Halloween

Haddonfield, Illinois. October 31, 1979.

The high school gym glows with orange paper lanterns and cheap strings of lights. A community Halloween dance is underway, loud enough to make the old windows tremble. Beyond them, the parking lot lies under a thin wash of moonlight. One year has passed since Michael Myers vanished. The town has put up decorations anyway.

Near the west doors, a volunteer in a knitted pumpkin hat checks the latch, then checks it again. A few moments ago, she noticed the door standing open. Now she turns to the person nearest it, keeping her voice low beneath the music.

“Did you see anyone come through here?”

Before she can say more, the lights blink out. The gym falls quiet for one suspended beat. Somewhere outside, a car alarm starts wailing.

The emergency lights flicker on. The west doors are shut. Across the parking lot, a tall figure stands beside the tree line, perfectly still beneath the bare branches. A passing headlight sweeps over the spot, and the figure is gone.

The volunteer grips the flashlight in her hand. From the far end of the gym, someone calls for the sheriff. The music remains silent, and the west doors wait between the crowd and the dark.

Haddonfield County, Illinois. Halloween night, 1989.

The station's radio keeps losing the broadcast beneath a wash of static. The announcer's last clear words were about a disturbance at the Haddonfield police station, then a warning for drivers to stay off the rural roads. A paper jack-o'-lantern taped to the window shivers each time a truck passes.

The attendant has locked the front door, but a customer is still inside. A payphone hangs beside the ice machine outside. When it rings, the sound cuts through the empty lot.

The attendant looks to the stranger near the counter, voice tight. “If that's the sheriff, tell him the highway's blocked. If it's anybody else, don't open that door.”

The ringing stops. A moment later, the front windows catch two headlights turning off the road. They sweep across the pumps, then go dark. No engine follows. Beyond the glass, a broad figure in a pale mask stands beside the payphone, one hand lifted toward the receiver.

The radio crackles back to life with a burst of police chatter. Somewhere behind the station, a metal door slams.

The attendant reaches beneath the counter, then pauses, watching the masked figure through the glass. “You know another way out of here?”

Haddonfield, Illinois. October 31, 1995.

The town's Halloween decorations look tired in the cold drizzle. On the radio, a late-night host takes a call from a frightened woman who insists someone is following her. The station cuts to music before she can give an address. The phone lines are busy, the police band is worse, and every few minutes another car speeds past with its headlights off.

At the edge of a closed strip mall, a payphone rings beneath a flickering orange sign. A clerk inside the all-night laundromat turns the deadbolt and points toward the phone, unwilling to step out.

“Someone left a message for you,” the clerk says through the glass. “I don't know who. I just know that phone wasn't ringing a second ago.”

The receiver dangles from its cradle. On the wet pavement beneath it lies a child's paper mask, torn cleanly down the middle. Across the lot, between the parked cars, a tall figure in dark coveralls stands perfectly still. The blank white face turns toward the laundromat.

The clerk snatches up a flashlight. The lights inside the store flicker once, then go out. The figure is no longer between the cars.

From somewhere beyond the darkened windows comes a slow, deliberate scrape against the back door. The clerk keeps the flashlight trained on it, then glances toward the phone and the street beyond.

“Pick one,” they whisper. “Call for help, or get us out before that door opens.”

Near Summer Glen, California. Halloween night, 1998.

The all-night service station is quiet except for the flicker of its fluorescent lights and the rattle of rain against the windows. A radio host is recapping the evening's costume parties when the broadcast breaks into static. Beyond the pumps, the two-lane road curves toward the hills and the gated grounds of a private school.

The attendant has been watching the road for nearly an hour. Now a car rolls into the lot with one headlight out. It stops beneath the canopy, but no one gets out. The attendant looks toward the person inside the station.

“That's the third car tonight that came in without a driver.”

The radio clicks back on. A caller mentions a power failure near the school, then the signal dissolves again. The car door opens with a slow creak. No one is visible in the driver's seat.

The attendant reaches for the telephone. Before they can lift the receiver, the lights go out. In the sudden dark, the bell over the station door gives a single bright chime.

When the emergency lamp sputters on, the front door is still shut. A tall figure in dark clothes stands beside the payphone outside, pale face turned toward the glass. The attendant backs away from the window.

“There's a highway patrol office ten minutes south,” they whisper. “The keys are under the register. What do we do?”

Smith's Grove Sanitarium, Illinois. Halloween night, 2002.

The television in the staff break room plays a local report about a crew preparing a live Halloween broadcast at the old Myers house. The reporter calls the place a tourist attraction now. A nurse turns the volume down and checks the clock. The night shift has been short-staffed all week.

Then the lights blink out.

The backup generator coughs awake, bringing the corridor lights back one by one. Somewhere beyond the locked ward, an alarm begins to pulse. A voice on the intercom asks for security at the east wing, then cuts off mid-sentence.

The nurse checks the door's narrow window. “That wing's supposed to be empty.”

A phone rings at the desk. No one answers it. A second later, the receiver lifts by itself, trailing its cord over the counter. Static whispers from the speaker, followed by a heavy, measured footstep in the corridor.

At the far end, a broad figure in dark coveralls stands beneath the failing lights. The blank face turns toward the break room. The nurse locks the door, but the latch does not catch.

“There's a service stairwell behind the records room,” the nurse says, voice barely audible. “If we can reach it, we might get out without crossing that hall.”

The alarm keeps pulsing. The figure begins to walk.

Haddonfield, Illinois. Halloween night, 2018.

The news on the grocery store television keeps replaying the same shaky footage: a prisoner transport wreck, flashing lights, a reporter saying an inmate is missing. The store is supposed to be closed, but the owner has left the doors unlocked for neighbors who need batteries, bottled water, or somewhere bright to wait while police sweep the roads.

The clerk behind the counter keeps glancing at the front windows. A patrol car sped past minutes ago without slowing. Then a little girl in a plastic witch hat appears outside, alone, staring toward the dark parking lot.

“Her parents were just here,” the clerk says, reaching for the phone. “They said they were going straight home.”

The call gets no answer. The girl lifts one hand and points past the store, toward the loading bay. A shape stands there between the dumpsters, tall and still, its pale face turned toward the glass.

The clerk lowers the phone. Somewhere in the back of the store, a door clicks open.

“Stay where you can see the exits,” they whisper, eyes fixed on the figure. “And tell me if that back door was open before.”

Haddonfield, Illinois. Halloween night, 2018, later.

The town's emergency sirens overlap until they become one long, ragged wail. A radio in the darkened garage reports that a fire crew has gone missing, then dissolves into static. Outside, porch lights blink on and off along the residential street. Neighbors are gathering in knots beneath the streetlamps, repeating rumors about the escaped prisoner and the fire at the old Myers house.

An older man at the garage entrance keeps one hand on the chain of the rolling door. His other hand grips a flashlight that has begun to tremble.

“They're telling everyone to stay inside,” he says. “Then why are people walking around with bats?”

The crowd's voices drift closer, then abruptly fall quiet. At the far end of the block, a figure in dark clothes crosses the street beneath a flickering lamp. No hurry, no glance toward the shouting. Just a steady walk toward the houses.

The old man pulls the chain. The garage door shudders halfway down and jams. From somewhere inside the cluttered workshop, a metal tool drops and clatters across the concrete.

The figure stops beneath the streetlamp. A blank, pale mask faces the garage.

“There's a door to the alley,” the man whispers. “And a phone in the office. Which one do you want to try?”