“safespace” platonic!yandere!og michael myers & gn!bullied!teen!reader [oneshot] ! !
masterlist !
description; For a while now, you've been using the old Myer's house as a home base of sorts; previously, your bullies had never dared to rush in after you, too afraid of the history of the house. That changed one fateful Halloween night, and unknowingly, you'd just sealed yourself into a fate different from death, but not much better.
The Haddonfield Boogeyman has taken a liking to you, and that's not something you can easily retreat from once it happens. Not safely, for that matter.
additional notes; this is. extremely long and I managed to write it within two days. help. i hope you enjoy it, because it was actually really fun to write. it might be in a bit of a different style than normal, because i've been reading. so much junji ito & gothic lit and i don't know if that affects anything.
warnings; bullying, possessive behavior, overprotectiveness, Michael being unsettling, discussions of past murder (judith primarily), violence, blood & gore, murder/murder of teens (reader's bullies), slight/implied neglect (reader's parents are very lax), soft michael (as soft as he can get), kidnapping/imprisonment, and if there's any I missed, please let me know!! i do believe this is the most intense (?) one i've posted so far?? mayhaps?
w/c; 10.2k (OH SWEET MOTHER OF PEARL!)
It’s silly, stupid, some would say-- and you know it is. You know it’s not a good idea to set up shop in the old Myer’s house, and that it was, realistically, the least safe place you could camp out at in Haddonfield,
Structurally speaking, considering how long it’s sat vacant and unattended for the most part. The story and tragedy surrounding it kept squatters away, but it was surprisingly easy to sneak into.
For you, it was one of the safest places possible-- because everyone knows about how unsafe it was. An oxymoron in a way, that you claimed this old rickety house as your safe space because you know it’s dangerous.
Because your tormentors know it’s unsafe, so they’ll leave you be for the most part-- once you’re inside the house that should’ve been torn down ages ago.
It’s a nice house, but you’re sure someone will roll up to a city council meeting and propose tearing down the place. No one’s going to buy it, no amount of polishing the hardwood floors and replacing the peeling wallpaper is going to change that.
The Myer’s house could be renovated into the most gorgeous, affordable home for a good sized family-- and still, no one would buy it.
Judith Myer’s blood, spilt by her own little brother one normal Halloween night, was like a curse laid on the house. Even you have to admit, there’s a strangely foreboding, suffocating atmosphere about it that doesn’t suit how… plain it otherwise appears.
For a few years now, you’ve had your claim staked on this house. Over those few years, you’ve gotten used to that atmosphere. It even began to feel comforting, at some point-- like a hug, kind of.
Your bullies know you’re in here, but they can’t bring themselves to enter it and drag you out. Sometimes they’ll wait outside for you, but don’t take into consideration is that you’ve supplied yourself with enough snacks and various forms of entertainment to be able to wait them out most times.
Cowards, the lot of them-- that’s all they ever were to you. A bunch of unruly, rich assholes that take their grievances out on you for lack of a different outlet,
More like you’re the most interesting outlet-- you’re sure their parents have enough money to get them another way, other than razzing and beating on you constantly-- but they don’t want it.
They like watching you cry, the sickos. But that’s not a sight they get to see too often; not since you’ve almost accidentally made the old Myer’s house into your own kind of fortress,
Guarded by a moat of bad energy and an awful story behind it. Judith still lingers, maybe not her ghost like most would think-- but she’s there.
One time, you walked into her room. It was almost pristine, kept nearly the same as the night she died, you think. The blood is gone, but the chair to her vanity is still knocked over.
You haven’t gone near that room since that one time-- spotting the rotting bag of melted taffy on her bedside table, her brush on the vanity top with golden hair still stuck in the bristles; an opened bottle of lip gloss, long dried up…
It made you sick like nothing before or after could, the knowledge that this was just a normal girl. A normal girl who expected to live another day, to eat the taffy by her bed, knowing she had to clean her hair out of her brush eventually--
She never even got to screw the cap back on her lip gloss, maybe her favorite one if you think about it. A part of you wanted to do it for her, to clean up her room a little for no real reason other than self-imposed obligation.
You’re taking up this space illegally, not quite a squatter, but still a consistent trespasser. The least you could do was clean it up for a family who’ll never come back.
But then, wouldn’t that be rude to mess with a deceased person’s belongings? You stepped out of the room, shutting the door as you clutched your stomach. In your mind, you barred off ever entering it again.
You’ve only had a peak in the little boy’s room-- Michael. Such an ordinary name, and an ordinary room to match. Hell, he could’ve been your little brother, it all appeared so average from the quick look-see you’d gotten.
As soon as you realized who’s room it was, you slammed the door and vowed to never open it again. You didn’t even go near it most times, if at all.
How can someone so normal-- a child so young, just snap like that? It made you sad, thinking about it.
Eventually, you knew it’d come to this, though. When your bullies’ need to torture you overrode the fear, and they followed you into your previously impenetrable fortress.
Your safe-space desecrated, the next time to ran in-- nothing too damaging to the actual house, but your books and magazines were torn. Snacks either eaten or crushed, and the little nest of pillows and blankets you brought from home was tossed around, dirty footprints all over.
“You’re such a coward,” the head boy spoke up, and you know his dad was a real estate agent, the one that oversaw the house, you think. That’s why there wasn’t any real damage to the place.
In your anger and grief, at your one good thing being wrecked like this; you spoke up. These kids-- no, you all weren’t kids anymore by most’s standards. Well into high school, and they were still messing with you for no good reason.
Tears welled in your eyes, not from sadness but from rage. You’d been chased in by two other kids, who were now behind you. Two kids were already inside along with the head boy,
You were surrounded, 5-to-1, and stood no chance. Not because you couldn’t fight physically, but because you knew the consequences of fighting back against these daddy’s money types.
They’ve broken bones before-- your bones, but if you so much as left a scratch on them, they ran to their parents and the repercussions were… dire.
