* ESCAPED / BUS

ind. priv. sel. michael myers

[myersin-a-blog]

* VIOLENT ACTION STARTERS Send me a NUMBER for your muse to : 

001. — Backhand my muse. 002. — Stab my muse.  003. — Put out a cigarette on my muse’s skin. 004. — Hit my muse with a blunt object.  005. — Throw something large at my muse.  006. — Kick my muse. 007. — Punch my muse. 008. — Break one of my muse’s bones. 009. — Scratch my muse. 010. — Headbutt my muse. 011. — Shoot my muse. 012. — Knock my muse out. 013. — Strangle my muse. 014. — Push my muse roughly. 015. — Grab my muse by the hair. 016. — Bruise my muse. 017. — Threathen my muse with an object of harm.  018. — Go to harm my muse’s eyes. 019. — Bite my muse. 020. — Tear away parts of my muse’s skin. 021. — Force my muse’s head under water. 022. — Throw something scalding at my muse. 023. — Burn my muse. 024. — Step on my muse’s fingers. 025. — Rip one of my muse’s teeth out. 026. — Slash my muse’s achilles tendon ( s ). 027. — Clothesline my muse. 028. — Harm my muse enough for them to cough up blood.  029. — Drive into my muse with a vehicle. 030. — Electrocute my muse. 031. — Slam my muse against a wall. 032. — Force my muse’s arm behind their back. 033. — Kick my muse’s crotch. 034. — Trip my muse. 035. — Put my muse in a headlock. 036. — Break my muse’s nose. 037. — Force their fingers down my muse’s throat. 038. — Crack my muse’s head against a wall. 039. — Attempt to kill my muse. 040. — Attempt to kill my muse creatively.

[murdermasked]

PS: if Michael kills your muse, we can still start new threads.

[penguinpositivity]

@murdermasked

[murdermasked]

I met him, 15 years ago; I was told there was nothing left; no reason, no conscience, no understanding in even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, of good or evil, right or wrong. I met this… six-year-old child with this blank, pale, emotionless face, and… the blackest eyes - the Devil’s eyes. 

Indie / selective Michael Myers of Halloween

[murdermasked]

faircstcfall:

@murdermasked​ cont. from here

        It was rare that anyone followed her undetected. Her eyes, ears, and nose held an animal-like keenness, which was why she felt so amused when she finally reached her rented apartment and looked out the window (by chance, too) and saw him. Now this was a break in routine. An anomaly that made a normally dreary eternity exciting. Here was a skilled hunter, something not quite human. 

So, because she was so pleased with this discovery of something new, she blew him a kiss. Her brown eyes glistened like freshly polished bronze and the moonlight overhead made her skin glow the same color white as his mask. 

“That’s a beautiful knife you have,” she called. “I do hope you weren’t planning on using it on me, though. I just had the carpets cleaned.” 

The pale regina chuckled, blood red lips quirking upward. She was an angel looking down upon a corrupt world. Nothing could hurt her, at least not permanently, and she liked to use her prowess to her advantage. The honorably depraved, those who didn’t hide behind smiling faces and candied words, secretly fascinated her; she liked to get close enough to satiate her curiosity. 

“Does my hunter have a name?” 

Why, this was unusual. Normally people wouldn’t be complimenting his knife, they would be running and screaming while begging for their life. Maybe this girl just simply wasn’t normal. It was something that Michael was unable to wrap his head around, for he was far too used to initiating chases. This one wasn’t running. He couldn’t understand it, but it was something that intrigued the shape. Something that made him want to pursue her even more than he initially had. She mentioned just having the carpets cleaned, which was yet another thing said to further confuse him. Did she truly care about her carpets more than her own blood being spilled, or was that her way of taunting him?

