RZ Michael Myers x reader
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summary: After a very shitty life in Maine, you decide to go back to your hometown, Haddonfield, for a fresh new start (and an undying curiosity to figure out what really happened to your childhood best friend) .You move back into your old house and start a new nursing job, not knowing what dangers are waiting for you.
these chapters contain: cursing, violence, gore, murder, blood, conflicted feelings, no use of Y/N, bits of misogyny (don’t worry, reader doesn’t take ANY bullshit), you will see my hate for Loomis later on, introverted reader, dead animals, vomit, intense fear, nightmares, panic attacks, mentions of depression, eventual smut
A/N: I will try to post new chapters every friday, but if i don’t, bear with me! New warning added, please read those before continuing!
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A tired groan escapes you as you push open the door to your house, rubbing your sore wrist.
You shut the door behind you and look down at it. The finger prints are starting to bruise already, it also hurts to move in certain ways or put any pressure on it.
The whole drive home you tried to wrap your head around why Michael grabbed you the way he did. He hurt you, yes, but not as bad as he could have. You’re sure he could have killed you on the spot if he really wanted to. But he didn’t.
Why didn’t he hurt you worse?
Was it a reminder? A reminder of how badly he could hurt you, the power he dangles over your head, just out of your reach?
Today was supposed to be you forgetting about Michael, finally moving on and getting your fresh start that you wanted, moving on from the past. He would be gone and then you could keep going with your life.
But it seems like every time you try to move on, something like this happens. Something always happens to bring you back into this circle of questions, of why’s. Whether it’s a nightmare, a rediscovered memory, a new article. Always something.
You can’t seem to escape him, no matter how hard you seem to try. But do you really want to escape? You’ve kept trying for a ‘new start’ but keep ending up back to him.
Michael plagues your mind, even if you want him to or not.
You’ve tried and tried to make yourself forget over the years but nothings ever worked.
You came here for a fresh start. At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. Surely all the events that happened to go on in Maine didn’t just give you an excuse to go back to Haddonfield, right? Surely you didn’t just get the job at Smiths Grove just to see Michael, right? Surely you didn’t come back just to try and ease that undying curiosity and connection you feel towards Michael, right?
A groan leaves you as you drag both hands down your face.
You’ve tried to hide from it, ignore it. But how much longer can you do that before your mind eats itself alive at the thoughts of him.
The grumble from your stomach disrupts every thought. You haven’t eaten since breakfast this morning and are definitely too tired to cook anything. You were also planning to pass out candy to kids tonight but you’re too tired for that too.
Deciding to just call and order a pizza, you drag yourself to the phone.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .*:☆ﾟ. ───
Shedded from your work clothes, you’re spread across your couch, greasing pizza in one hand, remote in the other, bowl of candy and an empty and half drunken beer on the coffee table. Some shitty horror movie plays on the tv, one with an over used plot and very crappy gore.
The alcohol is made for you to forget.
Maybe if you drink enough everything will just go away.
You can faintly hear kids laughing and walking the sidewalks outside, going trick or treating.
It makes you think of that night, how happy you both were just hours before the murders. How Michael knew just the right streets to go on to get the most amount of candy, what streets the dickheads at school took on halloween, what houses gave out apples and not candy.
You feel stupid by how much you miss it. Stupid that you’re missing something from when you were a kid, something that you can’t get back no matter how hard you wish for it.
Finishing off the rest of your beer, you set the bottle down on the coffee table.
Your eyes feel heavy with sleep. It’s been a long day, your wrist still aches and no matter what you do or how much ice you put on it, your mind won’t stop running. Maybe some sleep is what you need.
It’s a bit early, yes, but you don’t really care.
Too tired to walk to your bedroom, you lay down and pull down the blanket from the back off the couch.
You drift off, listening to the screams of the victims on the tv.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .*:☆ﾟ. ───
You stare out the window, eyes darting around the scene in front of you.
Bright red and blue lights flash against everything, lighting up the dark night.
Bodies get carried out of the house across the street on stretchers, covered by a tarp.
The sound of Debrah screaming and sobbing, while holding Boo, fills the air.
At first, you didn’t know what was happening. You were really worried about Michael, you couldn’t see him anywhere, was he one of the bodies that was getting dragged out of the house? What happened?
It takes a few more minutes of watching before you see him.
Michael getting escorted out by police, clown costume still on from when you were treat-or-treating just a few hours before. Yet, now it’s covered in blood stains
You watch for a minute, mouth slightly parted in shock, eyes glued to him as he gets walked to the police car.
The pounding of your heart against your chest fills your ears as it gets faster, and faster.
You meet those baby blue eyes as he steps into the police car and you feel your vision tunnel as you finally snap out of the daze you’re in.