You’d nearly been booted out of school before, because you left a tiny, already healing bruise of one of the girl’s arms after you shoved her down so you could flee.
“Look who’s saying that!” It’s not like you haven’t fought back with your words before, but it’d never been this up close as of late. You’d grown too comfortable, taunting the kids through the door as you did.
Poking a sleeping bear. You really wished this method could’ve lasted a bit longer, hopefully until after you finished high school and left Haddonfield; but beggars can’t be choosers.
You’re lucky it’s worked for this long anyways.
Before the kids could say anything, you started on a tirade. Letting out every little grievance you’ve had over the years-- they can’t let you have this one good thing.
They all get friends upon friends, secret admirers and good partners; they participate in school, they’re active in the community-- meanwhile you’ve been shunned for a good half of your life, resorting to hiding in an abandoned house while they were out living their best lives.
Once you were done, chest heaving up and down, did they say anything further. They mocked you, of course they did-- and when you asked “So what are you gonna do now, huh? Break a couple fingers? Strangle me? Kick me until I’m bruised all over--!”
They called you unoriginal, then grabbed ahold of you. They wrapped rope around your wrists and ankles-- then started dragging you upstairs.
No.
And they didn’t tell you their plan, but you were smart. You picked up on it, especially from how they were talking about the recent breakout from the nearby mental institution.
The institute currently home to none other than the Haddonfield Boogeyman himself, Michael Myers. Or, more accurately, no longer housing the man.
He was among the escaped, one of the few that hadn’t been rounded up after the transport bus crash-- it was October 31st.
You were doomed.
They dragged you to the little boys room, the atmosphere you’d become accustomed to suddenly cranked up to 11, choking you, clinging to the inside of your throat like cling-wrap. Making it hard to breathe, as they tossed you into Michael’s room,
And boy, did they really not want you to leave without their help. They tied you to the wooden poster of the bed, and you couldn’t help but cry.
Ghost stories about Judith staying behind were all fine and dandy, but the very much alive perpetrator being on the loose? The one who’s spent the past god-knows-how-long confined in a mental hospital, since he was a child?
That was a real threat, because it was to some extent predictable and unpredictable what he’d do next. There was no set guarantee that he’d stop by his childhood home, but there was a chance.
And the bullies knew it.
“Stop! Stop, I’m sorry--!” You hated groveling, but this was a real threat. This wasn’t funny-- it hadn’t been for a long time, but this time you can’t comprehend why they’d be laughing at all.
It’s not funny.
You could die. Even if it’s a slim chance of happening, there is a chance nonetheless. A chance greatly increased by Myer’s unpredicted ‘discharge’ from the hospital.
As always, they didn’t care. They were all giggles and smiles as they bid you farewell-- you heard another door open, then a scraping sound as something was set down in front of the door.
You’re sure it was Judith’s vanity chair, that they’d pressed under the door handle. Why? Why do they hate you so much-- there wasn’t even a promise of them returning, either.
Even if the Boogeyman doesn’t show up like you’re afraid of, they might just leave you here to rot with the house. No one would come looking for you, you don’t think-- unless they’re pointed in this direction by your bullies.
What an awful way to spend your Halloween night, huh? Not like you had much planned in the first place, but still.
This isn’t a position you wanted to be in right now. Or ever, thank you very much.
It got dark out a while ago. Inside here, somewhere, there's a clock that still works. Or maybe you’re already going crazy, imagining the ‘tick-tick-tick’ to try and make something for you to do.
Restrained as you are, it’s not like you can do much besides slump against the bed and wait it out. Hope your exhaustion from coming down after an adrenaline rush takes you out sooner or later, because it’s getting awfully boring.
Boredom overrode fear, maybe because you’re loopy from said exhaustion, but too high strung and uncomfortable, sitting on the hardwood floor with your wrists and ankles tied, to take a little nap as it is.
Throughout it all, you kept your eyes shut. Not because you particularly want to sleep, (though you do want to, if only to pass the time quicker) but because you’re trying to pretend you’re anywhere else but here, on this night, at this hour.
Your only other hope at being released right now was if some stupid kid got dared to come in here, like they did every Halloween. But the outlook wasn’t too good, considering the different framing the Myer’s house had with Michael’s recent escape still fresh on everyone’s minds.
Distantly, you can hear kids laughing, screaming, playing around-- all in good fun. You ache, sad that the experience of it had been cut short for you. For years now, you’ve stayed inside as much as possible.
Even on Halloween, and it hurt. Childhood cut short because some rich kids decided to make you their stress toy, punching bag, and scapegoat all in one.
When you hear a creak downstairs, you fight with yourself not to open your eyes. It’ll be pitch black anyways, your reason with yourself. It’ll only make you panic even more.
It was futile, trying to convince yourself that it was just the house settling. For hours, all you’ve been able to hear for the most part was the house settling.
This was different.
Someone was downstairs-- no joking, no yelling at their friends, no egging each other on; and it wasn’t a cop either, because they’d be shouting by now, telling anyone in here to get the hell out before you’re arrested.
It was uncanny, how quiet this person was-- both literally and with their movement. You first heard them faintly, on an especially creaky board near the front door. Then nothing-- until you heard them on the 3rd step, the one that’s about to cave at any moment from termite damage.
A primal kind of terror curled deep in your gut, the hair on the back of your neck stood straight up; silence again, until you think the person stopped moving.
Straining your ears, you heard a semi-familiar scraping noise. Whoever it was, was standing in front of this room, and was planning on entering it.
Your eyes flung open, desperately blinking as you tried to force your vision to adjust to the darkness. Surprisingly, the room was a lot lighter than you’d think it be.
No doubt aided by the moth-ravaged curtains serving as the only barrier(s) between the moonlight shining in through the windows.
When the door opened, your heart soared for a moment-- someone wearing work-boots and a mechanic’s jumpsuit. An adult, a scarily quiet adult, but hopefully a responsible one.
