel him push against you until his hips slot against yours.
Your discomfort does not even cross his mind. He withdraws halfway- the drag alone has your walls singing- and he ruts back into you, pries you back open, spearing you on his cock. It hurts and he fills you and you want more-
You don't even realize your arms have moved until his painful grasp has left your hips. He captures them again with one hand and holds them against your stomach. There's an edge to his gaze, a tip of anger that you did not obey. You whimper, want to beg forgiveness- he exacts his punishment.
His right hand finds your throat again, keeps just enough of his weight on you to keep you pinned firmly under him. Michael's hips drive into you with sadistic force, slamming into you with utter disregard. You cry out, squeeze your legs against his sides- but you can't resist him. If he only wants to hurt you, he doesn't succeed. Even with bruising thrusts and his iron grip of your wrists, the motion still fills you, still jabs at the sensitive place his fingers had found, his body still rubs at your clit.
The mix of sharp pain and persistent, continuous pleasure makes your head spin, writhing weakly under him. Michael's thrusts slow, ease off- and you can barely crack your eyes open to find his head tipped again. He rolls his hips forward again, almost experimentally- still demanding, but less intentionally hurtful. You moan, clench around him- and he repeats the motion, harder. This time it makes you flinch, moan louder, a deep ache mixed in. He's not satisfied he's learned what he wants to know yet, and presses your wrists down against your torso. That's all the warning he gives before returning to that bruising, forceful drive of his hips that bounces painfully off the wall deep inside you, avoiding the pleasurable push against your front wall.
You cry out sharply, your legs snapping against his sides, even managing to lift your head off the mattress in protest before being slammed back down under his weight. Tears bead at your eyes- and his thumb strokes just under your jaw. You prepare for the next sadistic thrust, prepare for the very real possibility that that's just how he would fuck you-
But his hips roll forward, still piercing you deep, but finally finding what you need. It's still forceful, still makes you slide on the sheets- your inner thighs will be purple tomorrow, but after the truly cruel aim before, he's practically gentle. But there's something more: he uses his grasp on your wrists to pull you closer, to force your hips up onto his knees so you're barely tilted upwards.
He drives in again- you close your eyes, lightning pleasure between your legs steals the air from your lungs, silences the cry in your throat. And Michael does it again. You gasp this time, writhe under him on instinct, open your eyes to tell him, somehow, what he's doing to you. But the curious, observant tilt of his head over you tells you he already knows. He does it again, and this time you cry out, sharp and high, a knot forming in your belly.
His hand closes around your throat. Your eyes roll, struggling to stay focused on Michael, the world shifts in and out of focus, darkness lurking at the edges. He fucks you, uses your wrists to keep you close, keeps careful control of himself even as he begins to pant. He's meticulous, each motion controlled, unrelenting as your world dips in and out of existence, the raw pleasure of his cock inside you driving all rational thought away.
You pull at your hands weakly and the hand at your throat loosens just enough for you to gasp in greedy lungfuls of air. He doesn't stop, doesn't let you catch your breath before taking it again with another thrust that makes you wail for him. You can feel it now, burning inside you, the sparks that race along your skin.
His hand closes at your throat again and you can't even find the words to beg properly. Your head swims, voice lost as you can barely hear yourself whispering his name over and over. A chant in worship, pleading with a capricious deity for mercy, "Michael, Michael, Michael..." until what little air that makes it to your lungs is not enough.
Your world darkens- and goes white; unbridled pleasure washes over you, makes you spasm against his holds, clench hard around his cock. Your mouth drops open- if he hadn't already choked you to near unconscious, you would've screamed. He doesn't stop through it, keeps driving the pleasure higher, drags it out longer until you're nearly crying, begging for him to stop.
The world is blurred, distant- and his hips become more forceful, more demanding- you seek his face through growing tears and see why. The intensity of his gaze is back, an unspoken command hidden behind his eyes. And he would make you would obey whether you wanted to or not. He gives you no break, no chance to object-
And his hand leaves your throat. You almost mistake it for mercy before it settles between you, his thumb finding your clit. It's too much; the sensation makes you jerk under him- and when he doesn't stop, you actually try to fight. You can't cry out, the pleasure is too sharp, unfiltered, filling your mind with the painful edge of something just too good- and he drags you unwilling towards the edge again.
Tears fall across your cheeks and sob as you clench around him again. He watches, completely enraptured as your face screws up, mouth dropping open in a stifled cry. Without his hand at your throat you're aware through it all, able to squirm and gasp and whine- breaking out into weak begging before his hands finally, finally grab at your hips again.
He gives you no warning- only drives into you with that painful force. Two orgasms make you ever more sensitive, but the dopamine swirling in your head dulls the pain. You watch, almost distant, as he curls over you, fingers digging into your hips to make you meet each thrust. He groans, long and low and you want to hear that noise forever, want to see how his brow knits in pleasure.
His eyes close, every muscle in his face going slack- there's a stutter to his hips. Warmth fills you from the inside out as he marks you deep inside. He struggles to keep fucking you, to keep riding out his own pleasure. He looks serene, his lashes flutter on his cheeks before lifting half-way. He stares down at you with fogged, unseeing eyes.
You reach up to him and find he doesn't fight when you pull him down to you. He does not complain when you draw him into a kiss, only nips at your lips once. He doesn't withdraw, keeps himself inside you as long as he can. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders- and he pulls you closer. He only really shifts to stretch his legs out and finally move onto his side. All the while, he doesn't let go of you.
He blinks slowly, and it's almost painfully vulnerable to watch them close as sleep takes him. You can't complain. Little shivers of residual pleasure linger in your abdomen, but you move closer to him, lay your head on his bicep, and close your eyes.