Summary: You and Michael Myers have loved each other in secret since childhood. Over the years, your visits kept that love alive. When Dr Sartain tries to use your bond against you, Michael comes for you, guided by his devotion.
You had known Michael longer than anyone else, longer than childhood itself.
From the moment you had met him in the fields of Haddonfield, when he had simply watched you from a distance and never left your side when danger approached, you had felt it.
Something in him drew you closer, and something in you called to him in return.
Over the years, that bond had grown.
When he was taken away, sent to the mental facility, it did not break you. It only made your love bloom in quieter, smaller ways.
Weekly visits became your lifeline. Sometimes you came twice a week. You would sit across from him in the observation room, your hands folded neatly in your lap, your eyes tracing the contours of the mask he had worn for so long.
He never spoke. He never moved unless he wanted to. But you could see him.
You could always see him. The tilt of his head, the slow shift of his weight, the faint rise and fall of his chest when you spoke, each one a language only you understood.
“Hello, Michael,” you whispered one afternoon, leaning close to the glass, your fingers pressed lightly against the surface.
He turned his head just enough to meet your eyes. The mask hid his expression, but the small tilt of his shoulders, the way his hands flexed slightly on the chair arms, told you everything. He had waited for you. He always had.
You smiled softly, a mixture of longing and relief curling in your chest.
“It’s been a long week,” you murmured. “I thought about you every day.”
Michael’s hand twitched ever so slightly, a reflex, but it was enough to make your heart ache.
You wanted to reach across the glass, to touch him properly, to hold him, but you couldn’t.
Dr Sartain observed quietly from the side, clipboard in hand. He had arrived only recently, yet even now, you could feel his measuring gaze.
He wrote something down, adjusting his glasses.
You had seen that expression many times in doctors before, curiosity, obsession, the hunger to “solve” what they did not understand.
He cleared his throat.
“Fascinating,” he said, voice precise. “Your regular visits… twice a week, same time, very consistent. It appears the patient responds to your presence more than any of our tests.”
You barely heard him. Your focus remained on Michael.
The room held its breath. Michael shifted slightly, leaning forward in the chair, just enough for you to feel the recognition.
His eyes, dark behind the mask, never left yours. You smiled again, a small, soft smile that you had practised in front of the mirror for this very moment.
Dr Sartain scribbled notes, muttering to himself about heart rates and emotional recognition. You ignored him.
It did not matter what he thought. It was always just you and Michael, always had been, and nothing in that sterile, monitored room could change it.
You stayed there until the session ended, reluctant to leave, pressing your palm against the glass one last time. Michael’s hand lifted to mirror yours, just a fraction, yet it was enough.
It spoke volumes. Silent, steady, unbreakable.
When the door opened to lead you out, you hesitated. His gaze followed you, unwavering, and you felt a warmth spread through your chest.
He remembered. He had never forgotten.
And in that quiet, metallic room, you knew your love had endured.
The following week, you returned to the facility at the same time as always, your coat pulled tight against the chill, your steps measured and familiar.
Michael had been waiting, as if you had only just left.
You could feel it in the way the guards parted for you automatically, in the stillness of the observation room when you entered.
Dr Sartain was there again, clipboard clutched in one hand, a clinical smile playing on his lips.
“I’ve been reviewing your visits,” he said smoothly, voice low but calculated. “You come every week, sometimes twice. The patient… responds to you in ways none of our tests could replicate.”
You ignored him, letting your eyes fall on Michael.
He sat quietly, hands resting on the arms of his chair, shoulders tense yet composed.
The mask hid everything, yet you could read him like a book.
The faint rise of his chest as you spoke, the tilt of his head, the tiny shift forward in the chair, all of it spoke to his awareness, his longing, his unspoken words.
“Michael,” you said softly, pressing your hand lightly against the glass, “it’s me again.”
His head lifted, slow and deliberate, until the dark eyes behind the mask fixed on you.
The slightest nod, almost imperceptible, was his only response, yet it was enough. You felt your heart tighten. Years apart, countless visits, and it never failed, he knew you, remembered you, loved you.
Sartain scribbled furiously, muttering under his breath.
You leaned closer to the glass, imagining the warmth of his skin, the strength behind that silent frame.
“I missed you,” you whispered.
His hand twitched, the smallest possible motion, and your breath caught. That tiny gesture was all it took to remind you that he had waited, that he had remembered, that he had loved you in silence all these years.
Sartain’s expression darkened. He was studying Michael, trying to read what you already knew.
