#slashhack writes

“Are we almost there?”

Ash tightens her grip on the wheel, gritting her teeth. “We’re about twenty minutes closer since the last time you asked, but no, Damien, we are not ‘almost there.’”

“God, we’ve been driving forever!” Damien says, sighing heavily. His on again-off again (currently on again) girlfriend, Katelyn, nods emphatically in agreement.

“When are we gonna stop? I’m hungry, and I have to pee,” Katelyn whines.

Ash’s eye twitches. Next to her, in the passenger’s seat, Frankie fiddles with the road map. She seems unaware of the fact that Ash is contemplating driving into a tree to shut Katelyn and Damien up (in a way that doesn’t involve them subjecting the rest of you to gross make-out noises).

“Do we have any water?” You ask. Unfortunately, rather than diffuse the mounting tension, all your question does is shift Ash’s ire to you.

“No, we don’t,” Ash replies tightly. “Which wouldn’t be the case if someone had stocked up before we started, like they were supposed to.”

You sink a little lower in your seat.

Frankie reaches out to place a soothing hand on Ash’s knee. “Deep breaths, babe. There’s gotta be a gas station or a rest stop or something somewhere around here. We can stop in, grab some stuff, and get right back on the road.”

“Wouldn’t have to if everyone had just done their part in the first fucking place,” Ash mutters.

Damien snorts, barely attempting to disguise it as a cough. Katelyn outright laughs.

Needless to say, your spring break road trip with your dorm-mates is not going well. The past few hours have seen growing friction between all of you, and you’re almost certain that - despite the fact that one of the goals you’d made for this trip was to form positive relationships with the others - the rest of the group may or may not be planning on stranding you in the middle of nowhere.

(Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration. Sure, they may not seem to like you all that much, but they're not evil. They wouldn't leave you out in the middle of Texas with no way to get home.

...Right?)

At the first rest stop you find, you volunteer to get out and get coffee and breakfast bars for everyone (except Katelyn, who hates coffee). When you’re handing Ash hers, you lose your footing, and about a quarter of the fresh-brewed coffee sloshes onto her lap. Ash swears a blue streak, insulting you in pretty much every possible way. Frankie gives you a sympathetic look as she mops up the spill and consoles her girlfriend, but doesn’t say anything.

When Damien busts out his radio and asks what music everybody wants to hear, you tentatively offer a suggestion, and he ignores you. You repeat yourself, thinking that it’s possible he just didn’t hear you, and he rolls his eyes.

“I heard you, I just don’t wanna listen to some dumb bullshit.” He grins. “My radio, my right to veto garbage tunes, dude.”

Katelyn laughs. “Ooh, put on K-OKLA!”

Damien smiles crookedly and extends the antenna. “Anything for my girl.”

You decide to take a nap.

(At this point, anything is better than this.)

A good while later, after the stash of granola bars and beef jerky has dwindled down to nothing, you finally reach what appears to be a tiny general store in Travis County. You once again volunteer to go on a supply run. (You’re only mildly disappointed when nobody offers to come with you, or even to help you pay.)

The wooden door creaks as you enter, and when you cross the threshold you aren’t surprised to find a homey interior, complete with photographs and a taxidermied buck’s head mounted on the wall. There’s a woman with cat eye glasses smoking at the counter, so you approach with a shy smile.

“Um, do you have anything that comes in wrappers or is resealable?”

The woman takes a thoughtful drag from her cigarette before saying, “I got some jerky I can wrap up for ya.”

You nod, digging out the remainder of the money you had allotted to the trip. “That would be great. How much is that?”

Praying that what you’ve purchased is enough and having nearly depleted your funds, you step outside, plastic bag in hand. “Hey guys, I got some-”

The bag of jerky slips out of your hand.

The van is gone. In its place, you find your suitcase, laying in the dirt. Dumbstruck, you walk toward it.

You can't believe they ditched you. You thought they were better than that. You thought…

You aren't sure what you thought.

They're probably long gone, and now you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere. You don’t have a car, you have barely any money, and you certainly don’t have any idea what the hell you’re supposed to do.

Behind you, the door to the shop creaks open.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” It’s the woman from the shop.

Blinking hard, you say, “My friends left me.”

A gentle hand is placed on your back. “They left ya?” There’s a pause. Perhaps the woman sees your suitcase, because she says, softly, “Oh.”

You take a shuddering breath, and then bend down to pick up the bag. You turn to the woman.

“Is there anywhere I could stay in town?” Remembering the alarmingly small amount of money in your possession, you add, “...For really, really cheap?”