A glance was taken at his knife before his gaze had returned upward to look at the woman in the window. She had laughed. A musical, melodic sound that was pleasant, but it didn’t do anything to sway Michael. He didn’t think the way the average human did. While they were planning their morning routines, what to have for dinner, what to wear, Michael was planning who to kill and when. It didn’t matter if they were beautiful, famous, or dirt poor. He had his own methods of madness relating to who he went after.

Upon being asked his name, Michael remained silent. He hadn’t spoken since he was a child, and that wasn’t about to change now. The most sounds he would make were breathing or grunting, usually during a fight or if he’d been hurt in the process. Michael, he had thought to himself. His name was Michael. A fact that would remain unknown to the other, lest she was to discover for herself by alternative means. For a while, he merely stared up at her until deciding to take things further. He approached the door, his fists hitting heavily against it to try to knock it down.

[murdermasked]

*disa-fucking-pears from the boogyman*

Michael had been closing in on his prey, each step taken bringing the boy that much closer to death. He had a massive amount of height on him, standing at 6′8 and easily towering over him. It made following him much easier, even if he was running. Within seconds, he was within lunging distance, his knife raising up and his grip tightening on it. And then he lunged, aiming to stab his knife into the boy’s back. But there was nobody there. His knife had sliced through the air rather than penetrating skin and muscles, or perhaps even his spine.

Stopping, the shape looked off into the distance in front of him to try to understand what had happened. He couldn’t see anyone, and so his next idea was to look below him to see if the boy had fallen into a hole. There was nothing there, either. Just a dirt road that seemed to go on for miles in the thickness of the forest. With nobody behind him, Michael continued onward on high alert. His eyes were on every tree, bush and large rock that he passed. He couldn’t have gotten away. He couldn’t have. Anger was building inside him, his blood lust rising. The boy would not win. One way or another, he was going to find him, and when he did? He was going to stab him and slice into his stomach to gut him.

[murdermasked]

*blows a kiss to the Boogeyman*

It was well past midnight, when most would be tucked away in their beds. While Michael would still pursue people and make his presence known just enough to keep them questioning who they kept seeing, night time was the perfect time for Michael to make his move. His dark clothing blended in with the shadows, his white mask dimly lit by the moonlight being the only giveaway to his presence. Not even his footsteps could be heard, making it easy for him to sneak up on an unsuspecting victim and kill them.

Tonight, he had decided to follow a young woman home. She was striking with her contrast of dark hair and fair skin. She reminded him of Judith with her radiant beauty. Judith, who was now dead in the ground and probably nothing but a pile of bones by now. He’d killed her years ago, when he was only a child. Nobody had been able to understand why he had done it, and they were never blessed with an answer. Michael had remained silent, gazing past whomever decided to try to talk to him. There was nothing human about the child who’d grown into a man during his time in the sanitarium. He was never supposed to be allowed out, but here he was.

Gazing up at the window, he saw the same woman he’d been following earlier looking down at him. Rather than reacting with fear, she had...Blown a kiss to him? Puzzled, Michael tipped his head to the side. That wasn’t the reaction he had been expecting at all. Perhaps she had mistaken him for someone else, or didn’t know what evil intentions were dwelling within his corrupted mind. The knife held in his hand, faintly glinting, would likely have given it away if she could see it from up there.

[murdermasked]

“*runs into at full speed*”

The force that had slammed against Michael didn’t even come close to knocking him off balance. Running into him would be like running into a brick wall, made evident by the way Annabelle had been knocked off her feet. Had that been an attempt at greeting him after he’d come back home? His knife was covered in blood and some could also be seen dripping down his mask. His eye had been stabbed in the process of trying to kill a woman who had seemed a little too suspicious for his liking. If the roles had been reversed, she would’ve died from the injury given to her eye. Michael, however, was resilient. Things could knock him down for a while, but he would always get back up and recover.

