Chapter Text
In hindsight, this probably wasn’t your brightest idea. Okay—definitely not your brightest idea.
The sirens behind you were still wailing, though they were fading now, swallowed by the night and the ever-growing distance between you and the hell you had just left. You could feel the aftermath in every inch of your body. Dirt crusted under your fingernails, your hair a tangled disaster, and your skin marked with bruises and thin, stinging cuts. You looked like you’d lost a fight to a weed whacker and then been politely escorted through a ditch for good measure. And honestly? That’s not far off from what actually happened.
You were slouched in the passenger seat of a rusted-out pickup that had no business hitting 90, yet somehow was holding its own like a beast refusing to die. The whole cab rattled like it might give up at any second, and the heater had two settings: Arctic Tomb and Mouth of Hell. The man behind the wheel didn’t seem to mind either. Shoulders tight, jaw ticking, wild eyes fixed on the road—well, mostly the road. One hand was gripping the steering wheel, and the other held a gun just loosely enough that it swayed slightly with each jolt of the truck. The muzzle pointed vaguely rightward, which unfortunately meant vaguely toward you.
This was like an action movie. A messy, bloody, poorly scripted action movie. One where you weren’t totally sure who the good guy was—or if there even was one. And just to make the whole thing extra surreal, Hotel California was blasting through the truck’s ancient speakers. Tinny, crackling, too loud. A song about being trapped in some sun-drenched hellscape where you could check out anytime you liked, but never leave. It felt... weirdly on the nose.
You exhaled a slow breath, unsure if it was from the adrenaline, the fear, or just the sheer absurdity of it all. Really, though. This was not the best idea.
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College was... simple, you supposed. Simple in the way that it felt like a quiet shift rather than a complete upheaval—just enough change to make you feel like things were moving forward, even if you hadn’t gone all that far. Compared to high school, it was almost peaceful. The cliques that once ruled the halls—jocks, cheerleaders, drama kids, misfits—had either blurred into one another or faded entirely. People matured or at least pretended to. People weren’t being shoved into lockers anymore, and no one really cared what car someone drove or what brand of jeans they wore. It was freeing in that small, understated way that change often is when it creeps in instead of crashing down.
Of course, this was still Haddonfield. A small town with big memories and even bigger ghosts. And while Haddonfield Community College wasn't exactly a beacon of academic excellence, it was respectable enough around here. The kind of place that parents nodded approvingly at during dinner conversations, proud that their kids were “staying close to home.” Most people did stay, actually. Haddonfield had a way of keeping its own. The majority of your graduating class ended up at HCC, maybe out of comfort, maybe out of obligation, or maybe just because the thought of going anywhere else felt too far, too fast. Only a few scattered out of Illinois altogether, chasing something bigger.
You didn’t blame them. Sometimes you wondered what that felt like—leaving. But in the quiet rhythm of this place, with its cracked sidewalks and secondhand familiarity, staying had always felt easier. Safer. That, and you were fairly certain your mother would actually kill you if you ever decided to skip town. She wasn’t the type to take surprises lightly—especially not that kind. A self-made success in her own right, she ran a modestly thriving fashion line that catered to housewives and homemakers, mostly products you’d see peddled on cable: pastel aprons with embroidered quotes, matching oven mitts and floral-patterned day dresses that harkened back to some glossy, idealized version of the 1950s. She wasn’t just the brains behind the brand, either—she was the brand. Perfect teeth, perfect hair, a carefully curated persona that smiled through the screen as she told women how to make their lives more beautiful, more elegant, more together.
She was good at it, too. Charismatic. Polished. A little terrifying. Your father, on the other hand, was the editor-in-chief of the Haddonfield Gazette. And while local journalism might not scream glamour, in a town like this, it carried weight. Everyone read the paper. Everyone trusted the paper. He was well-respected, well-liked—the kind of man people greeted with a firm handshake and a “good morning, sir.” You were their only child. Their pride and project. You’d been doted on from the start—birthday parties with matching themes, piano lessons, cheer camp, the works. But all that love came bundled with expectations. Polished, invisible threads strung through every smile and supportive comment.
Go to Haddonfield Community College, because it was sensible and safe. Find a nice boy—someone clean-cut, maybe studying business or engineering. Settle down young, buy a home near your parents, and start popping out picture-perfect grandbabies. Continue the cycle. Keep the town alive. Keep the family legacy neatly intact. Be the sweet, pretty, doting housewife your mother had molded you to be. And really, you couldn’t even blame them. Not entirely. They were only passing down the dream they had built for themselves. The same dream they were convinced you would want too. Only... you weren’t so sure anymore.
Your first real act of defiance had come quietly—disguised in the form of a college application. It wasn’t anything dramatic. No big, cinematic shouting match or bags packed in the middle of the night. Just a single, subtle choice: Haddonfield Community College, yes—but your major, your terms. Your mother had lobbied hard for literature. “A well-read girl can charm any room,” she’d told you with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. She had this vision of you as a graceful, educated woman who quoted Austen at brunch and hosted book clubs in her curated, beige-toned living room.
Your father, ever the pragmatist, wanted you to study economics. “Understanding money,” he’d said with a gentle but firm tone, “will take you farther than any poem ever will. Learn how to invest while you're young.” Both perfectly fine, reasonable paths. And both painfully predictable. Safe. Small. But you didn’t want fine or reasonable. Not forever. The truth—the one you barely admitted even to yourself—was that you didn’t want to stay in Haddonfield at all. It wasn’t that you hated it, not exactly. It was just… too much of the same. Same people. Same faces. Same conversations over grocery store counters and gas pumps. Your dream to leave had started as a whisper—quiet, flickering, like the weakest flame in a forgotten box of candles. But it was there. Still burning.
And you were determined to keep it alive. So, you chose criminal psychology. It wasn’t something you’d spent years obsessing over, not a childhood passion exactly—but it had always fascinated you. The inner workings of the mind. The darkness that lived in people. The “why” behind the worst things they did. That interest had been stoked every time your aunt—your mother’s sister, the black sheep, the one no one in your family dared bring up unless it was with a sigh or a warning—came to visit. You adored her. She was sharp, sarcastic, unapologetic. A woman who’d built a life on her own terms, working alongside one of the most legendary figures in local psychology: Dr. Samuel Loomis.
She spoke of him like he was a prophet, a man who had stared into the abyss and still came back with answers. And her stories—raw, clinical, disturbing—had mesmerized you. You wanted that. Or something like it. Maybe, just maybe, it would be your way out of Haddonfield. A steppingstone to a career beyond the white-picket world your parents had prepared for you. Maybe even a position at the infamous Smith’s Grove Sanitarium—close enough to feel familiar, far enough to feel like freedom. It was a start. And it was yours.
The only issue—just a slight, barely-there, blink-and-you-miss-it sort of problem—was your parents. More specifically, how not thrilled they were with your chosen major. Your mother had been visibly displeased, and since your father typically mirrored whatever mood she wore like a tailored suit, he wasn't exactly jumping for joy either. After a series of tense dinners and passive-aggressive check-ins, they finally put their foot down—not about your major (that battle was already lost on their end)—but about a minor. Your mother insisted, quite firmly, that you add literature to your academic plan. Naturally, she won that argument. Your father had started to mention economics before being thoroughly out-talked.
It wasn’t the end of the world. A minor was a small concession to make if it meant getting them off your back about your actual degree. You even managed to smooth things over a little by throwing her a bone—saying something vaguely romantic about how studying people’s behavior might actually help you find the right person someday. Maybe even someone worth falling for. Someone you could understand, analyze, decode. That part had delighted her.
“Oh! See? Now that’s practical thinking,” she’d said, already picturing you using criminal psychology to weed out future boyfriends like an FBI profiler.
So, she was appeased. And you? You had your major... and a slightly ridiculous reason to pretend you were still a "dutiful daughter." It wasn’t ideal, but it worked. For now. Alright, so maybe that wasn’t the only issue. Maybe there was one more... a rather glaring, impossible-to-ignore kind of issue: the people you surrounded yourself with. Sure, the rigid high school cliques had mostly dissolved in the warm wash of freshman year idealism—no more jocks versus nerds, no lunchroom turf wars—but some divisions just evolved. In college, especially in a town like Haddonfield, it wasn’t about popularity anymore. It was about money. Not who you were, but what you had.
And for all intents and purposes, no, you didn’t flaunt your wealth. You weren’t walking around in designer labels screaming look at me. But your last name carried a weight in Haddonfield. Your family? Comfortable. Prominent. Not Rockefeller-level dynasty, but well-off enough to be considered part of the town’s upper crust. Which meant your social circle had long been decided for you. You were raised to gravitate toward the “right” kind of people—clean-cut, well-groomed, polished in that slightly smug way that came with summer homes and dinner parties. The girls wore pearls like armor and the boys already had resumes before they could legally drink. Future lawyers, surgeons, political interns. They talked about internships at their parents’ firms and whose cousin just got engaged at a vineyard. And you? You were nudged right into that glittering mold the moment you could string a sentence together.
Polite, pretty, and poised. A good girl from a good family, mixing with other good families. You didn’t hate them. Not exactly. But sometimes, when the conversation turned to skiing in Aspen or "Daddy's new Cadillac," it made you itch under your skin. Because whether you admitted it or not... there was a part of you that didn’t want any of that. Not the curated friendships. Not the matching sorority sweatshirts. And definitely not the future that had already been mapped out in neat, expensive lines. But really, what were you supposed to do?
Your parents had made it very clear: you weren’t allowed to get a job. And while to some people, that might’ve sounded like a luxury—an enviable kind of privilege—for you, a twenty-two-year-old junior trapped in a town as tight-knit and judgmental as Haddonfield, it was more like a slow-burning nightmare. Because here’s the thing: in Haddonfield, everything had strings. Every opportunity, every smile, every favor came with a whisper behind your back. And your mother? Oh, she was queen of those whispers. Her signature red nails and that glossy, practiced smile were more than just fashion statements—they were weapons. She could spin a story like sugar into candy, make it sweet enough for anyone to swallow.
