You always knew your last name was trouble. Your family was composed of delinquents and shady people. Still, you hadn't expected yourself to be associated with the boogeyman himself, Michael Myers.

When you saw his name, it was like a gate swung open.

Memories came rushing back, one after another, until you were thrown into the past. Back to when you and a young Michael were friends. You remembered standing up to his bullies and tending to his bruises when they found him wandering alone.

And more embarrassingly, the pact you guys made. It was stupid, you were both young and naive, but it was easy to promise something to a boy who had nothing.

Together forever.

At the time you laughed it off, thinking it was just Michael’s strange way of saying you were his best friend. But he was dead serious. The way he had looked at you, his eyes intense and unwavering sent shivers down your spine. Not wanting to remember anything else, as it was beginning to give you a headache, you decided to take a small nap.

That nap ended up being hours.

Once you awoke, the room was pitch black, the clock on the nightstand flashing midnight.

"Shit." You murmured to yourself. You had hoped to get more done, to start unpacking the few boxes you'd brought into this old place, but it seemed you needed sleep. With a sigh, you stood and made your way out of the bedroom, intending to grab a snack before going back to sleep. But as you reached the bottom of the staircase, a strange feeling washed over you.

You paused, squinting into the dark living room, perhaps you were going crazy or sleep still clung to you.

But then you saw him.

Standing in the middle of the room, his back to you, was a tall figure, his broad shoulders unmistakable. For a moment, you were paralyzed, unsure of what to do. The last time you had seen Michael, he had been a friend, but now he was something unrecognizable.

The thought of fleeing crossed your mind, but before you could act, Michael slowly turned around. His face was obscured by the eerie white mask, the hollow eyes staring back at you, unblinking and unreadable. He didn't move, didn't speak. He just stood there, watching, as if waiting for you to take the first step.

"Michael?"

As soon as the name left your lips, he began to move in your direction. Your instinct was to back away, and you did, taking a cautious step backward, your heart pounding in your chest. It seemed he had sensed your fear as he stopped, and held his hands up, a silent indication that he meant no harm. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached up to his face, his fingers curling around the edge of the mask.

Michael’s hands hesitated for a fraction of a second before pulling the mask off. His blond hair, tousled and unkempt, fell slightly over his forehead, framing a face that was older yet familiar. He took a step forward and this time you didn’t move back.

Before you knew it, you were standing right in front of him, close enough to see the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. You reached out, hesitantly at first, and then with more certainty, wrapping your arms around him.

Michael’s body tensed for a split second, but then he responded, his arms coming up to envelop you in a hug.

His embrace was strong, almost overwhelming in its intensity, and you were struck by how much larger he had become over the years. His frame dwarfed yours, making you feel small in comparison, but there was a strange comfort in it. As if the world could fade away and nothing could touch you as long as he held you.

Michael, on the other hand, was ecstatic. After what felt like an eternity, he was reunited with the only person he had ever truly cared for. And now, holding you in his arms, he felt a sense of peace he hadn’t known in years.

The autumn air in Haddonfield was sharp, carrying the scent of decaying leaves and chimney smoke. You pulled your jacket tighter, your boots crunching against the gravel as you cut through the empty lot toward home.

The streetlights flickered, casting long shadows that danced across the cracked pavement. It was late—too late to be walking alone, but your shift at the diner had run over, and the bus was long gone.

You didn't hear him. No one ever did. Michael Myers moved like a wraith, a shadow stitched into the fabric of the night. The first sign of his presence was the prickle at the back of your neck, that instinctive alarm that something was wrong. You stopped, breath catching, and turned slowly.

He was there, standing at the edge of the lot, motionless. The white mask gleamed under the moonlight, its hollow eyes fixed on you. The butcher knife in his hand caught the faint glow of a distant streetlamp, its blade stained with something dark and wet.

Your heart lurched, but your feet stayed rooted. Running would be pointless. You'd heard the stories—Haddonfield's boogeyman didn't chase. He caught.

"Who are you?" you asked, voice steady despite the tremor in your chest. A stupid question, maybe, but silence felt worse.

He didn't answer. He never did. Instead, he tilted his head, just slightly, like a predator sizing up prey. But there was something else in that tilt, something… curious.

You should've been screaming, sobbing, begging for your life like the others. That's what he expected—what he wanted. But you didn't. Your eyes met the black voids of his mask, and though your pulse thundered, you held your ground.

"Why me?" you pressed, taking a cautious step back. Your voice wavered now, but not from fear—it was defiance, a spark of anger at being hunted like an animal. "What do you want?"

Michael took a step forward, matching your retreat. The knife hung loosely at his side, but his grip tightened, knuckles whitening beneath the grime. He was close now, close enough that you could smell the faint metallic tang of blood on him, mixed with something earthier, like damp soil. His breathing was slow, deliberate, audible through the mask. Each exhale seemed to pull at the air around you, drawing you into his orbit.