All hope was dashed when you looked up at your savior-- and saw a sun-bleached, cheap Captain Kirk Halloween mask staring back at you. Something glinted off the moonlight, you looked down and sure enough; he was clutching a large kitchen knife.
Maybe it was an impersonator, or not Michael at all-- But something made you doubt both ideas. The kitchen knife was a big giveaway, not the plastic kind with fake blood, or a retractable prop one.
It was real, as real as your terror-- was this a hallucination? That thought soothed you more than it should have. Or maybe a dream-- and that’s what made you work up enough courage to speak,
“…Hello.” Voice croaky and trembling, it took away from the casual aspect of the greeting. Trying your best not to look at the knife, or the unsettling mask, you took to staring at the person’s boots.
They looked bloody, drying and tacky-- and you did your best to ignore that for right now. The floor was interesting. Yeah, you opted for looking at the floor instead as you continued, introducing yourself with a shaky voice.
The person didn’t answer you, but they didn’t attack you either. You looked back up at their mask and-- wow, you must look pathetic, you realize now. Eye’s puffy and red from crying, lips chapped and bitten to hell and back, your voice nasally from your stuffed nose.
After a couple minutes of agonizing silence, the person started to move forward-- slow, almost placatingly so, like they were dealing with a startled animal.
You think that’s a very apt comparison, right now. As you jerk away, uncaring as the wooden post dug into your spine-- glancing at the person’s knife, you tried to swallow past a lump in your throat “Don’t hurt me-- please. I-I don’t have much to say, uhm, other than that.”
In all honesty, you don’t think you’re that important of a person-- in everyone else’s eyes, that is. You won’t be missed by a good majority of Haddonfield, and that’s what makes you want to live this through.
For a moment, the person stopped dead in their tracks-- and slowly shook their head. That could be interrupted one of two ways,
One, they have agreed to not hurt you. They shook their head as in ‘okay, i won’t hurt you’, or the more likely option in your mind-- considering they still held onto the knife-- they were disagreeing with your plea.
When they went to move again, you jerked back again. It didn’t do much, and wouldn’t do much unless you suddenly gained the ability to fuse with objects, that is.
The person stopped dead in their tracks again-- even taking a few steps back, and shook their head again. You piped up, despite the way your heart pounded and blood rushed in your ears.
“I-I don’t know what you mean. By that-- the shaking your head.” Almost as an afterthought, you tacked on “I’m sorry.”
Make no mistake, it was a genuine apology. Originally brought on by fear, yes, but you did regret not understanding them nonetheless.
When they started moving again, they were slower. You would’ve felt insulted, being treated like a wild animal ready to bolt-- if this had been a normal situation.
Right now, though? You appreciate how careful they seem to be, as they make their way to the little desk pushed up near the head of the bed.
The placement of the furniture in this room was odd, in your humble opinion-- the desk was where a nightstand would be, but what you assume to have been the nightstand was pushed under a window on the far side from the bed.
Then again, you can’t really expect interior decorating to be the specialty of the homicidal 6 year old that once lived here.
Reaching into the second drawer down, the person pulled out a little journal-- and crouched down to grab a pencil off the ground, before standing back up.
they’re too comfortable here, you anxiously realized. Almost like they’d put that stuff there-- but this can’t be Myers. If or was, wouldn’t he be hacking at you with his knife by now?
The stranger (which you’re hoping and praying isn’t who you think it is) set their knife down on the desk, much to your surprise. You don’t want to touch on why it surprised you, not right now, anyway.
Again, the person moved slowly, this time without the knife-- which let you relax enough to stop trying to actively fuse with the wooden bed frame. For now, at least-- who knows what the near future may hold, maybe you’ll succeed in it.
Weirder things have happened, and weirder things are happening right now-- as the stranger plops down on the floor, just a few feet away from where you sat restrained.
You couldn’t help but smile, as they sat criss-cross applesauce-- half delirious and sleep-deprived, yes, but a smile nonetheless.
Flipping to a page, that was random to you, hut didn’t seem to be to the person, they put the pencil to the paper and started writing something.
Refraining from trying to discern what it is they’re writing. you waited patiently until they stopped and turned the pad to face you,
Heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach, you read the words (god he presses hard with that pencil, even left dents in the paper from what you can tell) written on the pad.
“I won’t hurt you. It’s too easy.”
Simultaneously relieving and distressing-- the confirmation that you won’t be hurt (for now, you’re choosing to believe this person), but the ‘reassurance’ that it’s because you were too big of a target. Too obvious of a target,
If only your bullies had taken that sentiment to heart, too. Then you wouldn’t be here in the first place.
Curiosity outweighing your caution, you ask “What’s your name?”, despite being about… 85% sure you know who this is.
Turning the pad back around, he scribbles something else. When it’s facing you again, you can very clearly ready what name he’s written down.
“Michael”
You can tell yourself ‘It’s a common name!’ all you want, but that didn’t stomp out the feeling of dread as your suspicion was proven correct.
This was the one thing you’d hoped desperately to be wrong about. Guess life just hates you like that, huh?
You’d say it couldn’t get any worse-- but this is actually going pretty well, all things considered. You aren’t dead, and he’s actually communicating with you-- so that’s something, right?
“Is… was this your room?” For once, his answer was immediate-- he nodded. You suppose there was no reason to hide it, your face must be showing that you figured it out already.
It fell silent, and you didn’t know how to feel about that. Glancing around, you spotted an older edition of Clue sitting on a bookshelf nearby-- right on the top.
Looking back at the man-- Michael, the Michael Myers, which is a fact you’re trying not to dwell on too right right now-- you hazarded to say “Do you wanna, uh-- do you like board games?”
Tragically, he didn’t respond as quick this time. Leaving you to wallow in your own thoughts, wondering if you’d misstepped right into his steadily growing roster of victims.
a short, almost jerky nod, following by him abruptly standing made you jump. Hilariously, he seemed to jump as well; just a little twitch of his hands, but it was reaction nonetheless. You think that’s the closest you’re going to get to scaring a guy like him.