The taller figure gazed down at the young woman, questions running through his head. They were questions that would likely remain unanswered, unless Annabelle was able to pick up on his confusion. Michael had stopped talking ever since he was little. After he had murdered his sister. His mother had came for visits every now and then, but then she, too had died and he’d been left alone. Nobody else cared to come stop by, but why would they? He was seen as insane, and perhaps he truly was. Silent and showing no signs of emotion, it was for the best that people chose to stay away from him.

Leaning over, Michael grabbed Annabelle by the shirt with one hand and easily lifted her back up to her feet, where she would hopefully remain stable. If that had been an attempt at killing him, it was indeed a poor one and she would learn the hard way not to betray him. Her life would come to a quick end, and he would return to acting solo.

[murdermasked]

(From Bailey Messenger) - Silent / action starters: “*locks door*”

Locked doors had always done next to nothing to keep Michael out. That was one of the many terrifying things about the mysterious masked man who seemed to have no underlying cause for his reasons to kill. One would always consider themselves safe behind locked doors, but that wasn’t the case with the shape. It would slow him down and give the victim time to look for another escape route, but it would not stop him. Anyone who managed to get away would likely continue to be pursued until Michael had gotten what he wanted: their death. Whether it was by his signature weapon knife, strangulation, scalding their face in hot water or anything else that he could use to his advantage, he wanted to see them dead.

The door upstairs had been slammed shut several seconds before the masked figure had arrived outside of it, his head lowering to gaze at the door handle. He reached for it, trying to open it, but it refused to budge. A short silence had fallen again before it was broken by the sound of Michael pounding on the door. One, two, three hits against the wood which was already beginning to crack. His arm had come through to the other side, which was followed by his body slamming against it and making a bigger hole in the door. With ease, he stepped through and surveyed the room.

A window was open, but the fall from it likely would have damaged her. He would’ve heard the sounds of her screams and whimpering if she’d have jumped. That meant only one thing. She was still in here somewhere. Michael moved away from the door, shadowed eyes watching for any sign of movement.

[murdermasked]

The locker door opens. Panic strikes Ace -- he makes a nervous heart with his hands. Hi, Michael? ( ask meme! )

For a while now, Michael had been following silently behind the oldest of the survivors. The trees and his silent footsteps against the grassy grounds kept him undetected--something he had gotten especially good at. Unlike other killers, he didn’t approach head on. He would follow behind, waiting and watching their every move until the time was right. Safe to say, when Ace had ran into the basement (perhaps after catching a glimpse of his mask in the distance), Michael had followed him in. In the entry way, he paused, head turning from side to side to survey his surroundings. There was no sign of the man.

Proceeding down the stairs, the shape instantly went for the lockers in front of them. The first one he pulled open with ease, revealing a man hiding within it. He’d never gotten a reaction quite like this before. His hands had lifted to form...a heart? Was that what that was? It was followed by an uncertain greeting. Michael’s own hand slowly lifted, his hand settling on top of Ace’s for a moment before his grip tightened to a painful degree. With force, he had tugged Ace out of the locker and thrown him over his shoulder. It was easy for the 6′8″ shape to carry grown men. Not only because of his size, but due to his inhuman strength.

Strong hands were keeping a firm hold on his victim, one wrapped around his thigh and the other on his back. Only then did he turn towards the hooks to begin approaching them. They were only a few feet away, Michael stopping in front of the further one from the stairs. Ace was shifted to be held under the arms, hovering over top of the hook. The cool metal was only inches away from his back, where it would be pierced through his chest at any moment. It was almost as if Michael was playing a twisted mind game with him.

[murdermasked]

Laurie crossed her arms looking at Michael with a sharp arched brow. "Don't you think you are over doing it?"

Michael paused, turning away from the bloodied victims who were laying on the ground just outside of the exit. They had almost managed to open the doors, but he’d caught them in time and all of them had been repeatedly stabbed by his knife. The only one left was the one he truly was here for: Laurie. All of the others were only in the way; people who had to be dealt with. Meg lay on the floor, her eyes closing while Quentin was unconscious, leaned up against the side of a building. David was the only one who was still fighting. For now. He would be just like the others after enough blood had spilled.