If you even hinted at breaking out, of wanting your own money, your own life, your freedom—you could already see how it would unfold. She’d storm the social circuit like a woman scorned, tragic and glamorous all at once, telling anyone who’d listen that her only daughter was ungrateful, rebellious, possibly under the influence of the “wrong sort.” She’d suggest, just gently enough to sting, that maybe your major had warped your mind, maybe criminal psychology was a bit too dark for a sweet girl like you... and Haddonfield would eat it up like it was gospel.
You’d go from golden girl to cautionary tale in a week flat. Shunned at luncheons, whispered about at dinner tables, politely frozen out of every connection your family had so carefully cultivated for you since birth. It wouldn’t just burn bridges—it would incinerate your entire exit strategy. No. You couldn’t afford to blow it now. The plan was simple, or at least it sounded simple in your head: finish your degree, keep your head down, play the game. Then, with just the right amount of pleading and well-placed “please, Momma”s, you’d convince her you needed to go to graduate school. A serious one. And luckily, Haddonfield didn’t offer anything remotely prestigious in that department. The University of Illinois? That was your golden ticket.
You’d make it all about the future. About ambition. About meeting a good, stable man in a respectable doctorate program. Someone she could brag about. You’d promise to bring him back home, to have a tasteful wedding and tasteful children and a tasteful little life in Haddonfield. You’d swear up and down it was temporary, even as you packed your bags and planned never to return. You’d become the perfect daughter again—just long enough to escape.
Still, none of that changed the reality of the people you had to surround yourself with. You could go down the line—names, families, what kind of car they were gifted on their seventeenth birthday (BMWs were in, Camaros if they had “personality”), who had the biggest Sweet Sixteen, whose daddy just bought a boat, and who’d already made plans to intern at their uncle’s firm in Chicago over the summer. But none of it really mattered. Not in the way you wanted things to matter. What did matter was that these people—these glossy, moneyed, and mostly tolerable classmates—were your routine. Your rhythm.
Wake up. Fix your hair just enough to look like you hadn’t tried too hard. Throw on a cardigan, maybe a mini if you were feeling brave. Walk to class with your Sony Discman tucked into your bag, earbuds in but never loud enough to be rude. Sit with your pre-approved crowd—girls with shiny lip gloss and boys with hair parted too neatly—nod along to whatever was new, popular, or vaguely scandalous. Talk about Friends or Beverly Hills, 90210. Gossip about who got kicked out of the Sigma party last weekend. Bat your lashes. Pretend to laugh when one of the boys made a dumb joke about co-eds and keg stands.
Lunch was always the same. Maybe a Coke, maybe not. Someone inevitably talking about their calorie count. You’d pick at a salad, flip through your notes, and float through the rest of the day in a fog of lecture halls and passive eye-rolls. Occasionally, someone would suggest forming a study group—usually more of an excuse to share gossip than knowledge—and you'd nod along like everyone else. And then? Reset. Same scene. Same script.
It was numbing in a way only privilege could be. Soft and slow, like being rocked to sleep by expensive boredom. And no matter how many times you had to sit through the next “hot take” that “chokers are out, now it’s all about skinny gold chains again,” you'd bite your tongue, tuck your lip gloss into your purse, and hold on. Because this was survival. And you? You were playing the long game. So while every single day tested your patience, your identity, and that thin membrane of self-control you had left, you still did what you were supposed to.
You came home with a pretty smile on your face, kissed your mother’s cheek, told your father about your classes—even the ones he didn’t care about. You picked at dinner like you were supposed to, retreated to your room under the guise of study, and performed your nightly ritual like clockwork. Cleanse, tone, moisturize. A dab of cold cream. Hair brushed precisely one hundred times. Pajamas, the nice kind, of course. And then you'd tuck yourself into your floral comforter like a good girl, a quiet girl, their perfect little girl. God, you hated it.
But it had to be done. Because this wasn’t about now—it was about later. Survival, again. Everything was a means to an end. You were just biding time. Still, that didn’t mean it didn’t eat away at you. That it didn’t splinter in ways you couldn’t always predict. There were always these tiny little fractures in the façade—little betrayals your body or mood couldn’t quite keep hidden. Sometimes your smile didn’t stretch far enough, and your mother would arch a brow at you over her wine glass. Sometimes one of the boys in your circle would glance at you just a bit too long when your laugh pitched too high, too sharp. Sometimes your fingers trembled slightly when you reached for your glass of iced tea. No one ever said anything, but you knew they noticed.
You’d trained yourself to walk the line so well, it was like muscle memory now. Posture, tone, charm—dialed to perfection. You could practically recite your role in your sleep. But repetition breeds cracks. And you were cracking. Even the things meant to make you feel elegant and polished—the delicate pearl studs your mother insisted you wear, the fine gold chain she gifted you on your eighteenth birthday—began to feel like shackles. They pinched. Pulled. Choked. And some nights, lying there in that perfect bed, with your skin scrubbed raw from expectation, you swore you could feel every single one of those cracks widening just a little more.
The hardest part, you often thought, wasn’t your mother’s scrutinizing looks over the rim of her wineglass, or the way your “friends” curled their lips into polite little smiles just wide enough to be cutting. It wasn’t even the crude remarks and low chuckles that came from the boys who trailed along like well-dressed hyenas—good families, your ass. No, the hardest part was the rumors. Haddonfield was small. Small enough that any real secret might as well have been printed in the morning paper and handed out on street corners. It took one mistake—one misstep, one whisper too loud or glance too long—and suddenly you weren’t a person anymore. You were a cautionary tale. A wildfire of scandal. A ruined girl.
Take sweet Martha Smith, for example. A girl not so different from yourself, once upon a time. Pretty. Polite. Came from a proper family with clean nails and even cleaner reputations. Got pregnant at seventeen. The next day, it was like a bomb had gone off. The way her name spread through the school—hell, through the whole town—like blood in water. The pity. The judgment. The snide smiles. The speculation about who the father was, about what her parents thought, about what she must have done. They ate her alive.
You remembered how people talked about her in class, in the cafeteria, at Sunday service. And somehow everyone knew something. That was how it was in Haddonfield. Everyone had a connection. Everyone knew someone whose cousin's girlfriend had been there when it happened, or whose neighbor overheard a conversation at the hair salon. Everyone was a witness to someone else’s shame. And your little circle? They lived for it.
Not that they would ever admit it. No, they preferred to call it discourse. But you saw through it. The way their eyes glittered when something juicy made the rounds. How they'd lower their voices just enough to be conspiratorial and lean in close, like they were letting you in on something sacred. They didn’t talk about it the way high schoolers might’ve, in crude jokes and crumpled notes. No, this was something colder. Sharper. They dissected rumors like surgeons, hands clean, expressions bored, voices honey-sweet.
You never really joined in. You knew better than to offer commentary—God forbid your words be traced back to you. You just smiled when it was appropriate, frowned when expected, nodded your head and sipped your drink, kept your mouth shut. That was the safest route. You weren’t about to become another Martha. But there was one rumor to rule them all. The mother of all whispers. The kind of thing so deeply etched into the town’s bones that even the sidewalks seemed to flinch when his name came up.
Fourteen years had passed. Fourteen. And still, it lingered like a raw wound that refused to close. Not a faded scar, not a distant memory softened by time. No—this was a festering, blistering gash that cracked open again and again, oozing red and sticky and impossible to ignore. The kind of thing that felt alive in its own right. The kind of thing you felt more than heard when it made its way into a room. It was the tale that parents used to scare their children straight. The one that girls whispered during sleepovers with wide eyes and blankets pulled up to their noses. The one that came up at wine-soaked dinners, long after dessert, when the laughter turned brittle and the air a little too quiet. Even businessmen—those smug, polished men in three-piece suits—lowered their voices when they mentioned him.
And there he was. Seated five rows above you, leaning back just slightly in his chair, like he owned the air in the room. Like gravity bent for him and not the other way around. His legs were spread, his boots planted firm against the floor, and the stretch of his broad shoulders under that old hoodie looked like it had no business fitting into this world, let alone a college lecture hall. He was a massive man—monstrous, if you were being honest with yourself, if you had to slap a label on it. Towering at what had to be 6'9", he was less man and more... presence. A looming figure of muscle and shadow, the sort of form that made myths and monsters shrink in its wake. He moved like a predator, slow and deliberate, never rushed, like he knew the world would wait for him. And maybe, in a way, it did.
That long dirty blond hair of his always had a slight greasy sheen to it, like he'd just stepped out of a fight or maybe rolled out of bed and into the world without caring who was watching. Stormy blue eyes sat sharp beneath heavy brows, and that ever-present stubble looked less like he forgot to shave and more like it dared anyone to ask. His jaw was a blade, his frame all power and intimidation with not an ounce of softness to be found. He didn’t just look like trouble. Michael Myers was trouble, wrapped in sneers and menace.
And he was an outcast. Not just disliked—feared. In a lecture hall of over fifty students, there was a perfect radius of absence around him. Five seats in front, five behind, five on either side. A perfect, untouched ring of nothing. Like he radiated something toxic. People avoided him like he was contagious—like proximity alone might tether them to whatever darkness surrounded him. They didn’t speak to him. They didn’t look at him. They didn’t breathe in his direction. Not out of cruelty, but out of fear. If you sat too close, people would talk. They’d wonder what you knew, why you were there, if you were next. The rumor was sticky like that—once you touched it, it never let go.
