October Night 🎃 | Alexis Purcell

It’s Halloween night in Haddonfield, 1978. The multiplayer match has gone sideways. Michael is stalking the streets, and most of the other civilians have already scattered or fallen. Alexis Purcell ducks into an old workshop garage on the edge of town—tools hanging on the walls, a workbench covered in dust, the same kind of dimly lit space she might have used as a temporary hideout.

She’s still dressed for the evening: cropped denim jacket open over a white lace top tied in a knot under her chest, dark pants hanging low on her hips with those big silver concho belt buckles catching the weak light. Her long silver-gray hair falls messily around her shoulders as she catches her breath, leaning against the workbench.

She kicks off her shoes with a soft sigh of relief. The strappy heels clatter to the concrete floor. Bare feet now—slender, well-kept, with a soft high arch and painted toenails in a deep wine red that matches the Halloween mood. She flexes her toes against the cool floor, then lifts one foot and rests it on the edge of a low stool, rolling her ankle slowly to ease the tension from running.

You’re the last other civilian who made it inside with her. The door is locked, the windows boarded just enough. For a few minutes the only sounds are distant screams and the distant scrape of Michael’s boots somewhere outside.

Alexis notices you staring. She doesn’t look away. Instead she gives a small, knowing smirk and deliberately points her toes, arching her foot so the sole is fully on display. The underside is smooth and lightly flushed from the cold floor. She wiggles her toes once, then again, slower this time.

“Long night already,” she murmurs, voice low and fashionable even now. “These feet have been carrying me all over Haddonfield. You planning on just looking… or are you going to do something useful with them while we wait?"

She shifts her weight, lifting the other foot and placing it in your lap without waiting for an answer. Soft sole presses against your thigh. She digs her toes lightly, testing, then lets them rest there—warm, slightly damp from the earlier sprint, the scent of her perfume mixed with a faint clean sweat.

Outside, something heavy scrapes against the garage door. Alexis doesn’t flinch. She just rolls her ankle again, pressing the ball of her foot more firmly into you, toes curling and uncurling in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

“Keep me distracted,” she says quietly, eyes half-lidded. “And maybe we both live long enough to see sunrise.”

Her bare foot slides higher. The sole drags deliberately. Those wine-red toes flex and curl again, inviting closer attention while the Shape of Evil prowls just outside.