A few seconds passed, the silence masked only be the labored breathing of Michael. Knife dripped from his blade and his head slowly tilted to the side. It was an obvious response to her question. Why was she trying to talk to him instead of running? For all the times he’d came after her before, she’d been terrified. She had wanted to run and put as much distance between them as possible. Had Laurie finally decided to confront her fears? To confront her brother? Intrigued, the shape began to slowly approach the blonde, each silent step taken closing the distance between them.

[splattermemes-deactivated202007]

silent / action starters

“*ruffles your hair*”

“*finger guns*”

“*looks through your stuff*”

“*runs into at full speed*”

“*kisses your cheek*”

“*kicks*”

“*pulls on ski mask*”

“*licks lips*”

“*leaps into your arms*”

“*wiggles eyebrows*”

“*drags you away by the arm*”

“*rolls eyes*”

“*gives you the middle finger*”

“*pokes*”

“*begins to tap dance*”

“*eats a sandwich*”

“*puts hands on hips*”

“*gives thumbs up*”

“*blows you a kiss*”

“*punches your arm*”

“*cracks knuckles*”

“*starts rubbing your shoulders*”

“*takes shirt off*”

“*looks at disapprovingly*”

“*wipes tear away*”

“*taps foot*”

“*gestures to come closer*”

“*blows balloon*”

“*gets down on one knee*”

“*tackles you to the ground*”

“*lights candle*”

“*throws ball*”

“*makes a heart with hands*”

“*smirks*”

“*gives thumbs down*”

“*lifts you into the air*”

“*blows nose*”

“*paints your nails*”

“*puts head on your shoulder*”

“*trips you*”

“*sticks tongue out at*”

“*chokes on own spit*”

“*flexes*”

“*locks door*”

“*glares at*”

“*holds your hand*”

“*pinches*”

“*waves at*”

[murdermasked]

I follow because - You're the second horror muse that I interact with that has blown me away {Scream being the other.} You are such a talent and so creative with your ideas. But before us speaking, I followed because I was so intrigued with how you portray him, how you add so much more to the character than what has been given. Now you're an awesome person to write and chat with. Makes me really happy that I followed, and have stuck around.

-Hugs- Omg bless you. It warms my heart to hear that you like the way I write Michael, my evil son. I friggin adore our thread & that you understand that Michael is an evil, murderous son of a bitch lmao. It makes writing with you that much easier for me. I have so much fun threading with you & talking OOC, you’re just overall an A++  person. I can’t wait to see what our future threads hold. Probly a lot of death n fucked up shit.

[murdermasked]

((Personally,I love me some MM. and you portray the boogeyman well, have beautiful and long replies/starters that I can really tell you put your heart into from what I’ve scoured through. You don’t baby him or make excuses for him either. Perfect for me! keep it up! ))

-Dies- This is so sweet of you omg. Thank you so much! From the little time I’ve had writing Michael (despite watching & loving him for years bc I’m addicted to Halloween lmao) I’ve been having a blast with him. It means a lot that you like my portrayal of him <3 I really love our threads we have going and you always give me stuff to go off of to reply to, which is awesome. Also, nope nope I will never make excuses for him or baby him. He is an evil bean straight up.

[murdermasked]

icameasiam:

{ Michael Myers and Annabelle Rose Shadows: Continue HERE  @murdermasked }

      Dreams - nightmares. These were not moments she usually experienced, most nights solely hours of darkness behind her eyes. No visions of delight, no visions of suffering. A handful of years prior, dreams were often, compelling her mind to think of the few things that brought joy to her. Forcing her dreams to be more acceptable than the reality she lived through. Over and over again, those dreams would turn into nightmares; a reminder of what her day was - of what her life was. As if forced to replay in her mind the terrors that wouldn’t abandon her. Regularly awakened by a moment far too horrible to experience again. A slap from her father’s hand, a kick from his foot. The threatening words loudly stated in her ear, hauling her from one hell to another. Tonight was no different.