And it was tragic, in a strange, backward kind of way. Not that you’d ever say that out loud. You didn’t know the truth. Not really. You’d been seven when it happened, still young enough to believe in Santa Claus, but old enough to know when the adults were lying to each other through their teeth. You’d caught whispers through cracked doors and hushed phone calls, through your mother’s clinking wine glass and your father’s gritted teeth. The adults never said his name. Only the incident. The tragedy.
The rumor went something like this—hazy, fragmented, retold so many times it had taken on a folkloric quality. Supposedly, when he was just ten years old, Michael had murdered his stepfather, his older sister, and her boyfriend. With a kitchen knife, no less. The details varied depending on who you asked, but the general consensus was grim: a bloodbath on All Hallows’ Eve. And he’d done it, some claimed, while dressed in a clown costume—complete with a cheap rubber mask that distorted his face into something eerie and unrecognizable. They said he was covered in blood, head to toe, like a suburban version of Carrie, only this wasn’t prom night—it was just home.
What made it worse, apparently, was his reaction. Or rather, the lack of one. Not a single tear, not a flicker of guilt. Just this strange, vacant calm as the bodies of Ronnie White, Judith Myers, and Steve Haley lay mutilated inside that modest house on Lampkin Lane. There was, however, a lesser-known part of the story—one that never made it into the newspaper, but floated through hushed conversation at dinner parties and PTA meetings. Another boy had been found dead, though his name never stuck in your memory the way the others did. He hadn’t been stabbed like the rest; no, he’d been bludgeoned. Brutally, according to the whispers. And everyone—everyone—was convinced Michael had done it too.
But apparently, the authorities didn’t see it that way. Your mother had explained it once with a scoff, over coffee and a gossip magazine. "The police said a child couldn't possibly have the strength to take down a grown man like that," she'd recounted. "Must’ve been the boyfriend. Temporary insanity. Jealousy, rage, hormones. You know how they spin these things."
It was absurd, of course. The idea that a young boy could murder three people in cold blood and feel nothing? The Myers boy, they said, had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time—traumatized, not guilty. Your father, pragmatic as always, had muttered something about image control. "A child killer? In Haddonfield? No chance. They’d rather fabricate a crime of passion than admit something darker was growing in the suburbs."
Though the story had been retold countless times since—embellished, warped, practically mythologized—one truth remained: no one believed the story told by the police. That’s why the rumors never truly died out. That’s why the stares persisted, why the sideways glances and whispered jokes never stopped trailing him like a shadow. The legend of what he’d supposedly done wasn’t just bedtime horror material anymore—it had become a permanent fixture in the Haddonfield ecosystem. And it didn’t help that the Myers family, once just another quiet household on Lampkin Lane, had fallen on unequivocally hard times in the years that followed.
Deborah Myers—his mother—was said to be a kind woman. The type who wore her hair up with a pencil and kept coupons in her purse. The sort of woman your mother used to describe as “soft-spoken but resilient.” You’d never met her yourself, but the way people talked about her always carried a tint of mourning. Like she’d been collateral damage in a tragedy too large for anyone to contain. She passed about four years ago. Quietly. It hadn’t made the paper. Just a line in the local obituary column, one your mother noticed and commented on over breakfast. “Leukemia,” she had said, as though reading a grocery list. “Late stage. Probably snuck up on her... the poor dear.” And that was that. A gentle woman reduced to a passing comment and a white lily arrangement on someone’s porch.
After Deborah’s death, things spiraled even further for the Myers family. Not that they’d been in a good place to begin with—rumors like the ones that surrounded Michael had a way of blackening everything they touched. Respectable folks whispered, and those whispers cost you jobs, friends, chances. Whatever stability they might have clung to after that Halloween night had eroded long ago. Now, from what you’d gathered, it was just Michael and his younger sister, Angel—though no one called her that anymore. She went by Laurie now, and had for quite some time. You only knew her full name because of your tutoring work over at Haddonfield High.
Laurie Myers. Bright girl. Lovely, really. She had the same dirty blond hair as her brother, but where his eyes were storm clouds and silence, hers were blue skies and endless talk. She was all chatter and nerves, notebooks full of doodles and dreams, always scribbling in the margins when she wasn’t paying attention (which was often). She laughed easily, talked fast, and asked a million questions during study sessions—half of which had nothing to do with the lesson. And people loved her for it. She was magnetic in a way that felt effortless, like she didn’t have to try to be liked—she just was. Laurie could’ve fit in with your crowd if she were a little older. With her quick wit and breezy confidence, she’d charm your circle without even trying. She was the kind of girl mothers adored and teachers doted on.
It made things all the more curious, really. How could two siblings—cut from the same cloth, raised under the same roof—become such opposites in the eyes of the town? But maybe that was Haddonfield for you. Once it made up its mind about you, it was almost impossible to change it. It was strange, really. For all the things you heard about Michael Myers, for all the weight his name carried in Haddonfield’s whispered lore, the most jarring thing was how completely unlike his sister he was. If Michael had possessed even a sliver of that temperament—if he’d smiled more or softened the sharp edge he wore like armor—maybe the town wouldn’t have clung so tightly to its suspicions. Maybe he could’ve rewritten the narrative.
But he didn’t. He was a towering thing, all muscle and menace, as if the years had hardened him into a permanent sneer. There was something quietly brutal about him, not loud or showy—just this constant, simmering tension beneath his skin, like he was always a few thoughts away from doing something catastrophic. Step too close and you’d be met with a look so cold it could hollow you out. A flicker of his eyes, a shift of his jaw, and suddenly you’d forget how to breathe.
And then there were the moments—rare, but unsettling—when he’d throw out some low, biting remark to one of the few misfits he hung around. College dropouts, troublemakers, the kind of people your mother would cross the street to avoid. No one really knew what that little crew of his did, only that they existed like shadows around the edges of campus, drifting in and out of classes like they didn’t quite belong. Just like him.
His wardrobe was equally consistent: always dark jeans, those heavy combat boots that announced his steps long before he arrived, and a rotating collection of faded rock band T-shirts—some recognizable, others bearing the logos of groups so obscure they felt made up. And then there was the hoodie. Always that hoodie. Black, oversized, the hood perpetually pulled up like a curtain shielding his thoughts from the world. It wasn’t about shyness, though. No, the way he wore it felt more deliberate, almost theatrical. He liked hiding just enough to make people wonder. But even beneath the shade of fabric, you could still see his eyes—sharp, unreadable, a storm bottled behind lashes.
You really didn't know Michael all that well, just the bits of rumors and the things you saw and sometimes whatever Laurie said during group tutoring. Although she didn't often bring up her brother, sometimes she'd playfully talk about the state of his beat-up pick-up and how he needed a new car... something neither of them could afford. That was the extent of your knowledge really, that the two of them weren't in the best financial state and that Michael was a rough one.
You’d never been quite sure what to make of the rumors. Maybe that was the most unsettling part—how convincing they sounded when passed from one mouth to the next, and yet how completely unverifiable they really were. Your father, ever the pragmatist, had warned you to steer clear of Michael Myers. “Nothing good comes from getting close to someone with trouble surrounding them,” he’d muttered once over dinner, the edge in his voice sharp enough to slice through the roast.
You’d gone to the same high school, technically. Though you’d been a wide-eyed freshman, barely fourteen, when he was in his final year. Even then, he’d had a presence—larger than life, and not in a good way. He didn’t just walk down halls; he owned them, with that cold, slow stride that made people part like waves. The rumors were alive and well back then too—raw and juicy, passed around like cautionary tales during lunch periods and study halls. Still, something about it all never quite sat right with you. Maybe it really hadn’t been him. Maybe the boyfriend had snapped, or maybe the stepfather had been hiding more than anyone realized.
You didn’t know. But you’d never been the kind of person to jump to conclusions. You tried to give people a chance, even if everyone else turned away. So, in your own quiet way, you’d offered him something few dared to: kindness. It wasn’t much. A soft “good morning” in the hallway when you passed by and no one else was around. A glance and a faint smile—not forced, not fearful, just... neutral. Civil. You didn’t flinch or cast your eyes down like the others. You didn’t shrink away, and while he never smiled back or said a word in return, at least you weren’t met with one of those freezing glares he was known for. That had to count for something, didn’t it?
Eventually, he graduated, and you figured that was the end of it. The end of seeing him skulking around campus, the end of wondering if the rumors were true. You filed it all away under “odd high school memories” and moved on. Until freshman year of college. You’d barely found your seat in one of those dry, generic intro courses when you felt a shift in the air behind you. That familiar heaviness. And when you turned—there he was. Same slouched posture, same brooding stare, now older, sharper. Michael Myers. Sitting right in the back like he was part of the furniture. You almost didn’t believe it.
Criminal psychology. Of all things. You didn’t know whether to laugh or be deeply concerned. It almost felt like a bad joke—someone with a notorious past, possibly criminal, studying criminal psychology. Ironic, maybe. Inevitable, probably. He had to be what, twenty-four? Maybe twenty-five? A bit older than the typical college junior, but not unheard of. Still, something had clearly kept him out of school for a while. Trouble, no doubt. Some shadow clinging to him that had delayed the start of everything. But he was here now. And so were you.
In truth, you had no real connection to Michael—not beyond the occasional, half-hearted greetings you offered in passing. A nod here, a barely-there “hey” there, always met with silence or the flicker of acknowledgment in his eyes, if that. You didn’t feed into the whispers or fan the flames of the rumors that clung to him like smoke. You weren’t part of the pack that giggled and gawked or dared each other to get too close. You just did your usual—lips pursed around your straw, a careful glance when no one was watching, and then back to business.
But that didn’t mean you were bold enough to go out of your way, either. You weren’t looking to befriend him, or whatever that would even mean. You didn’t try to sit near him, didn’t angle yourself toward him in crowded lecture halls, didn’t go digging for some deeper truth in his silence. Because doing that? That would’ve been immediate social suicide. Sure, at first your little circle might’ve brushed it off—"Oh, she’s being nice." But the second it became a pattern, something intentional, they'd turn. They always did. One raised brow, one comment behind your back, and suddenly, you'd be the one people watched in the halls. Not admired. Watched. The curiosity would curdle into concern, and soon enough, someone would plant the seed: She’s obsessed with him.