Then he headed to the bookshelf, and easily grabbed Clue from the top. He hadn’t always been this tall, obviously-- you spotted a step ladder, rusted and coated in dust like a majority of the room (and house as a whole) is;
It’s a cute thought, the idea that the kid this bedroom belonged to needed a step ladder to grab a boardgame. As you looked closer, you saw quite a few boardgames up there that you hadn’t noticed before,
The idea that Michael Myers was such a mundane kid, with an interest in board games-- liking them so much that he needed to have a step ladder of his own because he accessed them so much, was a jarring idea.
Another jarring idea-- or realization, more like, is that he must’ve been watching your line of sight very closely to immediately figure out that you were referring to the Clue game.
Before you could get pulled into a panic attack in full (you’ve narrowly been avoiding such a thing by pretending that this was some dream, and you had managed to fall asleep against the dusty children’s bed), Michael came back and sat down again,
This time, he was a little further away. He set the box down, and started opening it-- before you stumbled over your words, remembering that you were a little tied up right now.
“Do-- can you undo the rope around my wrists?” Slowly, ever so slowly, Michael’s head rose from where he’d been looking down to set up the game, black eyeholes eventually meeting your gaze.
Another nod, and he stood. Walking over to the desk, you realized your mistake in wording-- and as you feared, he picked up his knife again.
You’d said undo, not untie. It’s not a stretch to think that meant you have permission for him to cut the rope.
Let’s just hope he doesn’t catch any flesh while he does, yeah? When he walked back over, closer than he’d been this whole time, you valiantly fought back the urge to scream. To tremble, kick, try to fight--
Something about the way he crouched down by your side, still taller than you, with the knife gleaming made you feel vulnerable like never before. It made you feel exposed, flayed open and waiting to prepared into clean cuts of meat for packaging.
Michael was careful with it, his hold almost gentle on your arms, silently telling you hold still as he hooked the knife under the ropes and began to pull up.
Must’ve been a pretty damn sharp knife, or maybe some exceptionally cheap rope on your bullies’ parts, but either way, he got you free pretty easily.
Avoiding any sudden movement, testing the waters; you lowered your hands down to your lap. Michael stayed there a few seconds more, before quickly walking back to desk the drop the knife off on top.
When he came back, you’d already started sorting the cards-- which had gotten a little jumbled in the box. He set up the board, meanwhile.
Is it a very sad thing to say, that you felt more connected to this enigmatic, urban legend-esque serial killer (well, he killed one person definitely and a few other were suspected, but the knife didn’t paint a very good picture) than you did your classmates?
In part, that may be your fault. Alright, it may actually be mostly your fault-- but you were self-isolating for a reason.
You wouldn’t want any possible close friends to incur the wrath of your tormenters-- and become another victim, just for being near you.
Something tells you that Michael wouldn’t-- literally couldn’t-- succumb to that fate for obvious reasons. Maybe that’s why, as you two played a couple rounds of Clue before a cop came nosing around the place, you felt the safest you ever have.
And when the cop did show up, Michael was gone in an instant, almost like a ghost; but you knew better. He just had very quiet footsteps, the kind you would think impossible to achieve with his height and all.
You stayed in that room, waiting until you were sure Michael was gone to shout for help-- the cop came, and you hoped it gave Michael ample time to hide or run if need be.
And you didn’t rat on him-- to show your gratitude for him, y’know, not killing you. And being the closest thing to a friend you’ve both been allowed and allowed yourself to have as of late.
The cop walked you out-- but not before you noticed a little note folded on the accent table near the front door. “meet again?” it read, the pencil still lying next to it.
Taking a short detour, you quickly scrawled "yes :)" and while the smiley face was shaky at best, you hope he'd get the message. Besides, something tells you he'd understand that you were being rushed by the cop right now.
Because something also tells you that he's still here, watching-- you just don't know where. It's the way your skin crawls under the feeling of eyes on you, that tips you off.
When you leave the Myer's house this time around, you don't dread exiting it, some part of you afraid that your bullies had waited it out on the porch, or the yard. Maybe it's because you have a cop escorting you out this time,
Or maybe it's the lingering feeling of the Haddonfield Boogeyman himself keeping on eye on you. Presumably, of course.
The next time you visit the Myer's house, you aren't being chased in for once. If you were, there'd be no real reason to hide in here anyways. Your tormentors evolved, now being able to enter what you previously considered your safespace.
But you had to be sneaky regardless, as the county sheriff had been observed walking around the premise. Maybe to catch Michael, who was still on the loose as far as you knew, or to prevent foolhardy kids from entering the house on a dare.
That'd always been an issue, but before now the cops never cared to do much. The kids almost always psyched themselves out after taking a few steps into the house anyways, and there was hardly any vandalism to worry about.
Now, however, it was far more about keeping the kids themselves safe rather than the house. When you got there, the country sheriff was nowhere to be seen; there was a cop car in the driveway, but you recognized it as one of the ones used for false speed traps.
There was no one in there, and no cop in the house either. The car was enough to deter most, but you've been coming here for a while. They've done something like this before, especially around Halloween.
The difference came with the fact that it was November 3rd, and they usually did away with the deterrent by now. They have good reason, considering you know Michael Myer's is definitely in the house, or at least visiting regularly, but it's a little annoying.
Knowing they'll keep this up for a while longer, indefinitely, and you haven no way of telling if they suddenly decide to plant a cop inside the house to switch things up.
You entered through the back kitchen door, something you don't often do. Usually, when you enter this place, you don't care how you enter it-- just the closest possible entryway.
Which was usually the front door, or a window on the side that's easy to open from the outside. But this time, you get the luxury of picking where you get to enter from.
You brought a wrist watch with you, to monitor the time. Your parents never cared about how late you stayed out before,
But after a cop showed up at their door, you in tow, informing them that you'd been 'hanging out' in the old Myer's house (of course he left out the part where your ankles were bound), suddenly they had something to say about what time you returned home.