The woman shakes her head. “Ain’t much around for miles.” She hesitates. “But…”

Your breath catches. “But what?”

“Well…” The woman puts a hand on her hip, and with the other hand she adjusts her glasses. “I s’pose you’re welcome to stay with my family and me for the night. Just for the night, now,” she says pointedly. “Then tomorrow we can have the sheriff drive you to the next town over.”

You feel a fresh wave of emotion crash over you, and almost collapse under the weight of your relief.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” you say. Then you laugh. “Gosh, I don’t even know your name, and you’re being so kind to me…”

The woman smiles gently at you - the first time you can recall her smiling. “My name’s Luda Mae, dear.”

You offer your name in return, thanking Luda Mae again for her kindness.

Against all odds, it appears that your horrid luck is taking a turn for the better.

Luda Mae has two sons. She tells you about them as you help her close up shop and on the trip to her home - first about her eldest son, who sounds curmudgeonly and abrasive, but well-meaning when it comes down to it, and then about her younger son, Thomas. From the second she begins speaking about him, it’s obvious that she adores Thomas; you tell her so, and she nods.

“I love my boy with all my heart,” she says firmly. “Thomas has seen so much pain, all his life… Lord knows my Thomas has earned a little love.”

Luda Mae also tells you about her brother, Monty. She doesn’t have much to say about him, other than that he’s in a wheelchair and that you aren’t to let him bother you.

“You’re a guest, and we treat our guests with respect. If he starts actin’ up, you just let me know,” she gives you a little pat on the arm.

You smile bashfully. “I will.”

When you finally make it to Luda Mae’s family home, you’re curious, but not shocked; you’re a big believer in not judging people based on their appearances, after all. Why would a little old lady, running a mom-and-pop general store, living in a plantation style manor with her family throw you for a loop?

Entering the house, you immediately see an old man in a wheelchair - Monty, you presume - sitting in the living room watching television. He looks up at the sound of the opening door, doing a double-take when he spots you.

“Who the hell’re you? What’re you doin’ in here?” He makes to wheel himself around.

“Now, Monty, don’t you start none,” Luda Mae says. “This here’s a guest of ours. Stayin’ with us for the night, that’s all.”

“What for?”

Luda Mae looks at you, nodding as though to give you encouragement. Taking that as a cue, you say, “My dorm-mates - we were on a road trip, and I got out to buy some food for everyone. By the time I left the store, they were gone. I found my suitcase laying on the ground outside.”

Monty is silent for a moment, as though he’s mulling over your situation. Finally, he shakes his head and turns back to the television, muttering, “Hoyt ain’t gon’ like it…”

Luda Mae scoffs, putting her hands on her hips. “Don’t matter none what Hoyt likes, this is my house, and he ain’t too old yet to listen to his mama.”

Monty doesn’t have a response to that.

You feel your respect for Luda Mae growing more and more by the second.

Luda Mae gives you a brief tour of the house after showing you the guest room, in which you’ll be staying for the night. She walks you through the kitchen, points out a couple of different bathrooms, and tells you where her room is - “just in case of you findin’ yourself needin’ somethin’.” She also, strangely, makes a point to tell you to avoid the basement. You’re curious, but you don’t want to be rude, so you don’t ask why. You do ask if her sons live with her.

“They do. Hoyt’s the sheriff, so he ain’t gonna be home for a while, but Thomas is probably down in the basement. Doin’ what, I couldn’t tell ya, but he just about lives down there.”

Well, that answers your unspoken question, then.

“Don’t you worry,” She continues, “you’ll be meetin’ Thomas and Hoyt. Wanna make sure they know you’re a guest - ‘specially Thomas. He’s a little bit protective.”

Once again not wanting to risk seeming rude, you nod as though you understand. (In truth, you’ve got even more questions now, but you’re not going to interrogate this nice woman in her own home. After all, if there was really a problem with you staying, you’re pretty sure she wouldn’t have invited you.)

Luda Mae is in the middle of asking how you feel about stew when you hear what sounds like a sliding metal door being opened. She gets a slightly nervous look on her face; she lifts a hand to her mouth and says, “Oh, that’ll be Thomas.” She glances at you for a moment before calling, “Thomas! C’mere a second, I got somebody for ya to meet!”

You hear footsteps coming towards you from the direction of the basement. They’re fairly heavy - Thomas must be a sizeable man.

After a brief pause, a figure - a very tall figure - comes to loom in the doorway.

Luda Mae clicks her tongue, putting a hand on her hip. “Don’t be shy, now. C’mon in here.”

Thomas’ shoulders rise and sink slowly in what you suspect to be an inaudible sigh, but he obeys, stepping further into the room. Now, you have a clear view of him.