Then there were your parents. God, your mother. You could already hear her: the weeping, the hysterics, clutching your father’s shirt like a widow at a funeral, babbling through tears about how her little girl was being lured in by a monster. “He’s dangerous,” she’d say. “He’s unstable,” your father would add. “You’ll ruin your life!” they’d chorus together. As if you didn’t already have enough weight pressing down on your future.
And if that wasn’t enough reason to stay in your lane, there was Michael himself. You didn’t know him, not really, and frankly, he didn’t exactly radiate warmth. If you tried to approach him—really approach him—you weren’t sure how he’d react. He didn’t strike you as someone who appreciated being poked and prodded. And even if you thought the rumors were exaggerated, that didn’t mean the man wasn’t intimidating. His size alone could unnerve anyone. He could probably toss you like a rag doll if he wanted to. So no, you didn’t flirt with disaster. You stayed where you were—quietly observing from the safety of distance, offering your tiny bits of kindness without risking too much. Not out of fear, exactly, but out of understanding. That some things—some people—are best kept at arm’s length.
So no, there really wasn’t any personal connection between you and Michael Myers. None at all, actually. But life has this infuriating tendency of stirring the pot just when everything seems relatively quiet. It happened during class—one of those mid-morning lectures on criminal psychology, the topic today centered on the often-blurred distinctions between psychopaths and sociopaths. You’d barely touched your notebook, half-listening, half-daydreaming, until you caught the low buzz of whispers floating from the chairs beside you. It was your group. Of course it was. And of course, it was Tommy Swain leading the charge.
Tommy always struck people as charming—the kind of boy with a golden halo of tousled tawny hair, a straight, too-white smile, and an easy way about him that teachers and parents adored. His grades were decent, his manners better, and when he spoke in class, it was usually with the slick polish of someone who’d been trained to charm since birth. But that charm? It stopped dead the second authority figures weren’t around.
You recognized the gleam in his eye before he even raised his hand. A sharp glint, smug and daring, like a kid about to knock over a vase just to watch it shatter. You didn’t need to hear the full whisper to know what it was about. You caught the tail end of it—Michael’s name, floating from Tommy’s mouth like a slur wrapped in silk. The rest of your little group, always eager to play the devil’s chorus, grinned along, leaning forward like they were waiting for the punchline.
“Dr. King,” Tommy began, voice light and oh-so-polite, “would someone be considered a psychopath or a sociopath if they, say… murdered a few people and didn’t feel a thing about it afterward?”
The words struck the air like a hammer to glass. Your eyes snapped toward Tommy, narrowing instinctively. The professor blinked, taken off guard by the bluntness of the question, while your group snickered beneath their breaths—so proud of themselves, like children tossing breadcrumbs into a lion’s den. And just like that, you felt it. That tight, crawling sensation at the back of your neck. You didn’t dare look behind you, didn’t have to. You knew Michael was there—had been the entire lecture, seated five rows back, like always, brooding and silent and still as stone. And now? Now he was being baited.
It wasn’t the first time your circle had done this. Michael was their favorite target—had been since day one. Not out of fear or curiosity, but something crueler. They treated him like some mythological beast, something to gawk at, prod, provoke. They loved the story. Loved the mystery. Loved the idea of him being a killer—because that meant they could feel powerful mocking him. Dehumanizing him. It was a game to them. A twisted, childish game where he wasn’t a person anymore, just the town’s favorite horror story come to life.
And maybe what bothered you most wasn’t the fact that they played the game... it was how easily you had slipped into your role, sitting there, silent. Part of the audience. And right then—right in the thick of the smirks and glances—you wondered: Was he going to react? Or would he just sit there, soaking it in like always, letting them treat him like a museum exhibit instead of a man? You didn’t know which would be worse.
Dr. King cleared his throat, adjusting the worn green folder in his right hand as he leaned against the edge of his desk. He had a habit of using that folder like a conductor’s baton—tapping it against the chalkboard or the desk when he was deep in thought. That’s what he was doing now. A few light taps echoed through the quiet room, punctuating the tension like a ticking clock.
“Well,” he said finally, voice even, “it depends.”
He paused, lifting the folder slightly and motioning with it as if weighing the answer in the air.
“An absence of remorse could apply to both conditions, but it’s not enough to define someone as either a psychopath or a sociopath. The distinction lies more in how the violence happens—what drives it, what it looks like.”
He glanced at the class, scanning the rows like a man surveying a chessboard.
“A psychopath,” he continued, “would likely plan the crime in advance—meticulously. They’re cold, calculated. They manipulate. They lie easily, convincingly. And yes, on the surface, they often appear perfectly charming, socially adept... maybe even likable.”
A few students chuckled quietly, and you swore Tommy’s smirk grew just a little wider. But your mind caught on that word—charming. That definitely wasn’t Michael.
Dr. King tapped the folder again, this time against his thigh. “Now, a sociopath, on the other hand... tends to be more impulsive. Less careful. The violence comes in the heat of the moment—raw, emotional, usually born out of anger or frustration. Still no remorse, still no real empathy, but they’re far more erratic. Easier to spot, harder to predict.”
The room was still, save for the faint shuffling of papers and someone’s quiet cough near the front. You didn’t turn to look behind you, but the image of Michael sitting back there—hood up, arms crossed, maybe chewing on the inside of his cheek—was fixed behind your eyes like a painting. Dr. King didn’t elaborate further. The classroom sat in a momentary hush, broken only by the sound of Tommy offering a smooth, “Thank you,” his voice all honey and false manners. The kind of line meant to keep up his polished image—the perfect student, the golden boy. That illusion held, right up until the snickers began again. A ripple of amusement passing through your little circle, and of course, you caught the word sociopath being tossed around like some edgy party trick.
Another day, another label to toss onto Michael Myers’ already decaying reputation.
The lecture droned on after that, a blur of clinical terms and textbook definitions, though it was hard to focus with the weight of what had just happened still lingering in the air. You found yourself checking your watch more than once, and when the professor finally slapped his signature green folder against the desk—a gesture that always signaled freedom—you didn’t waste time. You slipped your pen into the spiral binding of your notebook, zipped your bag closed, and exchanged a few easy smiles with your seatmates. The usual routine.
It wasn’t until you were standing that you finally let yourself look—just briefly. Michael was standing now, though he’d shifted to the end of the row . From this angle, you couldn’t quite catch the full view of his face—not that he ever made it easy with that damn hood always shadowing his eyes—but you silently hoped his gaze wasn’t pointed toward your group. You weren’t sure you wanted to know. As you and the others filed out of the row and began climbing the steps toward the exit, you fell into step beside Samantha Coster—Sammy, as everyone called her. She was everything polished and put-together: hair in perfect golden ringlets, nails freshly done, lips glossed in some shade of pink that probably cost more than your entire outfit. Her dad ran the only bank in Haddonfield, so money had never been a problem for her. She was babbling now, something about seeing a new thriller that weekend, her green eyes wide and flirty as she twisted a curl around her finger like it owed her rent.
You nodded, offering a vague smile, about to chime in when—
Your balance shifted.
The world tilted sharply beneath you, and before your mind could process what was happening, your foot caught on something, sending your body sideways. Your arms shot out instinctively, grasping at air, heart leaping into your throat. You braced for impact—desk corner, cold floor, bruised pride—but none of it came. Instead, you landed against something warm. Something solid. Your face pressed briefly into cotton, the heavy scent of cigarettes and motor oil crashing into your senses like a wave. Your hands found rough fabric, the front of a hoodie, and the solid wall of a chest beneath it. You were caught. And not by just anyone.
Your stomach dropped when you realized who it was. His hands—broad, calloused—had clamped onto your upper arms, keeping you upright with an ease that almost insulted gravity. His grip was firm, a little too firm. Still, it was him. You didn’t even have to look up to know.
You straightened fast, nerves sparking, breath caught halfway between embarrassment and disbelief. “I—I’m so sorry,” you managed, your voice more breath than words. “I didn’t mean—”
He didn’t respond. Just looked at you. Not a word passed from his lips, not even a breath loud enough to catch. The silence stretched between you, taut and thrumming, thick enough to drown in. You didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare lift your head fully—just barely tilted it up, almost involuntarily, like your body needed to see what your mind warned you not to. And there they were. Stormy, ice-blue eyes locked onto you, narrowed beneath the shadow of his hood. Cold, unreadable... but burning in a way that made your skin prickle. His mouth was downturned into the beginnings of a sneer, jaw tight, and yet—
Your breath hitched.
Because Michael Myers was handsome. In that dark, dangerous way that wasn’t supposed to be real. Handsome in a way that you should’ve run from. That every part of you should’ve recoiled against. Instead, a shiver ran its way straight down your spine, blooming low in your belly like something secret and shameful. You didn’t get a second more to dwell on it. A sudden jerk—another set of hands—yanked you backward, almost whiplash-fast. You gasped, stumbling slightly as you looked behind you.
“Hands off, fucking freak.”
Tommy. He stood between you and Michael now, chest puffed, arm thrown out like he was guarding something precious. His expression was all mockery and muscle, smug righteousness hiding behind it. You blinked at him, caught off guard, as his hand landed on your shoulder.
“Hey—hey, you okay? Did you trip?” he asked too loudly, like performing for the room. “He didn’t touch you, right?”
His voice was sharp with faux concern, but underneath, it was something else—laced with challenge. Directed not at you, but the man standing just a few paces behind you. The one who hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t moved a muscle. Michael was still standing there, looming and quiet. His expression hadn’t changed, though maybe—maybe—his sneer had grown a little sharper. His eyes flicked to Tommy. One second. Two. No words. But it was enough to make the air go still, like the whole lecture hall was holding its breath.