And maybe you'd think it was annoying, if you didn't know they had good reason for it. Honestly, you don't know what possessed you to come back here. To agree to meet up again, with a known murderer.
Years of isolation and ostracization at the hands of your peers and bullies alike must've corroded a part of your brain, is your theory. Your need for friendship and belonging was so big that you settled for meeting with a Boogeyman for social interaction.
A Boogeyman that was both parts legend and fact, because when you headed upstairs-- and was almost scared so bad you tumbled down the stairs, when you saw that sun-bleached mask staring back at you.
There was no way you could stifle the little shriek you let out when you felt a hand, large and warm and real-- wrap around your upper arm, your entire body going tense as you were pulled forward, and you could already imagine how it'd feel to have the blade of a kitchen knife lodged deep in your stomach and--
But no pain came, your eyes screwed shut out of terror, you didn't keep track of where he was taking you. In this blinding moment of fear, you forgot all about why you came here in the first place.
This was a bad idea, coming back here when you'd escaped last time by the skin of your teeth, and a few rounds of playing a murder mystery board game with a real mysterious murderer.
When you were pulled to a stop, static filling your ears as your heart pounded a mile a minute, you didn't open your eyes at first. Not until Michael let go of you, and your eyes promptly shot open.
It was only 5:12PM, so there was still some sun shining in through the motheaten curtains, but it wasn't much and you knew it wouldn't be staying for long. It casted long, eerie shadows into the room.
But nothing could compare to how to fell on Michael's mask, making it even more menacing than before. Who thought that a cheap reproduction of William Shatner's face was strike such fear in you?
He was just standing there, which you guess you can't fault him for. When he noticed you were looking at him, he pointed to the floor, near the foot of the bed. Where you'd been sitting last time.
Taking the hint, you quickly plopped down, this time unhindered by ropes restraining you. Funnily enough, you were subconsciously treating Michael as a dinosaur; a T-rex, to be specific.
You moved slowly, trying not to trigger his prey drive or whatever. Trying to make yourself seem as small and weak as you could, to try and keep up his sentiment of “I won’t hurt you. It’s too easy.”
Awkwardly clearing your throat, you tried to start a conversation as Michael walked over to the bookshelf again. "Uh-- so... how have you been?" Obviously, he doesn't respond.
Honestly, you don't know where you're going with this. You try to save yourself, by adding on "Have you been good?", and after a moment, you saw him nod from behind-- as he stood, facing the bookshelf.
He didn't reach up for any game, just slowly turned to face you; when you finally realized he was giving you room to choose, you panicked and squeaked out a little "Sorry--"
Comically, you'd forgotten that was a game-- and game he had, apparently, as he pulled away a few other games and got it out from the back. Task failed successfully, as your math teacher always said back in 7th grade.
When he came back over, you weren't any less high strung. He didn't seem to care-- maybe he didn't even notice-- and went about setting up the game. You busied yourself with reading the manual, having forgotten how to play it.
You weren't perfect with it, though. Sometimes you'd mess up, and it'd lead to Michael moving your piece back to where it'd been, or just pointing at the manual again; sitting innocently beside you on the floor, easy access.
Eventually, when you finished up the first game, only 34 minutes had passed. The sun was almost completely down, but something kept you rooted to your spot for a little longer. A few more rounds of Sorry, and you were well on your way to worrying your parents;
It was only 7:18PM now, but it was November. The sun was long set, and you were getting antsy to leave. After your fifth game concluded, you quickly blurted out "I have to go home."
You tried your best to catch Michael before he started setting up for another round, to minimize any irritation-- but it was obvious he'd been expecting to have another go at it.
Slowly, as everything he seemed to do was either methodically slow or terrifyingly quick with no in between yet to be seen, he lifted his head and stared at you point blank. His eyes hidden behind the mask, but that didn't mean there was any room for you to delude yourself into think he didn't have his full, undivided attention on you.
"My parents will be worried, they're already, uh, suspicious of how late I stay out." Michael doesn't move at all, staying still as a statue, just like you are. You don't make any move to get up, not until you get his express permission.
No matter how human he seems, playing board games so innocently with you-- the fact he was a cold-blooded killer never left your mind. There was no lead-up to his original snap, when he slaughtered his sister in the room just across the hall.
There's no reason to think you'd be an exception to that. One moment it could be fine, and the next you'll be bleeding out on the floor; it made you uneasy, for good reason.
Relief flooded you, a weight lifted from your shoulders as Michael nodded, the relief was pulled away when he stood and approached you-- but reinstated when he got close, just to extend a hand and offer to help you up, it seems.
Palm up, slow with his movements. Like he was dealing with an especially skittish dog. You felt like one, cornered as you were-- but you took his hand, and he was...
Well, it was like he tried to be gentle, but he didn't know how to be. He pulled roughly, but the way his grip faltered when you stumbled-- how he caught you with his other arm, almost desperate. Like he didn't know his own strength.
That terrified you more than the idea that he'd stab a knife through you. The idea that it was more likely for him to accidentally hurt you, how he was trying to restrain himself but it'd always end the same way.
In your panic, you didn't realize the way you'd grabbed onto him. Almost like a hug, one you pulled away from quickly. His arm lingered on your back, barring you from gaining any meaningful distance from him. Before you could think to panic some more, he let you go.
Grabbing onto your hand, he led you out of the room. Down the stairs, and to the living room. He didn't drop your hand once, even as he opened the door and pulled it open for you,
It was you, who wrestled away from the hold. You were on edge, freedom so close you could taste it-- the frigid midwestern wind blowing against your face had never felt so nice, a reprieve from the stifling presence that is Haddonfield's own personal Boogeyman.
Belatedly, you realized what he'd done. He walked you to the door, and he let you pull your hand from his grasp. if he didn't want you too, it'd be easy to not let it happen. His arm stayed where it was for a moment, before dropping heavily by his side.