The cop closes the door behind him, blocking your view. And that’s when the band snaps
Your legs move before your brain can even register you’re running. You bolt downstairs, practically screaming Michaels name at the top of lungs, running as fast as your 9 year old legs will take you.
You’re not really sure what your goal is. All you know is that your scared, terrified your best friend is about to be taken from you. And you feel an immense need to stop him from leaving. Or at least talk to him, figure out what’s going on.
Almost hitting the banister on the way down, you dart there room and into the foyer
The front door was so close. So, so close. Your fingers almost curl around the handle when a pair of arms wrap around your small torso, yanking you back. It's your father.
Your mom stands nearby, still in her night clothes, like she also just got woken up by the scene outside. Her hand covers her mouth as she has to turn herself away from you. She knew how much you and Michael meant to each other, even if she didn’t like how much trouble you both got in.
Tears quickly fill your eyes as you thrash in your fathers arms, desperately trying to escape his hold.
Your voice cracks as you call out his name. You don’t know what you expected to happen. Maybe for him to come through that door and tease you for crying over him and then invite you over to watch some random movie.
But part of your 9 year old brain knows that won’t happen.
Turning into your fathers chest, you grip the fabric of his shirt, you sob, whispering Michael’s name every few seconds until everything goes black.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .*:☆ﾟ. ───
The first thing you notice is a chill, unfortunately familiar cold air.
A cold that settles deep into your body, no matter how heavy of a coat or sweater you wear.
You’ve seen this room too many times to be as scared anymore. Yet, no matter how many times you visit this place, there is still some fear that lingers each time.
You stand up from your place on the ground. The red lights cause an ache to settle behind your eyes. The group of masked figures are at their usual spot at that long dinner table.
Something you will never get used to is their stares. Even though you can’t see their eyes through the stupid masks. The unseen eyes feel judgemental, heavily so. A deep judgment, just like the cold.
You’ve played this game before. Too many times to count.
You look over to the center of the table, expecting you 17 years ago in that little witch custom, looking like you're sleeping even if there’s no rise and fall from your chest. Peaceful. Innocent. Unknowing.
But that’s not what you see this time.
It’s you. Now. You’re sleeping form on the couch, from another person's perspective. Like someone is standing right above you, and you’re seeing yourself through their eyes.
You swear your heart skips a beat.
No, this is not how this is supposed to go. This is not how it ever goes.
You’re supposed to see the younger version of you, then Michael comes in and says some odd shit each time. Not this.
Panic rises in you. What does it mean?
It’s different. Not a good different.
You stare at yourself in the center of the table, trying to ignore heavy stares all around you.
The sound of a footstep fills the room, the sound of weight creaking against a floor board. You know who’s entered. You turn around, heart pounding in your chest.
Michael myers. 10 years old, in that fucking clown suit.
There’s a tremble in your whole body that you can’t control.
He reaches his hand up and pulls the clown mask off his face. You both stare at each other for a second.
You wake up with a gasp and a burning feeling in your chest. There’s a ringing in your ear, blinking as you try to get the blurriness of sleep out of your eye. Pushing yourself up into a sitting position, you try to control your breathing. Tears fill your eyes as your face falls into your hands.
Everything is so overwhelming. The fucking flashbacks, the strange dreams. It’s all too much. The reason you went to bed early was so you could escape from it. From him.
But it seems like your mind has other plans.
“Fuck...” You mumble, wiping the tears that have escaped your eyes and fell down your cheeks. Why does this have to happen to you out of all people?
Why does your mind torment you with replaying the same shit over and over?
You’ve never had two in one night. A memory and a nightmare. Maybe it’s because you’ve been very stressed lately.
“Breaking news! An outbreak has occurred at Smiths Grove.”
Your head snaps to the TV. What?
“Early this night, a patient of the name ‘Michael Myers’ had massacred the building and escaped. The number of people injured is still coming in. Police are refusing to give further details. Updates will keep coming in.”
What the actual fuck is happening to you right now.
Whatever god that is out there must absolutely hate you right now.
Where’s Michael at? Is he in police custody? How many people has he killed? How the fuck did he even escape?
At least you weren’t working tonight.
Your thoughts are running a mile a minute when you feel a gust of wind.
That’s weird. No fan or AC should be on.
Your head turns to look over the back of the couch, trying to find the source of the breeze.
Another breeze guides your gaze to the back door. It’s wide open. You can see from your spot on the couch that the deadbolt has been broken.
Then your eyes lead to the figure in the middle of the room.
His coveralls and boots are soaked with blood and mud. In his hand holds a knife, equally as bloody. Then the mask. Paper white yet tattered with years of worn, weathered and gritty, brown hair sitting in mats on top of the head.
It feels like your body has sunken itself into the couch below you. No fight or flight, just stuck. Frozen.
Your eyes dart around him.