You shook your head quickly, brushing Tommy’s hand off your arm. “I’m fine,” you muttered, too quiet.
Tommy didn’t seem to hear—or pretended not to. Behind Tommy, Michael lingered—watching. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as they flicked between the two of you. There was no subtlety to it, no attempt to hide the disdain tightening his features. And then, low and unmistakable, came a scoff. Not just a breath of amusement, but something heavier, rougher—more like a growl rumbling from the back of his throat. The sound hit you like a sudden drop in pressure, catching in your chest and making your heart lurch.
It was stupid. So, so stupid. You didn’t want to find him attractive. Not in the way that mattered. You were aiming for quiet rebellion, something that could fly under the radar until you were out of this town. Not this—not catching yourself looking a little too long at the man everyone whispered about like he was a horror story in the flesh. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Michael wasn’t just a cautionary tale. He was tall and broad and carved from something rough and real, all in worn denim and black boots. And that face—sharp angles and shadows half-hidden beneath the hood—was far too easy to imagine pressed too close to yours.
If your mother knew what passed through your head just then, she’d probably faint on the spot. Actually faint. Arms thrown over her face, maybe gasping for her rosary. And your father? He’d try to shoot the boy on principle alone. You had to smother the mental image fast—it was dangerously close to funny. But no. No, that kind of chaos was for later. That was graduation material. The plan was to play the part of the good girl for just a little longer. Smile sweetly, make Latin honors, charm your way into a prestigious grad program far, far away. Then—and only then—could you make your mother collapse in horror and your father roar with disapproval. Preferably with someone who looked just a little less like the embodiment of every whispered nightmare Haddonfield had ever produced.
It was just a silly thought—fleeting, born from the sharp buzz of adrenaline still humming through your system after that stumble. Your mind hadn't quite caught up to your body yet, your pulse stubbornly racing, the edge of embarrassment still prickling beneath your skin. You tried to shake it off, but when your eyes flicked sideways to Tommy—chest puffed out, jaw squared like he was preparing for a duel—you couldn't help but scoff internally. Really? He was still trying to size up Michael?
The idea alone was laughable. One swing from a man like that and Tommy would crumple like a wet napkin. Hell, with the sheer bulk Michael carried—quiet, coiled strength in the shape of a man—it wasn’t a stretch to imagine Tommy’s skull going off like a water balloon. And yet, it didn’t come to that. Of course it didn’t. Michael, true to form, didn’t even bother giving the situation his full attention. He just let out another one of those low, irritated huffs—a sound that somehow managed to vibrate right beneath your ribs—before turning and walking off like none of this was worth his time. The echo of his boots on the floor was the only sound for a beat, a steady rhythm that faded only when the door slammed shut behind him with a sharp finality.
And just like that, the spell broke. The second he was gone, your group surged in, surrounding you in a well-practiced flurry of concern and perfectly manicured sympathy. You felt hands on your arms, soft voices pressing in close, familiar perfume clouding your senses. It was all so... performative. But then again, you were used to performance. You were popular, sure, but popularity wasn’t just handed to you. It came with a script—one you’d learned well. Your mom’s business gave all the girls their seasonal discounts. Your father’s golf club membership made boys like Tommy feel important. And, of course, there was the credit card. The one your parents rarely checked unless you gave them a reason to. And why would you? You were the golden girl. You didn't spend it on drugs or wild parties—just bags, brunches, the occasional spa day. You gave them nothing to question.
Because that’s what good girls did. Good girls played the game. And in return, you were loved. Or, well, liked. Respected, at the very least. But if you peeled back the pretty layers, you’d find something else. A quiet transaction. Everyone in that group used each other like currency. And you? You didn’t even like most of them. Especially not Tommy. But some things were just... necessary. That was the way the world worked, wasn’t it? Sammy latched onto you first, her expression a flawless combination of concern and subtle drama. She blinked up at you with those huge green eyes, bottom lip pushed out just enough to look soft and sincere.
“Oh my God, are you okay?! He didn’t, like, grab you anywhere, did he?”
You gave her a small smile, already slipping back into the role. The one they expected. The sweet, untouchable girl who definitely hadn’t just entertained a dangerous little fantasy involving the man they all loved to whisper about.
“No,” you said softly. “He didn’t... touch me.”
Not really. Not the way they were worried about. Not the way they’d understand.
“Are you sure?” she pressed, giving you a once-over like she half-expected to find bruises blooming beneath your clothes. “He’s such a freak!”
You didn’t respond to that. Just looked down and nodded again like the good girl you were supposed to be. Because good girls didn’t admit they found guys like Michael Myers interesting. Dangerous. Unfairly hot in that lean, rough-edged way that smelled like cigarettes and recklessness. Good girls didn’t wonder what it would feel like to tug down that ever-present hoodie or hear that gravel voice whisper in their ear. No. They stuck to what was expected—polite smiles, pre-approved boys, and futures painted in pastel tones. So, yeah, it was a stupid thought. A fleeting, stupid little daydream.
You turned back to your group with a bright, easy smile—one you’d perfected over years of needing to look unfazed. You even added a small laugh, as if the whole thing had been some kind of harmless misunderstanding. Just a little stumble, nothing worth lingering on. And it worked. Like always, it worked. Concern flickered for a heartbeat and then vanished, replaced by the usual snide commentary.
“Total fucking weirdo,” someone muttered.
But soon enough, the moment had dissolved, swallowed up by other shallow distractions. Sammy was already rambling about the local theatre’s upcoming viewings—some movies she’d seen a half-dozen times already—and Tommy, ever desperate to sound impressive, had launched into a story involving his dad’s law firm and some judge whose name no one really cared about. You walked in the middle of the group, nodding, laughing when appropriate, but mostly tuning it all out. It was white noise. Your mind drifted elsewhere—mostly back to those stormy blue eyes and the way they had sliced clean through you without even trying.
As the group rounded the corner and made your way through the glass doors into the communal dining space, your gaze flicked toward one of the little chalkboard menus propped up beside the entrance. Pasta. The creamy, cheesy kind. Your favorite. Your mouth almost watered before reality came crashing back. No chance. Not here. Not in front of them. If you so much as looked at that pasta too long, Sammy would wrinkle her nose in mock disgust, and the other girls would follow like a pack of rehearsed hyenas. You could practically hear the laughter already: “You’re really eating that?” Followed by snide whispers and not-so-subtle glances toward your stomach the next day.
So, no pasta. No carbs. Not when the rules of the group were so strictly unspoken but ruthlessly enforced. You’d all pretend to love salads, picking at bits of lettuce while the boys piled their trays high with burgers and fries, chasing it all down with sodas and smugness. You’d get a Coke, though. That was your one small rebellion. The one indulgence that didn’t draw criticism. No one questioned a Coke. You could sip it like you didn’t care, like it tasted better than the things you actually wanted.
But you did care. You cared more than you wanted to admit, and it was getting harder to pretend. Harder to keep playing this role when every part of you wanted to rip off the costume and do something reckless. Something real. Like eat the pasta. Or stare too long at Michael Myers. Gah—enough of that. You gave your head a subtle shake, mentally brushing off the spiral you’d been caught in. No use sulking over pasta you weren’t brave enough to order. So instead, you slipped into line, grabbed a sad little plastic bowl of greens, and treated yourself to the tiniest rebellion—a few pieces of grilled chicken on top. Barely indulgent, but it made you feel like you were claiming something.
With an empty cup for your Coke in hand and your tray in the other, you made your way back toward the table, your practiced smile slipping effortlessly into place. Same game, different day. You set your tray down and eased into your usual seat, right as Sherry leaned toward you, shoulder bumping yours lightly to grab your attention. She tilted her head toward the boys, who were—of course—huddled at the end of the table and half-laughing, half-shouting at a group of freshman girls nearby.
Something about their skirts. Charming. You gave a little roll of your eyes and shook your head like it was all just some harmless mischief, but the irritation buzzed quietly beneath your skin. Real gentlemen, truly. Tommy, especially, looked like he was trying too hard to impress. Again. Sherry Thomas was probably the only one in your circle you didn’t secretly loathe. She was the kind of pretty you couldn’t really replicate—unapologetic and utterly effortless. A shock of red curls pulled back in a ponytail, a dusting of freckles across skin that practically glowed, and those big glasses that always seemed to be sliding a little too far down her nose. She looked like someone straight out of a coming-of-age indie film—if the script was written by someone with a thing for fantasy book heroines and flirty English professors.
And of course, she was dating Tommy. Because the world was occasionally bleak and confusing like that. You didn’t get it. Not in the slightest. She was far too soft, too thoughtful, too real for someone like him. Maybe that was the appeal. Or maybe she was just as good at playing a part as you were.
Still, when she looked at you with her usual curious half-smile and asked, “You good?” in that quiet voice of hers, it felt almost disarming. She actually meant it.
You smiled back, softer this time, and nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.” Which was, as always, the easiest lie to tell. You glanced down at Sherry’s empty cup, then back up at her with a little tilt of your chin. “Coke?”
She nodded with a grateful smile, that soft, understanding look in her eyes again. Well, that settled that. You rose to your feet, smoothing out the hem of your white mini—mostly for formality’s sake, but a little for show too. Old habits. Both cups in hand, you maneuvered your way out from the booth and headed toward the drink line. Why they insisted on separating food from drinks was anyone’s guess. Maybe it was some master plan to control traffic flow, or just the result of a tragically over-ambitious architect trying to make a dining hall feel like more than it was. To be fair, it wasn’t terrible. The space was huge—open, airy—with a mixture of booths, long communal tables, and smaller circles tucked near bookshelves and decorative planters.
