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She walked up to a standing male mannequin, who appeared to stare directly toward her, as if it were someone she recognized. For a moment she considered the resemblance of the pale, blank face with dead eyes to the stark white mask and another set of dead eyes—eyes without mercy or remorse.

Five feet from the mannequin, she swung her arm up, aimed and blew its head off. A satisfying eruption of fiberglass and plastic rained down on the grass up to twenty feet away. She thought of it as a dry run, dreamed of ending it once and for all. Sometimes she thought it could be that simple. A single shot. But in her nightmares, one shot and one weapon were never enough. That’s why, over time, she’d accumulated an arsenal.

She returned to her worktable, under a crude wooden shelter, put the revolver down and picked up a glass of strawberry-flavored milk. After a few gulps she set the milk down, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and picked up a high-powered bolt-action rifle. A dependable choice for precision shooting, with a detachable magazine to increase the capacity.

Turning, she faced the tableau of posed mannequins, worked the bolt, aimed and fired, worked the bolt to fire a second round, and a third and so on, watching in grim satisfaction as each bullet hit its mark. Boom! Boom! Boom! In less than a minute she created a fiberglass and plastic hailstorm of shrapnel from shattered mannequin heads, limbs, and torsos. When the haze cleared, she noted chunks of mannequins scattered everywhere; the inhuman carnage included a few, mostly intact, decapitated heads and a complete hand, fingers curled upward.

As she lowered the rifle, she muttered to herself, “Who needs tin cans on a fence?”

Satisfied with her practice, she packed her guns and ammunition and hiked to her black Nissan pickup, parked nearby, and tossed the duffel bag in the back. She drove along the dirt road, gravel crunching under her tires as she made her way back to her home. The recurrent fear troubled her less during daylight hours, but she couldn’t deny the sense of reassurance she felt whenever she noticed the bars in front of the downstairs windows. Protecting herself and her family required offense and defense. Her guns served as her offense, while her fortified home provided the defense.

As she climbed out of the pickup and grabbed the duffel bag the tranquil clinking of her wind chimes helped soothe her nerves. Pausing, she took a deep breath, pulling the scent of fall air through her nose, deep into her lungs, holding it there for a few moments before exhaling. And again. Several deep, calming breaths to release the hold of anxiety that crept into her bones and muscles daily.

Later, she sat at the dining room table, wearing a tank top that exposed her left shoulder scar, a memento mori from that night, a dark reminder carved into her skin to never forget, never let her guard down. Not while he lived. On a mat, to preserve the finish of the table, she’d laid out her revolver and bolt-action rifle, ringed by various gun-cleaning supplies, including a solvent, patches, bore rods, brushes and gun-lubricating oil. She considered target practice vital to her survival. For the same reason, she never failed to clean her guns. Poor maintenance might cause them to jam or fail at a critical time.

She didn’t mind this post-shooting chore at all. If anything, she found the process soothing, a step-by-step reassurance that everything would be in working order when she needed it. Not if, never if. Always when. After years of repetition, she could probably clean her guns in her sleep.

First, she picked up the rifle, removing the bolt by releasing the lever that held it in place. She sighted down the long barrel to check for stuck cartridges. Next, she attached a cleaning patch holder to the cleaning rod, inserted a patch and dipped it in cleaning solvent before pushing it from the breech end all the way through the barrel and back. Then she replaced the patch holder with a brush, also dipped in solvent, and pushed that through the barrel and back. The rotating handle on the cleaning rod allowed the brush to turn through the rifling of the barrel. Letting the solvent work on loosening any powder filings and bits of brass, she set the rifle down and switched to a hand brush dipped in solvent to clean the bolt.

At some point in the process, she started to hum…

* * *

Aaron drove their rental car down a sun-dappled country road. He didn’t need to refer to paper or online maps because he’d memorized the route. They were close. He held his digital recorder close to his mouth, mentally composing the setup for their interview. At least he hoped they’d soon have the interview. They hadn’t exactly made an appointment. And their subject remained a mystery—almost as much as Michael Myers.

In the passenger seat, Dana glanced from the road ahead to Aaron. “What is it we’re after?”

By way of answer Aaron spoke into the recorder, “Having seen the animal inside his environment, I fear there is no rehabilitation. But in this case, it seems one monster created another. A victim has locked herself away. Imprisoned by her own fear.” He cast a meaningful glance at Dana, thankful for her cue. “Our goal is to get them in a room together. Can we find a form of rehabilitation if she faces him again?”

Dana pointed through the windshield. “Here we are.”

Aaron slowed the car to a stop as he drifted onto the shoulder of the road. What he saw was less than promising. A PRIVATE PROPERTY—NO TRESPASSING sign attached to a cyclone fence. An overflowing mailbox next to a mounted intercom in front of a gated driveway. Is she even home? The intercom represented an impersonal obstacle, allowing her to reject them without a face-to-face meeting. She wouldn’t be pleased to see—rather, hear—them, so they had to convince her it was in her best interest. No easy task. Fortunately, Aaron believed in their mission and his ability to make a case for her cooperation.

“Here,” Dana said, removing an orange envelope stuffed with cash from her bag and offering it to him. “You might need this.”

Aaron sighed, refusing the envelope. “Journalists don’t pay for interviews, Dana. This is her fifteen minutes of fame. There are two people in this world that care about her and they’re both in this car.”

Flipping through the file she’d assembled on Laurie Strode, Dana said, “She’s financially unstable. Had every job you can think of for the last forty years, from catering to cosmetology. Currently unemployed.”

She closed the file, placed her palm on top of it and gave him a pointed look.

* * *

Finished with the rifle cleaning, Laurie picked up the revolver and stared at it for a moment before releasing the cylinder. Turning the Smith & Wesson upright over her cleaning mat, she shook out the spent shell casings. Two fell out on their own. She palmed the ejector rod to knock out the rest. One live round sat on the mat beside the casings. She picked it up between her thumb and forefinger and felt its potential. Then she fed the bullet into one of the empty chambers and spun the cylinder, abruptly slapping it back into place, the bullet’s position unknown.

She held the revolver in a tight grip, again considering…

Occasionally, she had these dark moments.

When all the practice and preparation ate at her confidence, the darkness suggested a quicker, more effective way to end her continued struggle with fear and doubt—a natural phenomenon considering her situation. That’s what she told herself. Just… ride it out.

After several deep breaths, fear crept in. For a moment, she imagined she wasn’t alone, that the choice was forced upon her, that he was—

The Shape stood before her.

Waiting to strike—

Waiting for her to surrender—

She remained… balanced—paralyzed between—