He’s easily around six and a half feet tall, with long, wavy dark hair that reaches his shoulders. Curiously, he’s also wearing a strange leather muzzle-like contraption that encompasses much of his face; it shows his eyes and mouth, but covers his nose, ears, and most of his skin, and the straps come up over his ears, meeting over the top of his head.

Smiling and giving a little wave, you say, “Hello,” and tell him your name.

You think he gives a short incline of his head, but he doesn’t reply. He looks you over, and you can feel yourself starting to shrink under his silent gaze.

Luda Mae puts a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t worry none. Thomas just ain’t a talker; don’t take it personal,” she gives you a reassuring little pat, and you relax again.

Luda Mae’s attention drifts to the clock on the wall, and she does a double-take. “Good gracious me, is that the time? I best get supper goin’. Stew is all right, you said?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am!” You say, nodding. “Stew is more than all right with me.”

“Good, good,” Luda Mae turns to Thomas and says, “Sweetheart, you mind keepin’ our guest company ‘til Hoyt gets back? Don’t want him to think we got trespassers.”

Thomas gives a single, slow incline of his head.

Luda Mae seems pleased. As she goes to leave, she pats you on the shoulder and says, “I’ll leave y’all be, then. Don’t you worry; you’re in good hands.”

As his mother rushes off to the kitchen, Thomas gives you an unreadable look, surveying you once again. Apparently satisfied with whatever he sees, he turns around and begins to walk off. You assume that you’re supposed to follow him, so you do.

Thomas leads you outside, and the two of you walk for a bit, toward a small garage which stands separate from the house. When he reaches the entrance, Thomas stops, looking back at you over his shoulder for a moment.

It dawns on you, after a moment, what he wants.

“You want me to wait here?”

Thomas nods.

You smile. “All right, then.”

Thomas goes into the garage. You hear the sounds of metal scraping and what you presume to be things getting moved around. You’re beyond curious as to what’s going on, but you resist the urge to crane your neck and try to see. Thomas asked you to stay back for a reason, after all.

After a few minutes, the sounds stop, and Thomas returns, a sack hefted over his shoulder. He gestures with his head for you to resume following him, and you do so without argument.

“Where are we going?” You ask without thinking. Thomas gives you a look out the corner of his eye, and you feel warmth rise in your cheeks. “Sorry.”

You’ve never encountered someone who can’t speak before. You wonder what it must be like, not being able to verbally communicate. You imagine it must be very difficult.

The two of you walk for a good while longer before reaching a fence that you assume marks the edge of the Hewitts’ property. Thomas grunts, swinging the bag off his shoulder and opening it.

He walks a couple of feet along the fence before pulling out - to your surprise - a bear trap, which he places on the ground, kneeling down to set it.

“Is there… Is there any way I could help?” You ask, startling yourself. Thomas seems to be nearly as caught off guard as you; he glances at you, his brows furrowed. After a moment (during which you consider rescinding the offer, just out of embarrassment), Thomas nods shortly. He picks up the burlap sack and holds it out to you. You accept it, surprised when its weight nearly topples you; Thomas had been carrying it so effortlessly, you hadn’t realised how heavy it must be.

You’re not sure how long you spend following Thomas around the property, setting new traps, checking old traps, and sometimes just stopping to look out over the vast space, but you do know that by the time the bag is empty, your feet are starting to hurt. After the bag is empty and you’ve covered every square inch of the Hewitts’ land, Thomas leads you back to the garage, once more indicating for you to wait outside as he takes the sack from you and goes in.

As you wait for Thomas to return, a sheriff’s car pulls up to the house. A man in a sheriff’s uniform, with bushy eyebrows and light, silvery stubble, gets out. When he sees you leaning up against the outside of the garage, he immediately starts toward you. Taking a moment to recall what you know about Luda Mae’s eldest son, Hoyt, you realise that this must be him.

You smile, waving a bit. To your confusion (and discomfort), this seems to cause Hoyt’s expression to sour considerably. He’s yelling as soon as he’s within earshot of you: “What the hell’re you doin’ on my property?”

You shrink back against the wall, your eyes widening. “I-I…”

“Get the hell outta here,” Hoyt shouts, advancing on you quickly. “You’re trespassin’ on private property! You don’t get outta here right now, I got a right to shoot ya!”

“P-Please, no! I’m not- I swear I’m not trespassing, I, I-”

Hoyt makes a grab for your forearm with one hand, the other lifting up, and you stiffen, squeezing your eyes shut, preparing yourself for a blow.