The food stations were off to the left, drinks to the right, and one entire wall was made of floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a courtyard dotted with patio tables and a few bored-looking students pretending to study. Honestly, it looked a lot like your old high school cafeteria—if your high school cafeteria had been built with more money and fewer bars on the windows. You made your way toward the drink line, pretending not to notice the heads that turned as you passed by. A few girls leaned in to whisper, their eyes darting toward you before flicking away again. A group of boys at the far table let out some sort of laugh that was probably meant to sound casual but wasn’t. You didn’t bother reacting.
You just smiled—easy, breezy—and offered a few waves, lifting the two plastic cups in your hands like some kind of peace offering. You weren’t best friends with everyone, but you weren’t invisible either. You were something, and that was more than most people could say. So you walked with purpose, keeping your posture relaxed and your expression pleasant. And maybe—just maybe—you felt the tiniest, strangest prickle down your spine. Not fear. Not really.
Just that strange sensation. The kind that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, like you’re being watched. You didn’t turn around right away. You had a destination. And a job to do. Coke duty. You slid into your place in line, a little exhale slipping through your nose as you stood behind a couple of freshmen trying to flirt their way into an extra splash of Dr. Pepper. Typical. When it was your turn, you passed both cups to the tired-looking woman manning the drink counter and asked for Coke with a casual smile and a playful quirk of your brow. She didn’t smile back—just filled the cups, capped them, and handed them over like it was all a bit beneath her. Fair enough.
With drinks in hand, you pivoted on your heel and began the slow walk back, the cool plastic sweating against your palms. Your eyes flicked sideways out of habit, glancing through the row of spotless windows lining the wall. The courtyard came into view, and you took it in with practiced ease. There were only two groups out there, dotted across the cracked stone patio. One—closer to the doors—looked like a cluster of honor roll kids and debate team regulars, hunched together in a ring of denim jackets and dry laughter. You recognized a few—people who waved at you when they thought no one else was watching. Nothing to write home about. The other group was a little harder to ignore.
They’d staked their claim beneath the largest tree in the courtyard, one whose roots cracked the concrete in lazy rebellion. And there he was—he—leaning against the bark like he was born there, one long leg bent at the knee and a thin wisp of smoke curling from his fingers. Michael. You knew that hulking frame instantly. Knew it the way one recognizes a storm on the horizon. The sharp slope of his shoulders. That wild hair, untamed and curling at the edges of his collar. His face tilted just slightly down, enough to make the shadows dance over his eyes. It was impossible to tell if he was watching anyone in particular—but you felt the weight of him anyway. Even through the glass. Even with a dozen feet between you.
He was surrounded, of course. Not like a king—more like a danger no one wanted to admit they were drawn to. Two guys flanked him on the ground, dressed in an eclectic mess of leather, band tees, chains and boots, each looking like they’d walked straight out of an underground club. They laughed like they didn’t care who was listening, feet kicked out and elbows draped across each other’s knees. Then there were the girls. Those girls. The ones everyone talked about in whispers and stares. The “punks,” people called them—though that didn’t quite cover it.
Their hair was glossy and curled into intentional chaos, makeup loud in all the right ways—blue eyeshadow, blood-red lips, glitter dusting their cheeks like war paint. They wore black like it was a second skin, heels like weapons, and walked with their shoulders back, unbothered and unapologetic. People tolerated them because they were pretty. Dangerous, but pretty. The guys? Not so much. And Michael? He wasn’t tolerated. Only respected in the way people respected wild animals—because they knew better than to turn their backs.
You kept walking. But not too fast. Something about the scene pulled at you. Not just because he was there. Not just because you knew what it felt like to be under that gaze—brief as it had been. But because some stupid part of you—some curious, restless part—wanted to be over there. Wanted to know what they were talking about. What they laughed at. What it would feel like to sit under that tree and not pretend you belonged somewhere else. You didn’t let your face show any of that. You just walked, Coke cups in hand, heart kicking up in your chest as you rounded the corner.
You returned to the table to find nearly every seat claimed, the usual whirlwind of laughter and idle chatter already in full swing. The only spot left was yours—thankfully still unbothered—and you slid into it without a fuss, settling between Sherry and Sammy. You handed Sherry her Coke with a small smile, to which she nodded in gratitude, already mid-sentence in whatever gossip spiral had taken root. The noise faded to background static as you opened your salad container and took the first few bites, savoring the grilled chicken you’d added as a small act of defiance against the unwritten “lettuce-only” rule. It wasn’t that you didn’t like salad—you actually did. But when your stomach whispered longingly for something warm and carby and smothered in cheese, a tangle of leaves could feel like punishment. Still, you made do. That was your specialty, wasn’t it?
You were just raising your cup to your lips, the cold fizz brushing against your skin, when David Beecher’s voice cut in across the table.
“Movie house is doing a Goodfellas re-run tonight,” he announced with that trademark smugness that always made you want to roll your eyes. “I’m buying. Popcorn, drinks—the whole shebang. Who’s in?”
David was a bit like Tommy, just slightly less loud and significantly more tolerable if you caught him on a good day. With his slicked-back hair, crooked grin, and perpetual leather jacket, he played the part of the vintage bad boy a little too well. The kind of guy who probably wished he’d been born in a decade with jukeboxes and milkshakes instead of grunge and dial-up. Predictably, the offer caught everyone’s attention. Sammy perked up instantly and even Sherry glanced over with mild interest. You, on the other hand, exhaled quietly, relief blooming in your chest. For once, you had a reason—an actual one—not to go. You leaned back in your chair, took a slow sip of Coke, and let the corners of your mouth lift in an apologetic, unbothered smile.
“Can’t,” you said, casually enough. “I’ve got a lit paper to start. It’s on old fairytales. I’ve got to dig through some reference texts tonight if I want to avoid a caffeine-fueled breakdown Sunday night.”
There were a few groans and half-hearted boos tossed your way, David among them.
“Oh, come on,” he drawled. “That’s what the night before is for.”
You tilted your head slightly. “And that’s how C students are born.”
David groaned, throwing his head back in exaggerated agony as if you’d just told him someone had died. “Boring~,” he sang, drawing the word out like a taunt. A few of the others chuckled. Sammy leaned over and bumped your shoulder lightly with hers, her lip gloss catching the overhead light.
“Lame excuse,” she teased, drawing out the "a" and tossing her hair like that sealed the verdict. “Come on. You can write about Cinderella tomorrow. Or just make something up about how Snow White was secretly a cult leader or whatever.”
You gave a tight smile and reached for another bite of your salad, letting the fork clink delicately against the bowl. “It’s a Grimm tale. Sleeping Beauty. And I don’t think cult leaders wake up from death-like curses with a kiss, but nice try.”
That earned a few light laughs—some impressed, some amused. Sherry grinned behind her cup and murmured something that sounded like “ouch", while Tommy muttered a sarcastic “nerd” under his breath that wasn’t nearly as insulting as he’d probably meant it to be. You didn’t mind, really. It was always like this—a balancing act of playing smart enough to keep your edge without tipping into full-blown try-hard. This crowd liked their girls pretty, witty, but not too deep. You'd mastered it like a science.
David leaned forward on his elbows, eyeing you with a sly smile that was meant to be charming. “Suit yourself, Snow White. If you change your mind, we’ll be there.”
“Sure,” you said mildly, not bothering to look up this time. You took another sip of Coke, the cold bite of it welcome against your tongue.
Still, as the conversation around you drifted back into banter and gossip, your gaze slid toward the window again—toward the tree, the smoke, the boy who hadn’t been invited and wouldn’t have come even if he had been. Myers didn’t need movie nights or group approval. And somehow... that made him more interesting than all of them combined. You stabbed a piece of lettuce and tried not to think about how it would feel to be pulled into that world instead. But Sherry knocked you out of your thoughts before they could wander too far.
“So, late night at the library then?” she asked, nudging your arm lightly with her elbow and giving you a sly little smile behind her straw.
You nodded, biting into another leaf of romaine dressed generously in ranch—your taste buds perking up as you hit the jackpot. Crouton. Finally. A small, salty crunch of satisfaction. You chewed, swallowed, and glanced up just in time to catch her eyes watching you over the rim of her cup.
“Mhm,” you replied smoothly, brushing your napkin across your lips. “And hey—anyone’s welcome to join... that is, if David’s temptations don’t pull you into a life of crime and gangster quotes.”
That earned you a dramatic gasp from Sammy and a mock-offended look from David, who threw a crumpled napkin in your general direction.
“Oh please, you say that like you’re not tempted to come watch De Niro smirk for two hours!” he quipped, flashing a grin.
You just laughed and leaned back into your seat, letting the group’s teasing float around you like bubbles in the air. It was easy to play your part here—smiling, laughing, throwing clever little jabs—but underneath it all, you could already feel that pull in your chest again. How fake it all was... every perfectly timed laugh, every exaggerated gasp, every dramatic eye-roll and giggle over something none of you really cared about. It was all so curated, so manufactured. The routine of it had become second nature—smile when they smiled, laugh when expected, nod and murmur the right words. You were practically on autopilot. Sometimes it felt like you were just playing a role in a script none of you had written but all of you followed to a tee.
So you settled into silence, content to let the others carry the noise. You offered the occasional grin or an “oh, totally,” when the conversation demanded it, but mostly, you just tuned it out—mind already a few miles away. Before long, the little break was over anyway. Some had classes to rush off to, others were calling it for the day. You stood, smoothed down your skirt, slung your bag over your shoulder, and waved your goodbyes with that same polished smile they all expected. But the moment you turned your back to them, it slipped right off your face.