You took a few small, miniscule steps; careful as you crossed the boundary between the inside of the house and the porch. Michael made no move to stop you,
A part of you wanted to run, a vestigial part of the human mind; buried, fear for something so closely human but so damningly not. Something that landed in the uncanny valley, when it should be human but something was off.
Michael Myer's was the only thing that's ever dredged up this forgotten kind of terror, something that was bigger than you'd ever be resided in him, you think. Deep down, though, you knew you two were similar. Similar enough for him to take mercy on you, for whatever reason.
Similar how? Well, you just don't know, but it's all you can think of as to why he's doing this. Why he not only let you go, but asked for your return-- not to cut a loose thread, but to play board games.
A few steps further, and you stood on the edge of the porch. When you turned around, seeing Michael standing in the doorway like it was normal; like either of you were normal, softened something in you.
Fear loosened it's hold on you, and in that moment, all you could do was smile and give a little wave, saying "I'll see you again?" He nodded, slow again. Smile growing wider, you let yourself giggle-- why? You don't know, you didn't find anything funny. It just felt right.
"Okay. I'll... see you later, I might get grounded for this, so it might be a while." You flashed a little thumbs up, before turning around and staring at the three short steps before you.
Feeling freer than you had in years, a bit of your childhood returned to you-- the childhood stolen by your bullies, you let yourself take a few steps back; gaining a running start, you hopped all three stairs.
Landing hard on the concrete, you wobbled a bit. Legs shaky from sitting for so long, but you didn't fall. If you had, you probably would've scraped your knees-- and the idea of it was freeing.
Being able to get hurt in such a meaningless way, getting hurt in a way kids should be getting hurt. Not coming home with broken ribs after school, before shutting yourself away in your room and seldom going outside, But coming home with a big smile, despite the shallow cuts on your legs.
When you turned around again, the door was closed-- but you saw a hint of movement from the window beside it, and sure enough, you saw the telltale white of Michael's mask.
You spared another wave, before you were off on your way.
5 months.
It's been roughly 5 months, since you started hanging around Michael. The feeling of guilt comes and goes on a whim, when you'd remember who this really was. A few more murders, some rich people from the nicer part of Haddonfield; the news attributed it to Michael Myers, which you couldn't argue with.
You could turn him in. You should turn him in, should've done it ages ago, you know-- but you can't bring yourself to do the right thing. It's wholly selfish, your want to keep him a well-hidden secret.
As sad as it was, he was your only friend. He didn't ask questions like your parents, questions that never lead anywhere-- it didn't matter if you told them the truth or not,
Whether or not you said "it was awful, the kids are still bullying me" or "it was okay" when they asked "how was school?", you always got the same kind of meaningless, cookie cutter response.
Sometimes it was more insulting, though, when you used to answer truthfully. Condescending, as your mom once again told you to "Think of what they're going through" and it irked you. She's the one who took the brunt of the bills, had to do the co-pay after you got a cast for your broken arm.
Those kids... they aren't bullying you because their life is bad. The worst they've gone through is their favorite perfume being out of stock, or their siblings got to have the TV remote the night prior.
Why should you give them that kind of consideration, when they obviously didn't spare you a second thought? You had a metal bat by your bed for a reason, walking everywhere with a small switchblade nestled in your coat pocket.
You never used it, but even Haddonfield could be dangerous-- there were three main sections of it, the Diamond District, a gated community for the ultra rich; the suburbs, and the closest to 'slums' as it got.
Where you lived, far from the white picket fences of the suburbs, and the glitzy modern exteriors of the Diamond District
But now, you practically live at the old Myer's house. Your bullies are still after you, but you always try to lose them before making it to the Myer's house. You hated them, but you didn't like the possibility of Michael going berserk on them.
He's probably snap at you too, and you wouldn't know how to cope with it-- for the remaining few minutes of your life, that your only friend would turn on you on a dime. Even though you knew it from the get, that this was dangerous. This agreement.
Sometimes you slept over, and you'd tell your parents that you finally made a friend. They wanted to meet them, but you'd just say they're shy, or something along those lines.
It was on accident, the first time you did it. It was in the dead of winter, bundled up in your outerwear while in the house. It was cold, and Michael was kind enough to wrap a few blankets around you.
And you kept delaying leaving, as cold as it was in the old Myer's house, you knew it'd be worse outside. You ended up falling asleep, waking up when the sun began to rise.
Michael came in, and handed you a granola bar. You don't know how he sourced it-- sourced snacks he'd give you, but you never thought to ask. You wanted to, but you never actually considered prying.
You scarfed it, before saying your gratitudes, goodbyes, and rushing out the door-- your parents were surprisingly lax with it. Under the false pretense that you'd been safe and sound in a warm house, with your friend from school.
Besides, everyone assumed that Myer's had moved on back then. There was this 3 month gap between his killings, and even when that broke, they were sparse enough that your parent's still didn't care much.
It was early April, and it was getting nice out again. You've managed to avoid your bullies trailing you as of late, by... just letting them whatever at school. It's not like they want to brave the cold weather anyways, so you knew sooner or later they'd start harassing you outside of school again.
Even if you let them hurt you at school, do whatever they please-- it still won't be enough. It'll never be enough, nothing will for people like them. You just can't wait to graduate and get the hell out of dodge.
The past few weeks, they've been trying to follow you. Every time they did, you managed to lose them; probably because they weren't too intent on it yet. They liked toying with you, but didn't care enough to keep following after a certain amount of times.
As a diversion, you've been sitting around the park a lot, in a little grotto near the playground no one plays on anymore. It's wooden, rotted, and should've been torn down ages ago-- the swings are still functional though, if a little squeaky.
It wasn't a stretch to assume you'd succeeded in tricking them; that they assumed this was your new home base. Again, no matter how much you hated them, you didn't want them dead.