His posture, height, build, dirty blonde hair peaking out from the bottom of the mask. It all leads to—
The nickname slips out, out of habit.
His hand that holds the knife tightens around it, knuckles turning white.
Shit. Is he here to kill you? Here to finally end the endless cycle of your mind that’s been plagued with him for the past 17 years? Finally here to end the endless thoughts and nightmares? The endless memories?
If he attacks, what would you even defend yourself with? The empty beer bottles on the table might do some damage if you try hard enough. Or would you even try to fight back? Would you just give in and let him end the suffering of your mind?
Well, to much of your surprise, he doesn’t.
He stands there and stares. It’s not the cold and judgmental stare you were feeling almost moments before in your dream.
Okay, well maybe it is a bit cold.
You can’t see his eyes in the dark through his mask, but you can imagine them. From what you remember from when he grabbed your wrist, the brightest in his eyes have dulled in 17 years. They’re more of a gray now.
You don’t know how to describe the feeling of his stare.
You don’t know long long you just stare at each other before you try and speak.
Before you can get out whatever else you were going to say, he turns away and walks deeper inside your house, footsteps eerily silent as he carries himself.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .*:☆ﾟ. ───
It’s very safe to say that you don’t go back to sleep that night.
Even when morning comes, he hasn’t left.
Or, you didn’t see him leave at least.
Your brain is still in scrambles. Part of you doesn’t believe it. Part of you wants to believe that it was just another dream, maybe a hallucination because of stress. But the still open back door and the muddy footprints that lead into the house tell a different story.
Michael Myers, Michael fucking myers is in your house. A man that just murdered a whole lotta people before breaking into your house.
And he did nothing but stare. Didn’t lay a single finger on you or shove his knife deep into your body.
Is he fucking with you? Waiting until your guard is let down so he can strike?
The hours have gone by unbearably slow. Every slight sound of the house has you jumping and your hands curling into the blanket. You haven’t seen or heard him ever since he came in.
You’ve spent the rest of the night on edge, in fear, until the sun comes up.
How long had he been in the house, looking at you before you woke up?
And what the actual fuck was that dream? “He’s here.” How did he know? How did your brain subconsciously know?
The only thing that tears you from the couch is the sound of the landline phone ringing. Gaining enough courage to leave your spot now that it’s day time.
Taking quiet and as quick steps as possible, you reach where the one is mounted to the wall. You grab the receiver with a still trembling hand and answer.
A familiar voice comes through.
“I’m assuming you have seen the news?” Loomis.
“It was an absolute blood bath up there. At least 10 deaths so far, police are still looking into it, won’t let too much information out, even to me.”
Nausea fills you. 10 deaths. 10 more lives taken by his hands.
“It’s safe to say you’ll be on leave for a little while until everything gets cleared up.”
“I thought you retired, how would you know I'm on leave?” The words leave your mouth before you can even think about how they sound. But it is true. He technically had no power over your schedule anymore.
“Well for one, I only retired a day ago before all this happened and two, I know because police won’t let anyone back into the building without finishing the entire investigation.” Loomis responded, clearly a bit annoyed by your previous tone.
“Is that all you had to tell me, Doctor?”
“No,” he says with a heavy sigh. “No, it is not. I need you to listen to me.” His voice drops a bit quieter, like he doesn’t want anyone to hear what his next words might be. “You are a very high target right now. Not only because you have known Michael, but that you also live across from his house. Be careful, and safe. Only god knows the extent of the things he could do.”
If only Loomis knew that you have said serial killer lurking somewhere in your house right now.
You don’t know what to say. “Oh yeah man, he came to stop by last night, no biggie though,”
You can’t just tell him, can you. Michael might be listen from… wherever he is right now. If he hears you snitch, he might come and kill you now. And you would like to not die by a stab wound to the chest.
“Yeah… I’ll be careful, Loomis.”
“Good. Let me know if you seen anything.”
The line goes dead. You put down the receiver and lean your head against the cold wall. Sleep gnaws at your body but you refuse to surrender to it. Too much could happen. You’d be too vulnerable. And you really don’t want another nightmare.
The light filling the house brings you the tiniest amount of comfort. It’s not as scary anymore now that you can actually see everywhere.
You pad into the kitchen, peaking around every corner on your way, on edge and filled with a fear that you might see Michael lurking around a doorway. Once you reach the empty kitchen, you throw open the cutlery drawer and grab a knife. You doubt it would do anything if Michael does try to attack you, him being able to easily over power you with size and strength, but you never know.
You creep back into the living room to check on the broken backdoor. The lock is completely done for, you’ll have to get a new one. Some of the wood has been split around it too. How the hell did you not wake up to the sound?
Your eyes fall down to the large, muddy footprints on the wood floors. They lead further into the house.