Only it never comes.

Opening your eyes, you suddenly find something - or rather, someone - obscuring your field of vision. Thomas.

“Tommy? What the hell’s goin’ on here,” Hoyt growls. “We got trespassers?”

Thomas shakes his head firmly. He reaches back and tugs you forward to stand next to him, placing a heavy hand on your shoulder.

You can see, now, that Hoyt looks bewildered.

Thomas nudges you, and you realise now is your chance to explain yourself.

“I-I,” you pause, take a deep breath, and then continue with as much conviction as you can muster. “I’m not a trespasser, I’m a guest. L-Luda Mae invited me to stay for the night after my… my dorm-mates abandoned me.”

Hoyt doesn’t seem convinced, but just as he opens his mouth, Luda Mae’s voice floats across the yard from the backdoor: “Supper’s ready! Y’all come on!”

“Comin’, Mama!” Hoyt calls back reluctantly. To you, he says, “We’ll just see about that, won’t we, now?” With that, he stalks off toward the house.

You watch him go until the door closes behind him. When it does, you let loose a shaky breath, lifting a hand to your mouth.

Thomas is still standing next to you. His hand is still resting on your shoulder, the strangely familiar weight helping you stay grounded.

“Thank you, Thomas,” you say softly, almost timidly. “Thank you for protecting me. That was…” You sigh. “...That was really scary.”

Thomas seems unsure how to respond. He nods, his eyes avoiding your face.

He doesn’t remove the hand from you shoulder. You find that you don’t really mind.

You reach up hesitantly, placing your hand on top of his and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Let’s go inside,” you say.

Thomas nods again, and the two of you set off for the house.

Michael is definitely going to be sort of restrictive with a small S/O

Unlike Jason, he absolutely has doubts about whether you’re capable of protecting yourself

He’s also 100% the kind of tall person who unintentionally flaunts their tallness

He put things on high shelves for organisational purposes and makes them impossible for you to get to

He’s almost accidentally elbowed you in the head so many times you’ve lost count

The point is, he’s gonna get on your nerves. (A lot.)

Instead of, say, punching him, try to see things from his perspective

He’s a serial killer who has interacted with some pretty capable people, and still managed to kill them without a problem 

Of course he’s gonna see you, a small, untrained civilian with rudimentary self-defence skills at best, and immediately decide you’re never going anywhere alone again

Plus, it’s not like he doesn’t show that he cares in other ways

He lets you mother him without complaint, for example, even though he could easily get out of it if he wanted to

He’ll also, on occasion, actively cuddle you

(This happens more frequently in the winter when you complain about being cold, because you both know he has heat to spare. Michael is a human furnace)

Most of the time when it comes to affection, he’s pretty malleable

By which I mean you can literally grab him by the collar and pull him down to kiss him on the cheek if he’s in a good mood, and he won’t mind

Otherwise, he makes it clear that he’s not in the mood for it by just. Not budging

Remember when I said he’d be restrictive? That’s not quite the right word for it

He lets you do pretty much whatever you want, but he doesn’t really like you going out on your own

When he’s not out, y’know, doing what he does best, he probably follows you around at a distance to make sure that nothing happens to you

At first it’s kind of annoying, as you might imagine

Yet another person who thinks you can’t handle yourself just because you’re short? Yikes

Smith’s Grove Sanitarium is a large, white, looming building, surrounded by a mile-high fence topped with barbed wire. Its clinical, unfriendly atmosphere is reflected in the stark cleanliness of the staff’s uniforms - all bleached-white, buttoned-up perfection. It’s almost laughable how clearly out of place you are, with your worn blue sweater and wrinkled trousers. As you wait to be let in at the front, you scuff the toe of your shoe against the polished linoleum floor, adjusting the knapsack (which has already been thoroughly searched) slung over your shoulder.

“All right, you’re good to go,” the nurse behind the window says, pressing a button to buzz you in. “There’s a waiting area just around the corner to the left.”

You smile and nod gratefully as you enter.

The hall is empty, save for you. You turn the corner, and just as the nurse said, there’s a small alcove in the wall in which there are several chairs and a small table on which a stack of magazines is haphazardly scattered. You amble toward the nearest chair and sit gingerly.

According to the clock on the wall, nearly fifteen minutes pass before you see another person. It’s a man, dressed professionally in a dark suit with a white coat over it. When he sees you, he smiles and offers his hand.

“Ah, terribly sorry to have kept you waiting,” he says. “I’m Dr Samuel Loomis.”

You stand and shake his hand, returning the smile. “Right; we spoke on the phone.”