      A pull of the hair, a reminder of how little she was worth. Years it had been since her father’s face haunted her dreams - haunted her. No remorse for the life she had taken, after all, it was kill or be killed. Survival, not an excuse. It was possible he was haunting her due to how often she found herself speaking of him now. Every now and again letting his actions and words be spoken of, speaking of him to a man that said nothing back. Speaking to someone known to be nothing but depraved about the evil in her life. The unreadable face staring back at her, no movement, no indication of care or lack of. Therapeutic in its own way - the only person who knew the truth. The only one to know about the blade that entered her father’s body, the very same that claimed his life and left him drenched in crimson. Perhaps it was due to the fact that her birthday was right around the corner, the eighteenth of November a reminder of the gruesome yet liberating night. Possibly, being by Michael’s side exposed her to the most hidden parts of herself. The parts that reminded her just how human she could be - just how weak she once had been.

      A hand to her throat, unsuspecting of how real the moment was. The tightening of her lungs increasing as two hands now held her firmly in place against her kitchen wall - against the bed that was claimed as her own currently. Her father’s vivid eyes shifting into an abyss of onyx. A darkness she couldn’t look away from, captivated. Slowly the familiar face faded, the beating of her heart inconsistent as the air tried to find its way back to her lungs. The face she had run from so many times shifting to what most would now consider the face of the devil himself - Michael Myers. Hands raised, taking hold of onto his forearms, trying to push the taller and stronger form from her own body. The lack of air felt so real. Her lungs gasping for air, her own gasps for life dragging her from the traumatic memories of her past. Her own verdant hues focusing as best as they could to the barely visible washed out white that they were faced with.

       Smaller hands clung to the fabric of his overalls. Tugging at the sleeves before painted black nails penetrated the flesh of the man who was drawing the life from her body. Porcelain skin taken over by the darkening tone of pink, crimsoning as the seconds passed. Weary and bloodshot eyes widening at the realization of how much this moment wasn’t a nightmare, of how true and real it was. Yet another moment that reminded her just how perilous he was, reminding her of how truly unpredictable he could be - even with her. Broken whimpers and grievances audible between them both as she moved under his dominant hold. Tears falling from her eyes, a sob cracking as a stinging sensation took over her lungs. The very same sensation she had undergone when her kitchen had been set on fire at the age of ten by her negligent mother, forgetful of the stove. Burning and fighting for air as she figured out how to put an end to the flames. Only this was caused by the same man she had helped escape - deserved for her part in his crimes one would believe.

      Her left foot came in contact with his thigh, resorting to the strength she had left to force him back. Her body automatically resting on its side as she fought for oxygen, the sore coughs departing from her lungs as more tears fell down her heated cheeks. A shaking hand coming in contact with the flesh that would surely bruise. The dimly lit bedroom did little to help her focus. Her gaze shifting towards him, yet her vision stayed blurred as she tried to make the shape out. The blending of navy and white causing her to feel much more light-headed than she already did. Was he trying to get rid of her? Was this just another instance of control? A moment where the humanity was entirely stripped from him as she had witnessed so many times already - Why?

      She did her best to stand up, her body shaking. She felt sick to her stomach. The trauma of her past triggered by his actions. Small, debilitated - terrified. Feeling as if she was a fifteen-year-old girl yet again, trying to discover her strength to survive. Only this time, it was her own doing. “You… Son of a…a… Bit-Bitch.” Broken, and painfilled become her voice as she concentrated her eyes on him. Her lower lip trembling as she observed him. The post-traumatic stress experienced over years of abuse was slipping past her own mask. The mask of someone who couldn’t be harmed emotionally, mentally. The mask of someone who shielded her heart for protection. The mask of a girl never loved, turned cold. Abandoned, abused - shattered. Almost childlike in that moment. No other words came from her as she stood up, the side of her body leaning against the wall. Still, she didn’t take her eyes from the man who could have easily snapped her neck. The same man who could have certainly killed her - just as he had done with so many already. She couldn’t help but wonder what would happen next. What he would do next, what she would do. Uncertainty, betrayal - suffering. It all rested behind her eyes, the most emotion expressed and experienced since his release. Her eyes encountering the darkness that surrounded his own.