You should've run. You should've screamed. But something in you—some reckless, stupid part—refused to break. "I'm not afraid of you," you lied, chin lifting. "You're just a man under that mask. Not a monster."

His head tilted again, sharper this time as if your words had struck something deep, something dormant. The knife twitched in his hand, but he didn't raise it. Instead, he stepped closer, towering over you, his shadow swallowing yours.

You could feel the weight of his stare, heavy and unyielding like he was peeling back your skin to see what made you tick.

And then, impossibly, he stopped. He didn't strike, didn't lunge. He just… watched. The silence stretched, thick with tension, until your legs burned with the urge to bolt. But you didn't. You couldn't. Not when those empty eyes held you in place, pinning you like a butterfly to a board.

Days passed, and Haddonfield whispered. Another body had been found, torn apart in an alley not far from the lot. But you were still here, still breathing. You told yourself it was luck, a fluke. Michael Myers didn't spare people. He didn't choose. Yet every night, as you walked home from the diner, you felt it—that prickle, that weight. He was there, somewhere, watching.

You started noticing things. A shadow lingering too long at the edge of your vision. The faint creak of a floorboard outside your door at 3 a.m. A smudged handprint on your window, too large to be yours. You should've called the police, packed a bag, and left town. But something kept you here, tethered to this cursed place. Maybe it was fear. Perhaps it was something darker, something you couldn't name.

One night, you found a knife on your kitchen counter. Not yours. It was old and rusted, with a handle worn smooth by use. Your breath hitched as you picked it up, the weight heavy in your hand. Maybe it was a message. A gift. A warning. You didn't know which, but you kept it, tucking it into a drawer like a secret.

The next time you saw him, it was raining. You were closing up the diner, the neon sign buzzing faintly as you locked the door. He was across the street, standing under a broken streetlamp, water streaming off his mask like tears.

You froze, the key still in the lock. Your heart pounded, but there was that spark again—defiance, curiosity, something reckless. "What do you want from me?" you called out, voice cutting through the rain. "Why won't you just do it?"

He didn't move. The rain plastered his coveralls to his body, outlining the broad, unyielding shape of him. For a moment, you thought he might turn and vanish into the storm. But then he crossed the street, slow and deliberate, his boots splashing through puddles. You backed against the door, the glass cold against your spine, but you didn't run.

He stopped a foot away, close enough that you could see the faint scratches on his mask, the way the rain caught in the creases. His head tilted again, that same curious angle, and you realized something: he wasn't just watching you. He was studying you. Like you were a puzzle, he couldn't solve. Like you were different.

"I don't know what you see in me," you whispered, barely audible over the rain. "But I'm not your prey."

His hand twitched, the one without the knife. For a heartbeat, you thought he might reach for you, might close the distance, and end it. But instead, he turned, melting back into the night as silently as he'd come.

Weeks turned into months, and the pattern held. Haddonfield bled, but you didn't. He was everywhere—outside your window, in the alley behind the diner, at the edge of the woods as you walked home. Always watching, always silent. You stopped locking your doors at night, not out of carelessness but because you knew it wouldn't matter. If he wanted in, no lock would stop him.

You started talking to him, in a way. Not out loud, not always, but in the quiet moments when you felt his presence. You'd sit on your couch, the knife from your drawer resting on the coffee table, and you'd wonder. What did he see in you? Why you, of all people? Was it your defiance, that spark that refused to flicker out? Or was it something else, something deeper, something even you didn't understand?

One night, you left a new knife on your porch, blade glinting under the moonlight. Could tell yourself if it was a test or even a dare. When you checked the next morning, it was gone. In its place was something new: a single, wilted flower, its petals bruised but intact. You stared at it, heart pounding, and realized you were smiling. Not out of fear, not out of relief, but something else entirely.

Halloween came, and Haddonfield locked its doors. You didn't. You sat on your porch, a cup of coffee in your hands, the air thick with the scent of pumpkins and fear. He appeared at the end of your street, a silhouette against the orange glow of jack-o'-lanterns. You didn't flinch. You didn't run.

He walked toward you, each step deliberate, the knife gleaming in his hand. The neighborhood was silent, the trick-or-treaters long gone. It was just you and him, the world holding its breath.

When he reached your porch, he stopped. The mask stared down at you, unreadable, but you felt it— that pull, that fascination. You stood, setting your coffee aside, and met his gaze.

"I'm still here," you said, voice low but firm. "You haven't taken me. You won't."

His head tilted, slower this time, almost… approving. The knife lowered just an inch, and you felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. He was close now, closer than he'd ever been, and you could feel the heat radiating off him, the raw, unyielding presence of him.