Your steps toward the library felt heavier than they should. Maybe it was the weather, or maybe it was the looming quiet you knew would greet you there—but either way, you walked a little slower, as if dragging your feet might somehow keep you from sinking further into the strange heaviness that followed you like a second shadow. Still, the library doors creaked open eventually, and you stepped inside, the hush of the place immediately swallowing up the noise of the outside world. You didn’t have any more classes this evening, so you had all the time in the world. May as well get started. At least here, you could pretend the quiet was your choice.
-----------
The library in the late afternoon held a hush that felt almost sacred. It was never particularly busy—just the occasional student drifting between stacks, a librarian murmuring behind the desk, the distant hum of an overhead light. You liked it this way. The stillness was comforting, a stark contrast to the relentless chatter and shallow noise that filled most of your day. Here, in this little cocoon of quiet, your mind finally slowed down. It was one of the few places where you could simply exist, without performance, without polish.
You were nestled into a beanbag tucked between a pair of worn, towering shelves, legs folded beneath you, the weight of a hefty book resting in your lap. One of the old Grimm collections—your chosen poison for the afternoon. Despite their name, or maybe because of it, you found the tales oddly captivating. Violent, dark, sometimes utterly senseless... yet still enduring, still whispered across centuries. You suspected your mother wouldn’t appreciate the irony of assigning you these very stories in hopes of “rounding out” your education. Literature, after all, had only made you more curious—more inclined to look between the lines, to question the world instead of swallowing it whole.
Beside you, your notebook lay open, scattered with scribbled thoughts and half-formed ideas. You’d been taking notes on Sleeping Beauty—the original version, not the sanitized, Disney-fied dreamland everyone grew up on. In the Grimm version, the tale was less about romance and more about fate, silence, and the unnerving power of time. You liked that. There was something poetic in the way the girl slept for a hundred years, untouched, waiting for the world to catch up to her. Or maybe she was just trapped.
A slow yawn escaped you as your gaze drifted toward the narrow window nearby. Afternoon light poured through the glass in soft golden strips, painting the wooden floor in quiet warmth. You stared for a while, letting your thoughts wander. Out there, the world spun on without you—people laughed, flirted, postured. Inside, it was just you and the crackle of aged pages. This little corner of the library felt like your own secret, a hidden room no one else bothered to check. None of your friends would be caught dead here—except maybe Sherry, if she was in the mood or had a paper due. The others would wrinkle their noses at the smell of musty pages and scoff at your choice of solitude. But that was fine. Let them stay in their loud, plastic world. You’d take paper and ink over empty chatter any day.
You adjusted your posture slightly and turned the page, eyes scanning the old text as your pen twirled absently in your fingers. Alone, yes. But not lonely. Not here. You raised your free hand to your cheek and leaned into it with a soft yawn, your thoughts slowly drifting with the heat of the sun filtering through the tall windows. That late afternoon light had a way of turning everything honey-warm, like the world had dipped into a sigh. It made your limbs heavy, your brain fogged with that pleasant drowsiness that only came with true quiet.
The silence was complete—no footsteps, no whispers, just the hum of a nearby light and the soft rustle of paper now and then. Your eyes fluttered closed for a beat, then opened again in a slow blink. Your head dipped forward in the next moment, startling you just slightly. You gave a soft huff under your breath, defeated, and closed the book with a gentle thump. It landed atop your notebook like a sealed thought. Just an hour, you reasoned with yourself. One tiny hour. A quick nap wouldn't hurt anyone, and you’d be sharper for it. More focused. That was what you told yourself, anyway.
Curling further into the beanbag, you adjusted your skirt and settled back. The fabric sighed beneath you. You shut your eyes fully this time, letting your breathing even out. The paper-scented air wrapped around you like a blanket. No one would find you here. It was safe. It was still. You let go of the day, the drama, the endless performance... and let sleep take you. Well, that had been the plan at least. Just an hour. A short nap to reset your mind and gather yourself before diving back in. So how, exactly, had the sky outside managed to turn so deep and ink-dark, stars pricked like glass pins against velvet?
You blinked. Once. Twice. Sat up slowly.
“Oh... oh fuck.”
Panic snapped you upright. The beanbag hissed as you pushed yourself off of it, already reaching for your bag with half-blind urgency. You opened it and shoved your things inside with the grace of a tornado—notes crumpled, pens scattered, and the poor library book almost left behind in your rush. You snatched it last minute, clutching it like some forgotten child. The moment you stood, the lights above flickered on with an automated hum, illuminating the small pocket of space you’d occupied. But the rest of the library? Dark. Silent. Still.
Your pulse stuttered. That wasn't a good sign. You moved quickly, the sound of your steps echoing a little too sharply across the polished floor. With every step forward, the lights clicked on ahead of you, trailing behind like a soft current. It felt eerie now, theatrical almost, like the library had become a stage—and you were the only one left in the final act. You passed the empty librarian's desk and made a beeline for the main doors, already pushing your hands against the cool metal bar—nothing.
They didn’t budge. You froze, stomach dropping. Tried again, harder this time, leaning your weight into it.
Still nothing.
Your face drained of color. “No. No, no, no!"
Locked. Completely locked in. The worst part? You weren’t even mad at yourself for falling asleep. You were mad because now you had to explain this—somehow. And you just knew your mother was going to kill you. Maybe you could play it off. Pretend you'd had a change of heart, gotten swept up in some spontaneous night out with your group. You could get one of them—Sherry, probably—to vouch for you. Lie, just a little. Say you'd left campus hours ago with the others, decided to skip the library altogether. Your mother might even be pleased. She might think you were finally showing an interest in boys. She might think you were softening into the kind of girl she'd always wanted you to be.
God, but that was a trap all on its own. An exhausting, performative role you didn’t feel like committing to. Because if she thought that—if she really believed it—you’d have to prove it. Talk about the boys, giggle like the other girls did, flirt with someone like David. No thanks. That kind of lie came with its own prison.
“Fuckity fuck,” you muttered under your breath, forehead gently thudding against the cool glass of the door.
You took a few deep breaths, counting them out, trying to push the panic back down where it belonged. There had to be another way out. A fire exit, maybe, or one of those side doors the custodians sometimes left cracked while they smoked behind the building. You just had to find one. It wasn’t like they bolted every inch of the place down, right? You turned, eyes sweeping over the dark rows of shelves stretching into the quiet beyond. The silence felt... heavier now. Denser.
Then you saw it. To your right—just past the main reading area and the long row of study carrels—a trail of lights flickered on, one after the other. Not all at once, like the automatic lights did when someone entered a new space, but in sequence. Deliberate. Like something—or someone—was walking. Your stomach dropped. It could be someone else locked in. Another unlucky student who’d pulled an all-nighter and dozed off too long. Or maybe, hopefully, a janitor or campus security doing a sweep before locking up the final exits. Please God, let it be a custodian. You didn’t hesitate. You took off, your shoes slapping against the smooth linoleum floor, echoing down the empty corridor as you followed the newly lit path, breath caught somewhere between hope and dread.
You kept moving, heart pounding a little harder with each step. The lights ahead of you—those artificial trail markers—had now looped back to your original path, converging near the bean bag you’d abandoned. As you rounded the corner, your breath came in short puffs, but you felt a rush of cautious relief when you spotted it. A coverall. That one-piece, industrial-grade uniform that screamed custodian. The muted blue, that slightly shapeless cut—it was the kind of thing meant for mopping up spills and changing light bulbs, not for delivering terror. You huffed out a breath and slowed your pace, brushing your hair away from your face with a trembling hand.
Thank God. Just a janitor. You stepped forward, crossing the familiar patch of floor toward the bean bag. The figure stood still, his back half-turned as he faced one of the tall shelves. From behind, it looked just like you expected. Tall. Broad. Working man’s build. You exhaled a bit of your tension and called out, a nervous laugh tucked into the start of your sentence.
“Hi—! Oh God, I’m so sorry. I must’ve fallen asleep here and totally lost track of time. The doors are locked and—yes, I’m a student here,” you rushed out, voice slightly breathless but friendly. “Could you possibly open—”
But then you stopped. Dead cold. Because your eyes had traveled just a little further up, taking in the figure more clearly now. The blonde hair—too dark to be mistaken, too familiar to be ignored. The way it curled slightly at the base of his neck. The strong jaw, clenched tight. And worst of all—the side glance he gave you. Liquid blue. Piercing. Icy. Not indifferent like a stranger. No. Aware. Your mouth went dry as your voice tapered off to a choked whisper.
“... Myers.”
He turned his head slightly, not all the way—just enough to confirm what your gut had already screamed. It was him. Michael fucking Myers. And you were locked in here. Alone. His shoulder shifted the tiniest bit, like he was annoyed by your recognition. Like he’d let you figure it out just then. You stood frozen for a second, heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. He turned. Slowly, deliberately—like he had all the time in the world and knew that you didn’t. And when he faced you fully, your stomach dropped clean out of your body. Because in his hand—so large it nearly dwarfed it—was something small, familiar, horrifying in its innocence.
A book. Your book. That soft baby blue leather, the elastic strap you sometimes chewed on when you were nervous, the faint bend in the upper right corner from being shoved into your bag a hundred times. Your diary. Your goddamn diary. You stared at it like it had grown teeth, like it was something otherworldly, cursed. But the curse wasn’t in the book—it was in the man holding it. In the way he just stood there, one hand at his side, the other casually cradling your life between his fingers.
No blood. No knife. Just your secrets. And somehow that felt worse.
You could feel the chill rushing over your skin like frost on glass. Because if he had read it—and it sure as hell looked like he had—you were ruined. Exposed. That diary wasn’t some dumb little journal with hearts doodled in the margins. It was your entire mind. The rawest, most unfiltered parts of yourself: your doubts, your hatred, your heartbreak. The guilt. The fantasies. The aching little dreams you’d never speak aloud.