And you definitely didn't want to be the one responsible for leading them to their death; to the murderer you deemed a friend, your only one. It was a moral dilemma. Michael was still a killer, and you should turn him in--
But you don't. Again, it was selfish, but he wasn't... doing that much harm right now. Just a few people, rich people who you have no connection to. It makes you sick, the fact you, by default, don't care that much.
You care, you care when you realize they were people with lives and families, that they were just like Judith. Ever since you started coming to the old Myer's house, you've been making a picture of her in your head.
Those people, too, had taffy left uneaten by their bedside. Hair brushes to clean, caps that needed to be screwed back on lip glosses; not those items exactly, you're sure, but the allegory stood the same.
The guilt is unbearable somedays, the idea that you're also partly responsible for those people's death. If you'd just turned in him, then you wouldn't have gotten in this deep.
just a bit longer, you tell yourself. I'll... report him if he kills anyone else, but maybe he's getting better, you think-- knowing more than well he isn't.
He's stagnant right now, but that's because he's satiated. Maybe by your near-daily meetings, the feeling of human contact that he probably hasn't felt since he was child. Since before he was locked up from such a young age.
i hope it stays that way, and deep down, you know it's in vain; recognizing that hope will do no good in situation like this, when dealing with a man-- an entity-- like Michael Myers.
This can't be real. It's a nightmare, it's a nightmare-- you can scream it all you want, but it won't take away from the scene before you.
You were toying with danger, with death itself; you stared in its face and dared to call it a friend, and look where that got you. It was always going to end like this, wasn't it? And you knew, you knew it would but that didn't stop you from it.
A lonely child will always seek the comfort of anyone who offers it without hesitation, and no matter how much you've grown-- how close you are to being an adult, teetering just on that edge,
Once a lonely child, always a lonely child. The bruises have healed, but it still feels like they're marring every inch of your skin; ribs that were broken are just fine now, but if you move too quick you swear you can feel them like you'd felt them back then.
"Why?" Your voice is choked, and you haven't felt this afraid in a long time. Cowering as you were, in the far corner of the attic. A large circular window loomed behind you, casting light onto you like Heaven was calling you home.
Do you even deserve Heaven, though? You might not have been the one to wield the knife, but you're guilty by association. There was no blood on you, but your hands were still painted red.
All five of them, crumpled on the ground; they looked so scared, but something in the back of your mind told you that they'd never understand true fear. This was momentary, before they met their swift end,
They didn't know the fear of anticipation. The fear of never knowing what would happen next, when or how it would come about; but just knowing that it would. That you weren’t at the end of the tunnel just yet, and fearing that you never would be.
Michael just stands there, unmoving. His head tilted like a curious bird, like the crows you fed at the park sometimes. He wasn't wearing the mechanic's suit anymore-- you'd bring him clothes when you could, picked up from thrift shops or garage/yard sales;
It felt even more damning, the red staining his previously pristine sky blue t-shirt. The shirt you’d given to him. Blood once again caked on his shoes, after he'd worked so hard to clean them when you expressed discomfort at it once.
The mask never came off, you never saw his face-- but at this point, you feel like any face that wasn't the mask wouldn't be Michael's. The most you've seen was up to his mouth, when he'd eat with you sometimes.
Again, as you pull your knees to your chest, and fight to hold back a shuddering cry, you ask "Why? Why would you do this?"
And he just stands there. He just stands there and stares at you like he always has, like he always will. You've long come to terms with the fact that he doesn't speak, and in your opinion it makes him a little easier to interact with.
Slow, steady steps-- he turns, and walks to entrance of the attic. He climbs down, leaving you alone for now. With no way to tell the time, you just sit there. The sun doesn't dim, since it was just a little past noon when you got here.
When you saw that note on the accent table near the door, telling you come up to the attic. You didn't question it, you didn't think anything was amiss until you were halfway into the room and Michael stood between you and the exit, bloodied and pointing to the heap of bodies.
Bodies that had once been so full of life, active in the community; beloved by most, feared by others. The golden boys and girls, the ones everyone strives to be or envies in some ways, unless you happen to be their punching bag.
Even with how terrible they were, it wasn't meant to end like this. You shake and tremble as you press your face against your knees; you don't forgive them, you never would, but they have lives.
Had lives, something you were never afforded the luxury of, holed up in your room half the time, and hanging out with the serial killer that did them in the rest of the time.
Michael was being loud, louder than you've ever known him to be. All you could think was maybe... he was trying to ease your worries? Wordlessly let you know that he wasn't going to sneak up and add you to that pile?
For once, you hear when he comes back up. You don't look up, fear seizing every muscle and making you unable to move an inch-- until he's just a few feet away, and your head flies up from where you'd pressed it against your knees.
He was sitting on the floor, right in front of you-- he was writing in a notepad, the same one he used when you first met. Michael's used it since then, but usually just communicates with shakes or nods of his head.
When he turns the book around, it's hard to read the words-- not for lack of light, but because of the way your tears blur your vision. When you're able to blink them away long enough to read, you almost can't believe what he wrote.
"Didn't mean to scare you. They were hurting you, and I didn't like it."
Didn't... didn't mean to scare you? He-- he brought you up here, just to find him covered in blood and pointing at five dead bodies!
five dead bodies of people you knew, even if you didn't like them, you still knew them-- and you knew this was likely to happen, but you tried to convince yourself it wouldn't. For your own sake.
"Are... are you going to..." Kill felt like too heavy of a word right now, too real, so you opted for "...Hurt me too?" Voice small, smaller than you think it's ever been. God, you feel like a child again, asking your mom why the kids at school didn't like you.
Small and helpless, lost and unable to come up with answers on your own. Michael shook his head quickly, and it made you jump-- it wasn't often that he moved quickly like that. He stopped immediately, and turned the notepad around and quickly scrawled something, before turning it back to you.
"Never hurt you" It was hastily written, messy in a way that disturbed you, when addressing Michael. He didn't even add punctuation. For a third time, you ask "Why?" But this time with more intention, knowing what exactly you were asking about.