Dr Loomis nods. “We did, yes. If you’ll follow me, I’ll introduce you to the patient.”

Dr Loomis leads you through the winding halls, occasionally nodding in acknowledgement at other nurses and doctors. He eventually comes to a stop outside of a door in the maximum security wing, turning to you with a very solemn look.

“In our previous discussion, you insisted you wanted to be alone with him after the initial introduction. Is this still the case?”

You nod decisively. “It is. I don’t want him to feel like it’s some sort of test; from what you’ve told me, he’s less likely to respond if you’re in there.”

Dr Loomis’ brows arch. “If your aim is to coax out a verbal response, you may as well leave now; he hasn’t spoken a single word in the thirteen years he’s been here.”

You shake your head. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I’m aware of the fact that he doesn’t speak, I’m just aiming to get him out of the - how did you phrase it? ‘Near-catatonic state?’ And even if he doesn’t respond, well… Everyone needs company sometimes, or else they really will go crazy.”

Dr Loomis looks at you doubtfully, but doesn’t say anything more on the matter. He sticks his ID into the slot next to the door, waiting for the red light to turn green. The door unlocks with a long, loud buzzing sound, and he pulls the handle just enough to ensure that the automatic lock won’t engage.

“Right this way,” he says, gesturing for you to follow him.

As he enters the room, Dr Loomis softly calls Michael’s name, as though he’s approaching a wild animal and trying not to frighten it. “Michael, you’ve got a visitor.”

The room is a white, just as the rest of the building is, and it’s sterile in both appearance and smell. Michael is sitting at a table in the centre of the room. His hands are on the table, his empty gaze focused on the wall. He doesn’t react in the slightest to your presence.

Dr Loomis looks at you and nods subtly.

“Hello, Michael,” you say with a wave. You introduce yourself casually, as you would to any other person. “I’m just here to talk to you for a little while. I hope that’s all right.”

Michael doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even acknowledge you.

Dr Loomis clears his throat. “Well, I’ll leave you be. I’ll send someone in to let you know when your time is up.”

You nod your understanding, and Dr Loomis leaves the room, glancing back over his shoulder just before he shuts the door. After he’s gone, you smile, moving to sit in the chair across the table from Michael.

“So, uh,” you say, putting your bag on the floor. “I just wanted to tell you I’m not a psychologist, or a doctor, or anything like that. This isn’t a therapy session or a test; I’m just here because I… heard about what happened, and how you don’t get any visitors. If I was stuck in a place like this, all alone, for as long as you have been… I’d be pretty lonely.”

Michael continues to stare, his eyes locked on a point somewhere over your shoulder.

“I heard that you liked Halloween. I brought, um,” you reach down, rummaging through your knapsack and pulling out a Ziploc bag, which you place in the middle of the table. “I brought some candy, since it’s almost that time, and I figure you don’t get a lot of stuff like that around here.” You smile nervously. “I-It’s a little silly, I know, but… Well, there’s not a lot of things I’m allowed to bring. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to eat it, obviously. I just grabbed a variety of things because I had no idea what you like; maybe if there’s something you’d like me to bring again next time you could leave the wrappers out for the nurses and I’ll know to get more of it?”

Michael’s fingers twitch. His head shifts minutely, both turning in your direction and cocking slightly to the side, but if you hadn’t been watching when it happened, you probably wouldn’t even have noticed.

Your smile steadies, just a bit.

You continue speaking to Michael for the full hour that you were allotted. Not about anything in particular; you talk about the trip to Smith’s Grove (the drive is pretty long, but getting to take a trip through the picturesque countryside more than makes up for it) and how frequently you’ll be visiting (because of the distance, you can’t make the trip every day; rather, you plan to visit once or twice a week, primarily on weekends). By the time a nurse comes in to let you know your time is up, you’ve long since given up hope of eliciting any more response from Michael, but based on the progress you made that day, you decide to count it as a success.

You leave Smith’s Grove with a smile on your face.

Later that day, you get a call from Dr Loomis.

“It seems that Michael accepted your gift.”

You brighten, a broad grin spreading across your face. “Oh?”

“Indeed. One of the evening nurses found candy wrappers in the bin in his room, and there were a select few on the nightstand next to his bed.”

You straighten up. Grabbing the pen and notepad you keep next to your landline and holding the phone to your ear with your shoulder, you say, “Which ones?”

As soon as you hang up the phone, you make a trip to the nearest convenience store.