“The patient’s reaction… it is… love,” he said under his breath, as if admitting it aloud made it real. “This is not what we expected. This… this could be used.”
Your pulse quickened, though not from fear.
The thought that someone else could try to manipulate what had been sacred between you and Michael sent a shiver down your spine. You pressed your hand against the glass again, wishing you could reach through, wrap him in your arms, and shield him from the world.
Michael shifted forward slightly, his body language protective, deliberate. He did not move toward Sartain.
He did not react to the presence of the doctor in the way anyone else might have expected. Every motion was reserved for you. Every ounce of his focus, of his energy, of his devotion, was fixed on your small figure across the room.
Sartain’s pen scratched across the paper, but his calculations did not grasp what was happening.
He saw the data, the movements, the heart rate, but he could not measure the depth of what existed between you and Michael.
Love, silent and unyielding, impossible to dissect, impossible to break.
The session ended as it always did.
You pressed your palm to the glass one last time. Michael mirrored you, hand rising slowly, deliberately, until it hovered opposite yours.
You lingered there, chest tight with emotion, memorising the moment.
Even as the guards led you away, you felt him watching. Not just watching, but waiting, always waiting, always remembering. And you knew, as you walked through the sterile corridors of Smith’s Grove, that no observation, no calculation, no doctor’s ambition could ever alter what had existed between you for years.
Love, unspoken, silent, and steady.
---
It was the week after your last visit when everything changed.
The facility had grown restless, the air thick with unease.
You had arrived as usual, and for a moment, the room was the same. Michael sat waiting, still and silent, yet every fibre of his being spoke of anticipation.
Dr Sartain lingered behind the glass, notebook in hand, a faint, predatory smile playing at the edges of his lips.
He had studied your visits for months, observing the pattern, recording the ritual of your presence and the way Michael responded. He believed he could use it to his advantage.
But he underestimated him.
The riot started suddenly.
Alarms screamed, the echo of shouting guards and panicked patients bouncing off the sterile walls. Metal doors banged, and the fluorescent lights flickered in rapid bursts.
You froze, heart hammering as chaos unfolded.
From the observation room, you watched in disbelief. Michael moved with terrifying precision. Where everyone else panicked, he was calm, methodical. The chains meant to restrain him were nothing. He slipped free with a grace that belied the weight of his body, every movement measured, every motion silent but full of intent.
Sartain’s voice cut through the alarms, sharp and incredulous.
“Contain him! Contain him at once!”
It was already too late.
You knew, with certainty, where he would go first. He would come to you. He always had.
Every instinct in your body screamed at you, but the chaos of the riot made it impossible to leave. Guards rushed past, knocking into you, shouting, their faces masks of fear.
Sartain, always quick, always thinking ahead, was faster.
A day later, he was in your home before you realised. He struck without warning, a sharp blow at the back of your head, sending darkness rushing over you.
You woke up bound to a chair, a rough tape across your mouth, a sting of dried blood along your forehead.
He had been waiting. Waiting for Michael to come.
The hours passed in a tense, unbearable silence.
You strained against the bindings, your heart hammering, but it was useless.
And then you heard it.
The subtle scrape of boots on the pavement outside, deliberate, steady. A shadow moved through the window first, then another step closer, heavier, unyielding. Your chest seized.
He was here.
Michael stepped into your home, calm and immense. His eyes, dark and unwavering behind the mask, found yours immediately. The world around you dissolved.
Sartain’s voice rang out, smug and cruel.
“Ah, he’s here. And now you’ll see what I’ve planned.”
A knife pressed against your throat, cold and sharp, and you could only watch Sartain’s shadow looming over you.
“You see,” he said, his tone smug, “he will obey me… or you will pay.”
Michael shifted, his body coiled, quiet, his every movement precise. You didn’t need him to speak. The way his shoulders tensed, the tilt of his head, the sheer intent in his posture, told you everything. He would not let anything happen to you.
The next moment was a blur of sound.
A scream from Sartain, the sickening snap of bone. You refused to look. You could hear it, the crushing weight of Michael’s rage, the violence exacted with terrifying precision.
And then... silence.
When you dared to breathe again, his arms were around you. He freed you from the chair, hands steady, protective. You collapsed against him, tears streaming freely, pressing your face into the hollow of his chest.
“I-I thought…” you whispered, voice quivering, “I thought I lost you.”
His hands gripped your shoulders, his body a fortress. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
The way he held you, steady and unyielding, said more than words ever could. You cried into him, your sobs muffled against his chest, and for the first time since he had been taken, you felt safe.
Michael had come for you. And nothing in the world could separate you now.