He didn't move for a bit, and turned the notepad around more slowly, and his pencil hovered above the page-- like he was really thinking this through. A few minutes passed, moving at an agonizing crawl, before he finally turned the notepad around so you could read it.
There were a couple messages scribbled out, but you didn't bother to try and make them out. He'd finally settled on a simple "Because you're my friend."
"How do I know you won’t hurt me?" It was a hard pill to swallow, the knowledge that you just... there's no way to confirm that he won't. He's unpredictable in a way that scares you, because you can't even begin to wrap your head around how he operates.
This time, the answer came quickly; it was messy again, the handwriting, and it made your heart sink to the bottom of your stomach. It made you turn inward and ask why you did this to yourself, why you couldn't have just turned him in at the start.
There's no one to blame but yourself, and that's what hurts the most-- you knew the risk, you took it, and now you're reaping what you sowed.
"I don't hurt what's mine", written in dark letters; once again, he was pressing too hard with the pencil. Once, you thought it was endearing, but now you can't help but realize why he pressed so hard in the first place.
Michael didn't know how to be gentle. Yes, he tried, but there's no telling that he won't give up eventually. For a while, you just stare at the words, at the claim-- he doesn't turn the notepad away,
It's damning, it's a vice gripped around your heart; a steel wire wrapped around your throat. Rope around your wrists, a lock on the door. Everything that can and will be used to keep you here,
To keep you with him.
"I want to go home." You choke out, but he just shakes his head. Oh, how badly you want to scream, to shove him and run; it's broad daylight, surely he won't follow you.
But he's... God, you hate to admit it, but he's all you have. And-- and the bodies, oh god, you're going to be blamed for it, aren't you? It's a perfect story in the making, you've been tormented for so long, so publicly.
It wouldn't be a stretch to say you went mad, that there was something innate to the ground below the Myer's house; a curse weaved into the floorboards, that makes anyone who spends time in the house lose it eventually, if they're capable of such a thing.
That you took the knife in your hand, and slit their throats yourself.
The notepad was facing you again, and you hadn't even noticed he was writing in the first place. It was an explanation for his refusal, but it only made your skin crawl,
"This is your home.", and you just sit there and stare again. Slowly, Michael sets the notepad down. Slowly, he inches forward-- you don't flinch, eyes glazed, staring at where the notepad had been.
Then, his arms are wrapped around you-- and you just... you just melt. You cry, there's no way you can't. You weep until you have nothing left, face tucked into Michael's shoulder.
The blood, still a bit tacky at first, clung to the front of your shirt as well. Michael pulls you as close as he physically can, without merging you two into one continuous being.
He's right, isn't he? This is your home now, and has been for a long time. Before Michael showed up, even, you were spending nights in the Myer's house. Despite the history, it felt leagues safer than your own room.
When your tears are all dried up, still hiccupping and trembling, Michael carefully picks you up. Handling you like glass, but it's unnatural. Stilted-- not a performance, but it's new to him.
Going down the ladder was a slow process, and you were half asleep from pure exhaustion when he set you down on a mattress-- his old bed. You sat, slumped sideways against the headboard as he pulled the cover back and helped you lay down,
He tucked you in, and the thought crossed your mind that his parents must've done this for him when he was younger. They were a normal family, the Myer's-- over the years, people had tried to prove that Michael's snap was caused by abuse, or neglect, or something bad that happened to him in his early development.
But nothing was found on the topic, if anything, the digging exposed the Myer's as the picture-perfect American family. No reason for a 6 year old to kill his sister, other than he just wanted to.
Demonic possession was also a proposed explanation-- more by the townspeople than actual professionals, but it had merit, didn't it? Something about Michael was off, and even if you removed the mask, you're sure it wouldn't change anything.
By the time you're drifting off, weighed down by bone deep weariness from all that happened, Michael is still sitting at the foot of the bed, off on the edge. He isn't watching you, his head facing forward, but it was still unnerving.
When the news of six missing teenagers hit, the town went into a frenzy. Michael has long since dropped the bodies off in the forest-- he didn't want it stinking up the house, because he knew it'd make you uncomfortable,
They found the bodies there, but that didn't stop the cops from searching the Myer's house one last time. That night, Michael took you on a walk, and you two visited the park his parent's used to take him to often.
You were actually swinging, while he kind of just sat on it. Nobody saw you two, there were no reports of you still being alive. Everyone assumed you'd died with your bullies, but your body was elsewhere.
That you fought more than your bullies had, or maybe less-- either way, you died further away from them.
Isolated, just like you’d been in life; even in death, Michael’s sure those horrible kids would make to not be near you.
The cops never considered the possibility that they were killed elsewhere, and dumped later. An oversight on their part, but Michael obviously wasn’t going to correct them on it.
Michael cleaned the attic, not like they'd check it anyways. They never did when they searched the house, and Michael thought it was ridiculous. It was almost too easy to avoid them, but he didn't want to take a chance with you.
He doesn't know what he'd do without you now that he has you. There's no solid reason why he spared you that first night, the 'it's too easy' had been little more than an excuse to spare you, or why he kept sparing you. Why he began to look forward to your meetings.
Something about you was comforting to him, a comfort he hasn't felt in so long that it feel alien now that he's feeling it. Those kids had it coming, he thinks. He's considered going after their parents, as well-- for raising such awful brats.
To torment someone like you-- it both enraged and confused Michael to no end. You were the most innocent person in his mind, even if it was just dumb luck that he found you when he did; that he wasn't in a bad mood.
He doesn't know what comes next, but all he knows is that he'll keep you by his side the whole time. Maybe... you two could move, he'd take on a false identity and flee to Canada with you. Pretend that you're his... younger sibling, because he doesn't think he can get away with claiming you as his child. He isn't all that much older than you, in the grand scheme of things.
As long as you're by his side, then he doesn't really care about what comes next. He just wants you, and to keep you safe and happy. Michael isn't familiar with this, with being soft or gentle; but he'll try for you.
He'd do anything for you, if he's completely honest with himself.