Honestly Jason probably worries about you a lot

He’d prefer for you to keep close to home, and not go out for too long on your own

He knows you can take care of yourself, that’s not what it’s about

The world is a scary place though

He just doesn’t want anything to happen to you, and you’d probably understand why he worries

When you’re both together, picture a lot of physical closeness; most of the slashers strike me as touch-starved, but Jason especially

Jason is one of the most cuddly people on the planet 

10/10 would spoon

He’s not the warmest, but he is very soft, and his largeness makes him a great big spoon

He also really likes holding hands and does it at any opportunity

His hands are big and strong!! Perfect for holding onto!!

This boy takes the buddy system very seriously

You will never ever get separated from him 

Also: nothing will ever be too high up when Jason is around

He’s the type of person who doesn’t box you in when he’s retrieving something for you; he’d probably stand next to you and reach over

Since you guys are living in the woods, Jason probably tries to teach you how to chop wood and hunt and stuff

(You might have to persuade him a bit, because he’d probably be a little wary of you hurting yourself, but ultimately he trusts you)

How well it goes depends on you, but no matter what he’s gonna be proud of you for trying

Whether or not you need it, Jason is going to take on the role of protector when it comes to you, without a doubt

Try not to see this as him being controlling or overbearing

Oh boy, where to begin

Firstly, Bubba is rarely going to let you leave the house by yourself

Going out at night is completely out of the question

If you go into town he’d much prefer Drayton or one of the others accompany you than have you go alone

Considering that he’s been brought up to think that all strangers pose a threat to his well-being, you can kinda see why Bubba would be hesitant to let you possibly endanger yourself

Especially since there’s not much you’d have to leave for; Drayton is the breadwinner, and food usually comes to you

To be totally honest, you don’t want to go out much

You’d rather stay home with Bubba and the chickens

Speaking of being home with Bubba: hoo boy

Prepare to be smothered in affection

Hand-holding, hugs, whatever positive touch you can imagine, it probably goes on constantly

Touch-starved is Bubba’s first middle name, and Anxious is his second 

He’s gonna need constant reassurance that you’re okay

Bubba is a worrier by nature, after all

He’s most likely going to be nervous at first about sharing a bed or cuddling

You worry for a while that maybe he just isn’t interested in being close to you, but it’s more about his size and how he doesn’t know his own strength than anything else

He doesn’t want to accidentally hurt you!! 

That’s one of his biggest fears honestly, that he’ll hurt you on accident and then you won’t want to be around him anymore

You may or may not get a little defencive at first

You’re not a big fan of being treated like you’re fragile, and as a smaller person you’ve probably been on the receiving end of that sort of treatment plenty of times before

But you know that, obviously, Bubba doesn’t think that you’re weak or can’t take care of yourself; he’s just too damn gentle with you for his own good

Once you help him get over his fears and prove to him that nothing bad will happen, he’s never gonna want to sleep alone again

The first time Michael sees you, you’re just getting home after a visit to the grocery store

You’re balancing several bags on your knee, shoulder lifted to press a phone to your ear, unlocking your door as you talk to whomever is on the other side

There’s something about you that draws Michael in, similar to the pull that marks a victim and yet so different

That urge that constantly burns inside him is quieter; all that remains is the desire to watch, to follow

This change makes him uncomfortable, because Michael doesn’t like deviating from what he’s familiar with, and that urge is the most familiar thing he’s ever known

He decides that he’ll just continue to watch you until the urge comes back, and then he’ll kill you

The thing is, it doesn’t come back, and the more he watches you, the more intriguing you start to become

You don’t seem to have any set schedule, any daily rituals or tasks, but there are things that you do constantly that Michael slowly starts to pick up

Maybe one of your nervous habits is tapping a particular rhythm, and one day Michael finds himself tapping it out against his thigh

You aren’t the only one he stalks, of course; you’re the only one who is apparently safe from his urge to kill, but he doesn’t only watch you

He just has something of an affinity for you, which despite the amount of thought he’s given it he still can’t explain

After a while, he starts getting careless 

Even though he can anticipate that you’re about to turn around and potentially spot him watching outside your window, he hesitates just a second too long before slipping back into the shadows

That second of hesitation ends up being just enough to get your attention

You look out your window for a good minute and a half before ultimately deciding nobody is outside, and Michael is almost... disappointed

You’ve grown quite good over the years at keeping mental checklists; your memory is something of a point of pride for you, and it greatly increases your ability to keep up with your supplies. Right now, you’re running through one such list for the nth time, just to make absolutely sure that you have everything you’re going to need. Once you’re satisfied, you sling your pack over your shoulders and shut the trunk of your car, making your way toward the path that you’d picked out.