The moment he held you, the world outside ceased to exist. The room, the blood, the chaos of the riot, and the lingering shadow of Dr Sartain all faded into nothing. There was only Michael and the steady, unspoken devotion he carried in every movement.
You pressed yourself against him, hands gripping the fabric of his coat, face buried in the hollow of his chest. Your body shook with relief, with fear that finally, finally melted away. Tears streaked your face, leaving marks against the blood on your forehead, but you didn’t care. He was here. He had come for you.
“I… I thought I lost you,” you whispered, clinging to him as though letting go even for a second would undo everything.
His hands moved slowly, deliberately, one pressing against the small of your back, the other holding your shoulders, steadying you. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. Every line of his body, the quiet tilt of his head, the way he pressed his strength against yours, told you the truth you had known all along, he loved you.
Always.
You tilted your head up, forcing your eyes open to meet the dark, unblinking gaze behind the mask. It was terrifying and comforting all at once.
He had been called a monster, Evil, a thing beyond redemption, but when he looked at you, it was different. He was nothing but the man you had known, silent and unyielding, and entirely yours.
“I’m here,” you whispered again, pressing closer. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Michael responded in the only way he ever had, with action. His grip tightened ever so slightly, protective and possessive, and then he began to guide you out of the room. Every step he took was careful, silent, deliberate. You followed without hesitation, clinging to him, letting him lead.
Outside, the night welcomed you like an old friend. The streets were quiet, the air crisp and clean, carrying the faint smell of rain and earth. Michael kept close, a silent shadow, a guardian, his presence radiating reassurance and protection.
You lifted your head, finally able to see the sky, and a tremor of hope ran through you. The world had been cruel, and yet here you were, together. Unbroken.
He did not speak. He never had to.
When you reached a secluded stretch of road, you wrapped your arms around him again, pressing your cheek against his chest. You felt the rise and fall of his breathing, steady and constant, and you let yourself cry, let yourself feel the full weight of the relief and love that had been building for years.
Michael’s hands found yours, large and protective, and held you close. You whispered your thanks into the fabric of his coat, your words soft and broken, yet full of certainty.
“I love you,” you said. “I always have. I always will.”
His body stiffened ever so slightly, then relaxed, pressing you closer. He never spoke, but in the way he moved, in the way he held you, in the unshakable devotion in every fibre of his being, he told you the same.
The night stretched endlessly around you, dark and quiet, yet full of promise.
Michael had come for you, and you had come home.
Nothing could take that away. Nothing ever would.
And in that quiet darkness, you finally knew what it meant to be safe, truly seen, and utterly loved.
Hi! Could I request some angsty angst with Michael Myers when the foreigner woman that live in his old family house (she bought it but let him stay even tho she knows that he is a wanted serial killer, she just don't really care plus she is lonely and he didnt kill her so it means that he likes her in his own unique way... And she feeds him so it might be this too...) needs to go back to her home country for few months leaving him alone.
Sorry for my english its not my first language.
BACK TO THE OLD HOUSE.
🍓 Michael Myers x fem!reader
A/N: Don't apologise, lovely anon! Your English is perfectly fine!!!! After all, it isn't my first language either 🩷 Also, I've never written a full fic about Michael, please be nice 🥹
🎀 the Smiths reference & idc if it doesn't fit 100%, foreign/nonAmerican!reader, fluff, comfort, angst, hurt, stalking, sabotage, vague mention of canon violence, grammar quirks (on purpose)
Oh Michael, King of Silent Obsession...
You hadn't realized how quiet your house always is. Not until you sat down to tell Michael Myers you're leaving it.
You're standing in the kitchen, facing him like a guilty child, holding two plates.
Dinner.
He's sitting at the end of the table in his usual chair, like he was born in it. Maybe that had always been his assigned seat.
Micheal.
Massive. Unmoving. Masked.
He never eats in front of you, but he always watches you cook and eat. Sometimes you catch him staring at the steam rising from the ceramic pot you brought from home.
"I am… leaving" you say finally.
No reaction. He breathes once, slow, through the mask.
"Just for some months" you add quickly, because he is staring, and you feel stupidly nervous, even though this man has seen you cry over onion chopping before.
"I return. I will. Okay?"
His shoulders expand with one long inhale.
You set one of the plates in front of him.
He never says "thank you", not that you ever expect him to. Michael isn't... very vocal.
He only accepts things. He takes. And for a reason you cannot explain to anyone, you never mind giving.
"My aunt is sick" you continue. "Back home. I must help her. Paperwork, doctors. All that shit."