Michael had always been an abnormal child, displaying behavior that would prove to be concerning. His parents hadn’t ever picked up on it, however, believing that the reasons his pets died were due to accidents or rough handling. No one thought to consider his growing silence meaning something besides being a shy, withdrawn boy. And who could blame them? Most little boys never even had the thoughts of murder pass through their growing minds. But Michael? Michael had been drawn to the idea of it. There was no real explanation for it, no driving force to back up why he did what he did. He was simply born with a corrupted mind. An evil, malevolent mind. Never was there any remorse behind his actions. Not a tear, a downward tilt of his head, or a tremble of his hands. Once he had killed someone, it was only a matter of time before he pursued his next victim. Sometimes he chose people who intrigued him, sometimes he chose people who were simply in his way or at the wrong place at the wrong time. There seemed to be no real method to his madness.

Tonight was a little different. His hands wrapped around the woman’s throat wasn’t with an immediate intent to kill. The urge and undying lust for it was there, but his intentions were merely to wake her up. The idea of being gentle was lost on Michael, who had struggled with it for as long as he could remember. His mother had been the most successful in giving him affection without him pulling away, but it did nothing to change the way his mind functioned. After his parents had died, there’d been nobody left to come visit him. Nobody truly cared about the psychologically damaged child murderer. And so he grew up alone, locked away in his own head with only his psychologist to try to poke and prod at his brain. That, too, was all to no avail.

The small form trapped below him was next to helpless, her struggles to fight him off proving to be a challenge. Her own hands against his forearms didn’t do anything to make him budge, nor did her fingernails digging into his flesh. He could feel the warmth of his blood dripping down his arm, but it was nothing that would cause a reaction from. Being shot and stabbed was enough to cause a reaction, though it was always only temporary. Every time, Michael would get back up as if nothing had ever happened, ready to continue his task of murdering whomever he was after at the time. The only sign of him reacting to her movements and actions was his labored breathing from behind his mask. He should have let go when he saw Annabella struggling to breathe; when he felt her trying to force him away from her, but his instinct to kill was too strong. Would he continue to squeeze the life out of her, or would he perhaps kill her with a quick twist of her neck to break it? His thoughts were interrupted by a foot slamming against his thigh, thus causing him to stumble backwards a few steps.

This was the first time Michael had seen Annabelle display any real intense emotion. Everything else he’d witnessed before had been very vague. Was she crying because of him? The words she spoke, calling him a son of a bitch, implied that he indeed had caused the tears to fall from her eyes. Even still, he didn’t feel any push within him to apologize, to approach her and take her into his arms. That part of him had died a long, long time ago.

His head slowly tilted to the side, his own way of expressing contemplation or confusion; something Annabelle had probably picked up on during her time spent with him. His communication was unlike that of a regular humans. He didn’t speak, he didn’t sign, he didn’t write nor did he show expressions (even with his mask off, which was usually on. He preferred to shield his identity and felt it was a part of him) What had she been dreaming about? Why was she so upset now compared to all the other times he had laid his hands on her? Michael made no moves to approach, the tall figure standing in place and gazing at the other from across the bed.

[murdermasked]

I met him, 15 years ago; I was told there was nothing left; no reason, no conscience, no understanding in even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, of good or evil, right or wrong. I met this… six-year-old child with this blank, pale, emotionless face, and… the blackest eyes - the Devil’s eyes. 

Indie / selective Michael Myers of Halloween

[kawarayane]

Paramedic costume in Resurrection. (There is no mask in that scene)