Nobody has visited Crystal Lake in years, and that’s precisely the reason you chose this location for your hike; fewer people means less noise and more time to catalogue the interesting flora and fauna you see. (It also helps that you don’t happen to work here, so you’re free from the distraction of playing tour guide to people who can’t seem to grasp that ‘no flash photography’ means no flash photography.)

You’re not stupid, of course. You know the reason nobody dares come near this place; you’ve heard the stories just like everyone else has. But you also happen to be a pretty skilled hiker with a can of bear mace on your key chain, so you don’t feel unsafe going on a hike in the middle of the day, no matter what anyone says about the area.

Shaking the nagging thoughts from your mind, you take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of pine and earth. Then, you start walking.

After a couple of hours, you find yourself by the lakeside, looking out over the glittering water. Stopping to rest, you pull out your journal and start sketching a small sample of Ceanothus americanus you found.

You’re nearly done with the sketch when you see a figure in the distance.

Huh. That’s weird, I didn’t see anyone on my way up here...

You tuck your journal away and slip your pack back on over your shoulders, eyebrows furrowing as you squint into the distance, hand shading your eyes from the sun. Now that you’re really looking, you can see that the mysterious individual appears to be carrying something. Something big.

Curiosity beating out your apprehension, you start making your way around the lake.

The mysterious individual - who you’ve surmised, at this point, is a man, just based on height and body shape - doesn’t seem to take notice of the fact that he’s being followed, even after about fifteen minutes; his pace is so leisurely that you’re able to catch up to him pretty easily, but you make sure to stay a reasonable distance away, as though you’re tracking an animal.

At some point, once you can no longer see the lake and are fairly deep into the surrounding woods, you step on a rather decently-sized stick. It’s dry and brittle enough that it snaps in two under your boot, and the sound echoes through the trees.

The man immediately stops and turns around.

You have to bite back a gasp when you see what he’s holding.

“Oh my god, what happened?” You babble, dashing forward to examine the heavily injured dog in the man’s arms. “Oh... Oh, poor puppy.” Your bring your eyes up to glare at the man. You note that he’s wearing a hockey mask, yellowed with age, and file that information away for later; there are more pressing matters to attend to at the moment. “Did you do this?”

He seems taken aback. You have to remind yourself that you were, sort of, stalking him; of course he’s surprised when someone just appeared out of nowhere and accused him of hurting an innocent animal. After a moment, he shakes his head.

You swing your bag off your shoulder and begin rifling through it. “I have some spray-on Neosporin in here somewhere...” Glancing up quickly, you say, “Oh, shit, here,” and take off your jacket, laying it across the ground. You point at it before beginning to search for the Neosporin again. “Lay her down there, and if she tries to move, hold her still.

Still seeming a bit fazed, the man kneels and gently lays the dog down on your jacket. She whines, moving her head to look up at you piteously.

Once you find the little bottle of Neosporin, your move to kneel opposite the man.

“This might sting, so if she tries to get up, don’t let her. She might hurt herself worse,” you say. The man nods.

You spray the salve on the dog’s wounds with little difficulty; they’re probably superficial, but you don’t want to assume that, because they could be worse than they look.

After you’re done, you sit back on your heels and direct your attention to the man. “I’m not familiar with this area. Is there an animal clinic anywhere near here that we could take her to?” He cocks his head at you, and you flush, though you aren’t sure why. Feeling the need to explain yourself, you add, “Just to have her checked out and make sure that her injuries aren’t worse than they look.”

He nods, slowly at first and then more forcefully in what you presume is meant to be an answer to your question, carefully gathering the dog up in his arms and looking at you expectantly. (You think it’s expectant, anyway. It’s hard to tell when he’s wearing a hockey mask.)

You realise, after a few seconds, that he’s waiting for you to lead the way back to your car.

“We’ll have to move fast, but you need to make sure you don’t jostle her too much. She’s already in enough pain as it is.”

The man nods again.

You pause for a beat. “And I’m driving. You can sit in the front and tell me where to go, but it’s my car.”

Another nod.

“...You don’t talk much, huh?”

He shakes his head.

Halloween has always been your favourite holiday. When you were a kid, it was about trick-or-treating - though, oddly, you were less focused on the candy and more on putting together the perfect costume to scare the pants off your friends and neighbours - but as you grew older, it was all about the rush you got from being frightened. Your fascination with the horror genre began when you were around ten, and it’s persisted until the present day.

This year is a little different from more recent years, in that you won’t be holed up in your room, hunching over your laptop and eating an entire bowl of popcorn by yourself; instead, you’ll be spending your night in the living room of the Sawyer family home. There will still be popcorn, you won’t get a crick in your neck from several hours of terrible posture, and you’ll get to snuggle with Bubba on the couch, so it’s perfect.