Your voice sounds too soft, too apologetic. You swallow.
"I leave next month."
There. You said it.
Michael still doesn't move. But it's like the room changes shape around him.
He didn't like your announcement.
Still, you think that's the end of it, but he becomes different.
He disappears for two full days, which he never does.
You don't sleep. Not because you miss him, right?
You're actually afraid someone hurt him. Which is insane, because he is the something that hurts people. He's the Shape.
Then he comes back one night, covered in dirt and leaves, like he's been walking in the woods. He goes straight downstairs to the basement and slams the door behind him so hard the walls shake.
You jump, proceed to stand frozen with your stupid cup of tea in hand.
He's very mad.
The next days only get weirder.
Your suitcase disappears. You find it hidden behind the boiler, and try to laugh it off. Coincidence?
Your passport vanishes. You find it inside a ceiling tile! That one is harder to laugh off.
You put your ticket on the counter –just to check something...
Gone in ten minutes.
You find it folded under the pillow on the old couch upstairs.
You look at him and say "You are not funny."
He tilts his head. The mask seems petulant.
He even starts following you again.
He hasn't done that for months. Not since the night you discovered him. Caught him living in the abandoned house you had just bought. And decided not to scream, not to run, not to report him.
Maybe he kept you alive because you didn't lie to him. You'd looked at him and said "This is your house. I only fix it. Cook in it."
That had been enough.
Now the stalking is back.
You catch glimpses of the white mask across the street. Near your workplace. Behind the tree when you take out the trash. You can't even close the curtains without finding him already outside.
You open your bedroom window one night and snap, "Do you think following me will make me stay?!"
He's standing at the edge of the backyard, like a statue.
"You are being—how do you say—childish!"
He doesn't even flinch, unwavering.
"I will come back" you insist. "I did not say goodbye forever."
Nothing.
"Then come inside" you sigh, exhausted. "It is dinner anyway... Dinner time."
He obeys instantly.
Three days before departure, the phone starts ringing.
You pick up.
Breathing. Heavy. Familiar.
"You know I know it is you."
Nothing.
"You are a giant. The whole phone line shakes when you call! Where are you calling from?"
Silence.
"This is not going to change anything."
Click.
He still comes to dinner, sitting across from you while you talk about your day. After you've gone to bed, he still eats the food you make. And you try to ignore the new tension that lives between you as best as you can.
Packing day.
Your ticket is printed.
Important documents hidden.
Bus schedule memorized so he can't steal it.
Lesson learned.
You drag your suitcase to the front door.
Michael appears in the hallway without a sound. He blocks the exit completely. That awful mask stares down at you, full of judgement.
You grip your coat tighter.
"Move" you say softly.
He doesn't.
"Michael. Please."
And you guessed it...
Nothing.
He just stands there, breathing through the mask. His size makes the whole hallway feel like a coffin. You can't fit past him unless he allows it.
"I told you. Am coming back."
Your voice cracks and it annoys you.
"Do not make this harder."
Exasperated, you try to push past him.
His hand comes up, fast, and grabs your suitcase handle, ripping it from you like it weighs nothing.
You gasp.
His other hand presses against the door. He's silent, but Michael's silence can be rude.
"Stop this" you whisper. You step closer. A little too close as a matter of fact, but he doesn't step back.
"I am not leaving you, it's not personal. Am—I'm only going home."
His shoulders move. One jagged breath.
You touch his arm, careful.
"I feed you. I keep your secret. I care for you. You know this."
He drops the suitcase. You hear the heavy thunk against the floor.
"I will return" you say again.
"You wait for me. Yes?"
He stares.
His hand comes up, not rough but not gentle either, and grips your wrist. He isn't trying to hurt you. He's trying to hold you here.
Keep you.
The world shrinks to that grip.
"I will want to come back... If you let me go now."
A long pause.
Then… he does.
Michael lets go.
You grab your suitcase again, and this time he lets you make it to the front door.
Stepping outside, you realise your heart is pounding like crazy.
You don't look back. Can't afford to.
The bus drives away. The town disappears behind you.
Airport.
Plane.
Airport.
Another bus station. A different continent.
The public phone rings. Loud and insistent. No one else hears it, making you feel it's only ringing for you.
You already know who it is.
So you answer.
Breathing.
Steady. Heavy. Alive.
You close your eyes.
"I will come back to our home" you whisper into the crackling line.
Silence.
But he stays on the call.
And stays.
And stays.
You smile despite yourself.
"I'll bake a cake to celebrate when I do."
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