Should you follow them? The reasonable answer is no. You shouldn’t. You should leave the house, go to a neighbor's house for safety and call the police.
But in what world have you ever been reasonable?
You follow them until it leads you to the door of the basement. The door is shut
You never shut that door. It always gets jammed if you do. You always leave it cracked so you spare yourself the misery of having to slam against it with your shoulder.
Now, there is some sense still left in you to know that you will most definitely not go down there.
At least you know where the hell he is.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .*:☆ﾟ. ───
Hastily throwing on clothes, you rush to grab your purse and keys. You can’t stay here. You’re too paranoid and worried. You have to go get a new lock anyway, why not go to the store and try to clear your head?
Once you’ve gathered everything up, you take a glance at the basement door. Still closed. Good.
You fling open the front door and the smell hits you like a truck.
You recoil as you look down to your porch mat.
A dead coyote lays, tied to a makeshift crucifix with twine, all bloody and rotting. Flies surrounded it, landing on the open, glossed over eyes.
Nausea overcomes you quickly at the sight.
You rush back inside and double over the trash can, all the candy and pizza you had the night before coming up.
It’s from him without a doubt. You remember all those times Michael would show you the polaroids of dead animals he took. Whether he killed them or not, he didn’t say.
But this is fucking sick. You don’t know the meaning behind it, or even if there is one.
You stand there for a minute, gaining back your composure. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand before standing straight up again.
What the hell are you gonna do with this thing? Throw it away? Would Michael get mad if you do.
You shake your head and run your hands down your face, walking back to the front door.
You push the dead animal to the side with your foot, looking away while doing so to avoid gagging and vomiting again.
After it’s moved, you quickly shut the door and hurry down the sidewalk. You figured a walk would be better, help you clear your mind a bit more than a drive would.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .*:☆ﾟ. ───
The whole way you feel watched, followed. But every time you check over your shoulder, nothing.
You try to chalk it up to being just paranoid from all that has happened, but the feeling doesn’t die down until you get inside the store.
You let out a breath you didn’t even know you were hiding when the automatic doors slid open. The cold air of the AC hits you in the face, it's colder inside than outside in the fall air.
It doesn’t take long to find a replacement lock. But you end up just wandering around the isles, because honestly? You don’t wanna go back home. Not yet
There’s only so many cans of soup you can stare at before there’s nothing else to look at.
Eventually, you drag yourself over to the checkout.
The teenage cashier looks a bit perplexed at your choice of groceries, which is just a door lock, and gives you a weird look. You’re too tired to say anything, let alone fight back. You just wanna go back home, to your home before there was any serial killer in it.
You hand over the cash a bit too harshly before grabbing the bag and walking out.
─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .*:☆ﾟ. ───
As you lower yourself down on the old porch step that creaks under your weight, you throw your head down in your hands.
The tears come fast and quick. With no sleep and enough stress to kill a man, a serial killer and past childhood friend in your house that may or may not kill you, everything is way too overwhelming. You wanna crawl under a bridge and just sleep everything away. You wanna wake up and this all be another horrible fucking nightmare.
Death feels like the only real escape at this moment.
You truly don’t really know what to do.
Why hasn’t Michael killed you by now? Is he just fucking with you? Toying with his prey before he strikes? Is he even planning to at all?
And why the hell did he take sanctuary in your basement? Is he even still down there?
Life really likes to throw a big shit in your face.
You wipe the remaining tears off your face before standing up and fishing your keys out your bag.
The dead coyote is still rotting on your porch. You’ll deal with that in the morning.
Pushing the door open, you take a hesitant step in.
It’s quiet. Unnervingly so.
You slowly creep more into the house. Nothing has moved or is out of place, yet.
You take a peek at the basement door. It’s cracked open.
Your heart pumps faster against your chest. Is he somewhere else in the house now? You’re starting to understand why the town has given him the nickname ‘The Boogieman’. This shit is fucking terrifying.
Your head whips over to the back door. That’s left open too. You closed it before you left, you know you did.
Does that mean he left? Is he gone for good?
Whatever the case is, you’re just happy to have some peace, even if it is just for a little while. You drag yourself over to the couch, practically throwing yourself down onto it.
God, you want nothing more than for everything to go back to normal. Shit, at this rate you might even consider going back to your shitty life in Maine. It might even be better than whatever the fuck is happening to you here.
None of it makes any sense, even when you try and put stuff together in your head, you just can figure it out. You throw on the TV, leaving it on the first channel.
Sleep claws at your eyes and body. You’re entirely and utterly exhausted. But you can’t sleep. Not yet. He might break in again, but this time you might not have the chance to wake up.
The light from the TV sets a deep ache into your eyes.
You try and fight it, you really do. But the sweet lull of sleep soon comes, and your eyes fall shut.
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