“I saw your mousetraps,” Laurie said. “Peanut butter and marshmallow fluff?”
“And?” Ray asked defensively.
“How’s that working for you?”
Ignoring their exchange, Karen leaned against the kitchen island, twisting the whole thing counterclockwise to expose the hidden door in the floor of the tiled kitchen. Crouching, Karen lifted the door to the underground shelter and peered down into the darkness.
Ray walked beside her and looked over her shoulder, intrigued.
Karen continued to stare into the darkness, as if entranced by something only she could see.
Ray glanced at Laurie then at Karen and asked, “What’s this?”
“My childhood,” Karen said softly.
“It’s how we protect ourselves,” Laurie said, surprising herself. Those words weren’t what she’d meant to say. She said them by rote. A phrase she had repeated numerous times to her daughter, throughout her early childhood—for as long as Laurie had Karen in her care. Before the state took her away.
It’s how we protect ourselves.
Those five words became the answer to all the questions young Karen had for every one of Laurie’s eccentric behaviors, all her unusual preparations. For the abundance of locks. For the midnight drills. For the weapons training and target practice. She had sacrificed what most would consider a normal life to prepare for when the darkest day returned. When he returned. Back then, she never would have imagined forty years would pass before the darkness re-entered her life. It was easy to wonder now if all the lost time between mother and daughter had been worth it. But life never offered guarantees. While Michael Myers lived, she never would have found peace, regardless of the path she chose. So she chose to let her fear galvanize her to action rather than cripple her with worry.
Without saying a word, Karen descended the wooden stairs into the underground shelter. Once she was low enough, she flipped the switch to turn on the light. “Come down,” she called up to them.
Laurie looked at Ray and gestured to the hole in the floor. “After you.”
Nodding, Ray took the stairs but stopped while his upper half remained above ground and looked at the door Karen had opened. “You’re not planning on…”
“What?” Laurie asked, playing dumb.
“Locking us down here?” Ray asked. Then, making finger quotes, added, “For our own good?”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Laurie said, nodding with a crooked smile. “But now that you mention it—”
“No way!” Ray said, starting to ascend.
“Ray,” Karen called from below. “The door locks from this side.”
“Oh, okay,” Ray said quickly. “Of course. I knew that.”
“And, Mom…” Karen yelled.
“Yes, dear?”
“Stop trying to freak out Ray,” Karen said. “This whole—situation is nerve-wracking enough.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Laurie said. To Ray, she added, “I’ll go first.”
Laurie descended the stairs, ducking her head at the last second to avoid clipping the island. “Watch your head, Ray,” Laurie said from below. “Wouldn’t want you to brain yourself.”
Laurie stood at the bottom of the simple wooden staircase beside Karen as Ray came down. His gaze swept the shelter. There were ordered stacks of boxed and canned foods on shelves, multiple cases of bottled water lined up in a row, a neatly made bed against one corner, a camping toilet in another corner behind a hanging cloth screen. To the right stood her weapons locker, a heavy steel cabinet with a security keypad.
Ray stared at Karen, who had a haunted look on her face that troubled Laurie. Her daughter couldn’t help but remember living down here, the test runs and lockdowns that had scared her, that were designed to scare her, so that Karen would learn to function through the fear and find a way to survive, to not give in to helplessness. Laurie wanted to prepare her child as she had prepared herself. Unfortunately, preparing to deal with the worst in human nature left little time for pleasant memories.
After a moment, Karen seemed to shake off her dark mood.
Laurie led them over to the weapons locker and keyed in the six-digit security code, 103178. The LED light blinked from red to green and she pulled open the door. Turning back to them, Laurie said, “Pick your poison. A weapon for every occasion and peace of mind.” She gave a sweeping wave of her arm, like a model presenting a prize on a game show. “Do you need small-caliber defense, semi-automatic ballistics with blackout rounds, a shotgun for tactical operations, large-caliber hand cannon, or a rifle with accuracy and stopping power?”
They both stared at her and exchanged a typical husband and wife look. No doubt wondering if Laurie was confident and prepared, or becoming unhinged.
“He’s waited for this night,” Laurie said. “He’s waited for me. Well, that goes both ways. I’ve been waiting for him.”
Officer Hawkins drove the squad car toward Laurie Strode’s home with Allyson, her granddaughter, sitting quietly in the back. Her head was turned toward the window, her eyes unfocused in the thousand-yard stare he’d seen many times before. She might be in shock, worried about her friend, or simply overwhelmed by the events of the evening. Looking over his shoulder through the metal mesh barrier between the front and back seats, he said, “Everything okay back there?”
“What? Oh, sure,” she said. “I’m fine.”
“I called an ambulance for your friend.”
“Thanks,” she said. Then, after a moment, “Is he…?”
“Haven’t heard,” he said, trying to keep his tone neutral. He wasn’t optimistic but didn’t want to upset her any more than she already was. Once reunited with her family, she would be fine. At least as much as anyone could be after an attempt on their life. “Do have some good news,” he added. “I’ve been informed your parents and grandmother are safe at her house.”
“Thanks.”
Through it all, Dr Sartain sat silent, nestled in the passenger seat of the cruiser, cradling his injured left arm.
As Hawkins returned his attention to the road, the radio squawked.
“601. Be advised. Suspect reported on 11th Avenue, south of bypass at Saint Park. Multiple reports. Be advised. Armed and dangerous.”
Glancing at the street sign, Hawkins’ eyes widened.
Only a few blocks from here…
Hawkins peered through the windshield, straining his eyes. In the distance, a dark shape topped by a blur of white moved through the night and stepped into the street.
He squeezed his mic. “Copy, dispatch. I got eyes.”
Glancing in the rearview mirror, he made eye contact with Allyson, who leaned forward, peering between the two front seats.
“Is it—?”
Nodding, he said, “Hold on!”
He flipped on his light bar.
And floored the accelerator.
The Shape walks down the deserted streets of Haddonfield, fingers gripping the hilt of the knife at his side. With each deep breath the fingers clench the handle in dark anticipation of death. This clench-and-relax cycle is not a conscious act. The heart beats, the lungs breathe, the hand clenches. The Shape hunts and The Shape kills. Always ready. Inhale… exhale… clench… release. Hunt… kill… one leads to the other. This is all The Shape knows—or wants. The true purpose.
The Shape hears the roar of a car engine, a familiar sound that brought familiar faces, but no interruption to the purpose.
The Shape steps into the street, walking closer to the chosen prey, but watching for anyone that might cross The Shape’s path. Looking into the lighted windows of houses on the other side of the street, The Shape clenches the knife handle again. Waiting this time for the impulse to strike—or to pass—