Until you actually tell Bubba what your plans are.

His eyes go comically wide, and he shakes his head ‘no,’ whimpering softly.

Your eyebrows furrow. “Bubba, they’re just movies. I watch them every year, it’s one of my favourite Halloween traditions. I’ll be right there with you.”

Bubba fidgets, quite obviously conflicted.

You wouldn’t normally argue the point if he didn’t want to do it, but it means a lot to you, and you think he can tell; after about a minute and a half of silence, he huffs and grabs your hand.

You beam, standing on your toes and using your other arm to pull him into a hug. “Thank you, Bubba.”

He chatters obligingly at you and pats your back gently with one hand.

Drawing back, you say, “I’m gonna make some popcorn. You can set up the couch if you want.” 

You kiss him on the cheek before you leave, and he chirps happily.

Once the popcorn has been made and the throw pillows carefully arranged for maximum comfort, the two of you settle in, a blanket spread over your legs and the popcorn bowl in your lap. Bubba hands you the remote, and you flip through channels until you find the right one, biting your lip. You light up after a few seconds.

“Ooh, I’ve seen this one! It’s one of my favourites! We’re lucky, it just started so we haven’t missed any of the good stuff!”

Bubba nods, staring at the TV. You can tell he’s trying to put on a brave face, and it makes your heart melt.

You reach out and squeeze his arm gently, drawing his gaze to you.

“Don’t worry, big guy. It’s just a movie; nothin’ to be afraid of, okay?”

He nods again. You let your arm fall back to rest on your leg, your attention fully focused on the screen.

A quarter of the way into a fourth movie, you’ve started letting out jaw-popping yawns, so you decide it’s time to call it quits. You turn your head, mouth opening to tell Bubba you’re going to call it a night, and your heart skips a beat at what you see.

He’s clutching tightly at a pillow, peeking around it timidly and trying to make himself as small as his towering frame will allow in order to hide behind it. The wet sound of someone being stabbed, followed by a sharp scream, comes from the TV, and he flinches, but despite the fact that he’s frightened, he doesn’t look away.

Reaching out and gently laying a hand on his shoulder - slowly so as not to spook him even more - you say, “I think I’ve had enough for one night. Ready for bed?”

He nods eagerly, ducking his head to hide behind his hand-embroidered shield with a whimper. You can’t help but chuckle at this, rubbing his back gently with one hand and reaching out to press the power button on the remote with the other. Once he’s sure that the bloody scene is no longer playing, Bubba finally feels safe to emerge, though he still holds the pillow close to his chest. You decide you’ve put him through enough, so you’ll handle clean-up yourself.

As you clean up the remnants of your two-person watch party, Bubba hovers anxiously at your side. He fidgets with his fingers while you fold the blanket and fluff the pillows. You’re forced to wash the popcorn bowl out one-handed because he seizes your other one as soon as you leave the living room. You might ordinarily be a little annoyed, but you can’t bring yourself to be; not when it’s sort of your fault in the first place, and certainly not with Bubba. So you humour him, even going as far as to walk him to his room and tuck him in, with a kiss on the forehead and everything.

“Night, Bubba. I love you.”

With that, you make your way toward the guest bedroom, which (despite the fact that it’s still called ‘the guest bedroom’) is actually your room, now. You brush your teeth in the hall bathroom, change into your pyjamas, and slip under the covers with a sigh.

You wake up to the sound of your door creaking open, and despite your grogginess, your heart begins to pound. 

It’s too dark to see who it is, so you call out a soft, hesitant, “Hello?”

You’re answered by a soft whimper, and the tension in your body immediately melts away.

“Bubba?” You sit up and reach over to your bedside table, switching your lamp on. “What’s the matter?”

He whimpers again, shifting in place, and the floorboards creak under his feet. You wrack your sleep-addled brain for any reason that Bubba would be in your room in the middle of the night, and then barely keep from smacking yourself in the forehead when you realise, because it’s pretty obvious.

“Did you have a bad dream?”

Bubba sniffles softly and nods hesitantly.

“You wanna sleep in here with me tonight?”

He nods again.

You move over to the other side of the bed, patting the empty space. “C’mere.”

He shuts the door behind him and crosses the room, slipping under the covers with practised ease and curling up.

You lean across him to turn the lamp off, and then lay back down, reaching blindly and taking hold of his hand, rubbing circles into the back of it with your thumb.

“Y’know, if you wanted to cuddle, all you had to do was ask,” you say jokingly. He titters sleepily, turning to press his face into your neck.