The things you’d written about your friends—how you didn’t trust them. How you thought most of them were shallow, cruel, or simply convenient. The things you’d written about your mother. The rage there. The things you’d written about leaving this town. And worse. Much worse. The parts where you’d written about him. Your breath caught in your throat. You’d called it your “little blue book of secrets” for a reason. But now it wasn’t yours. It was his. And in his hands, those secrets weren’t just words. They were leverage.
"Interesting read."
His voice hit you like a slow-motion wreck. Gravel and smoke, low and drawn out like he knew exactly what it did to people—and didn’t care. If your knees hadn’t already been locked from panic, they might’ve buckled. And still, that wasn’t what scared you. It was his expression. Not neutral. Not confused. Not even angry. Amused. That slow, knowing twitch of his mouth. The way his blue eyes gleamed with some cruel kind of glee—he knew. Oh, he’d read more than just the first page. Maybe not the whole thing, but enough. Enough to have you absolutely cornered.
Your stomach turned as you stood frozen in place, eyes darting from the blue leather book to his face, trying to decode exactly how much he knew. Had he read the page about Tommy? The one where you called him a loudmouthed prick with an ego as fragile as his GPA? Or the part about your mother? How you’d rather burn the house down than follow her “plan” for your life? Or worse—so much worse—had he seen his pages? The ones where you wrote about the way he smoked like it was an art form, or how his silence filled a room more than any voice ever could. The way your eyes followed him sometimes like a compulsion. The curiosity that started with fear and somewhere along the way had turned into something else. Something darker. Something wanton.
"How much did you read...?" you asked, trying to keep your voice even, though it trembled anyway.
His eyes never left you, not once. He tilted his head slightly, slowly. That same smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if the question itself was funny. He didn’t answer. Instead, he held up the book between two fingers, just a little, like dangling bait. Then, with a deliberate flick, he tucked it into the pocket of his coveralls. Your heart slammed.
"Hey—!" You took a step forward, but he just raised an eyebrow. Just one. Like you were a joke that hadn’t gotten the punchline yet. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He stepped closer, just once, and that single movement made the distance feel microscopic. You could smell the faint tang of smoke on him. Dust and heat and some elusive sharpness, like metal left out in the cold.
“You write pretty,” he spoke—mocking, lazy. “Didn’t know you thought about me that much.”
And that was it. That was the cut. You stared at him, wide-eyed and breathless. This was the most you’d ever heard him speak, and you hated it—hated how calm he looked, how easily he held your entire life in one hand like it meant nothing. His gaze dragged over you slow and steady, like a predator sizing up its meal. If he was a wolf, you were already bleeding.
“Please,” you said, voice cracking slightly. “Give it back. It’s my book... it’s—property. That’s stealing!”
You tried to sound firm, but the panic had already crept in, curling its fingers around your throat. Maybe if you reminded him he worked here, or you assumed he did—maybe if you played it smart, pushed the right buttons, you could come out of this unscathed. If you reported him, he could lose everything. That was something, right? But that didn't stop him. Instead, his hand reached into his pocket and pulled the book out again. That pale blue cover looked almost harmless in his grip. Almost. He flipped it open to a random page, eyes skimming lazily. Then he scoffed.
“Blond one’s a pinup?” His tone was low, sharp, like a knife dragged across a chalkboard. “Sweet.”
You felt your cheeks burn.
He glanced at another line. “Tommy’s a prick. ‘No real depth.’”
He snorted through his nose, shaking his head like he was unimpressed. Like you were just funny to him. Your fists curled at your sides.
“Michael! I’m serious. Give it back.”
He tilted his head, finally looking at you fully. That glint in his eye wasn’t amusement—it was something darker. Meaner.
“You gonna cry?” he asked, voice flat, mocking.
Your lips parted, but nothing came out. He slowly tucked the diary back into his pocket. A deliberate move. Like staking a claim.
“Why should I?”
Your eyes locked on the spot where your diary had disappeared, deep in the pocket of his coveralls like a secret grenade. Why the hell was he doing this? Was this some kind of twisted revenge? For what? You hadn’t spread the rumors. You hadn’t laughed at him. If anything, you’d gone out of your way to keep your head down. Sure, silence wasn’t innocence. But still—this? This felt targeted. He stared at you like a cat watching a pinned insect. No urgency, no sympathy. Just interest. Cold, curious interest.
“Michael, I—I won’t say anything,” you tried, holding your hands out slightly, like you could gesture your way into mercy. “I’ll pretend this never happened. You have my word.”
“Don’t believe you.” His voice was flat, mechanical. Barely a breath above a growl. And yet somehow it hit like a slap.
You stiffened. Alright. So that was the game now. Two blades drawn, both pointed—only his was already pressed to your throat. You didn't know Michael worked custodial for the college... but now you did. If you told your circle what you saw tonight—if you said he lurked the college halls at night—his job could be gone by morning. Angry parents would throw their weight around. A man like Michael Myers, with that kind of past? Working around students? They’d eat him alive. But you weren’t stupid. He held your entire world in his hand. One page. One sentence. One word. That’s all it would take. And between the two of you? You had a hell of a lot more to lose.
“What do you want?” you demanded through clenched teeth, the words dragged out between your shallow breaths. Your heart was thundering, wild against your ribs, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze. Forced yourself to look brave, even when every nerve in your body screamed that you weren’t.
Michael said nothing at first. Just stared. That unreadable, steely look in his blue eyes was somehow worse than if he’d raised his voice. He studied you like he was weighing something behind his gaze—how far he could push you, maybe. How far you’d bend. The lighting wasn’t helping either. For the first time, you could see every sharp edge of his face. The harsh line of his jaw. The faint shadow of a scar by his temple. It was unsettling how human he looked—how normal—considering the weight of his reputation. But this was no ideal situation. You’d just handed yourself over to the devil with a soft “please.” He broke the silence with a single word.
“Pager.”
You blinked. “What?”
He nodded toward your bag. Your stomach dropped. You froze for only a second, then reluctantly slipped the strap from your shoulder and rummaged through the mess of books, papers, highlighters—finally pulling out your slim, cherry red pager. A stupid little vanity choice that now made you feel ridiculous. You held it out to him with hesitation. He snatched it easily with one large hand, then pulled his own from his pocket. Oh. Of course he had the nicer model. Full-text capability. Probably provided by the school. Something about emergency maintenance or after-hours reports, you remembered overhearing. He typed for a moment, then handed yours back. One message was already flashing on the screen:
You come when I call.
You felt like your stomach had dropped through the floor.
“Oh fuck no,” you whispered.
But he was already turning, slipping your diary deeper into his coveralls like it was just another tool in his belt. You stepped forward without thinking, your voice rising as panic bled through your words.
"I'm not doing that, Michael! I'm not going to be dragged around by words on a little screen! Please just... please just give me back my book."
It was all you could offer now. A last-ditch effort. A plea wrapped in desperation. He stopped. That pause stretched—just long enough to fill your lungs with some fragile sliver of hope. But then he looked at you. First his head turned slightly, like he was studying a sound only he could hear. Then the full weight of his gaze found you. His eyes were unreadable. Cold. Calculating. You didn’t even get a second to react before he started toward you, slow, steady, like the outcome was already decided and he was just enjoying the space between now and then.
You backed up. One step. Two. Three—until your back hit the bookshelf behind you. He didn’t stop. Not until he was close. Too close. You stared up at him, eyes wide, heart rattling in your chest like it wanted to flee. His shadow overtook yours. His presence swallowed up the quiet little corner of the library like ink spilling over a page. Blond hair hung forward as he tilted his head down, casting a half-shadow over his face. His jaw was tight. His shoulders squared. And his voice—when it came—was a quiet, gravel-dragging threat.
"Pretty fucking mouthy for someone with everything to lose, huh, princess?"
Your breath caught. That word—princess—twisted in his mouth like a joke, a slur dressed in silk. There was mockery behind it, yes, but also something else. Something sadistic. A low burn behind his eyes that made your knees lock and your throat tighten. Because in this moment, with your diary in his pocket and your back against the wall, you weren't sure who exactly had the upper hand anymore. You just stared up at him, wide-eyed and breathless, your back pressed so hard into the shelf it felt like the spines of a dozen books were imprinting into your skin. Your mouth opened once—then closed. No sound came out. You didn’t know what to say, didn’t even know what to think with him so close, towering and unmoving, a heat in the air that had nothing to do with temperature.
You felt like a rabbit locked in the jaws of a wolf. Trapped. Small. And completely at the mercy of the predator watching you with those sharp, narrowed eyes. God, he smelled like cigarette ash and oil—acrid and mechanical, like sweat-soaked denim and something wild underneath. It burned your nose and still, for some reason you couldn’t quite explain, your heart stuttered. There was something electric in the way he looked at you. Something feral. Unblinking.
Fucking Michael Myers.
The guy your whole group whispered about behind their hands. The guy no one dared sit beside. The one people crossed the street to avoid. That guy was standing here with your diary in his pocket and a dangerous gleam in his eye—and instead of tossing it aside, instead of sneering and walking off like you didn’t even matter... he was using it. Against you. You, of all people. That meant something. You didn’t know what, but it sank low in your stomach and curled around something you weren’t ready to name.
“Got nothing more to say, rich girl?" His voice was low, clipped and curling with disdain. He stepped in just slightly closer, and you felt your breath hitch. “What? Fucking scared?”
Your lips parted again, but no words came. You weren’t sure what you were more terrified of—his sneer, or the thrill singing through your veins at the idea that someone like him had you pinned like this. Not physically—no, not yet—but cornered in every other way. And worse? He knew it. He didn’t say anything at first—just stared at you with that same infuriating mix of cruel amusement and quiet calculation. The kind of look that said he owned you now, and you both knew it. The slow curl at the edge of his mouth deepened, not quite a smirk, not quite a smile—just that dark little twitch of satisfaction. Like a predator settling in after cornering its prey. You felt it all the way down your spine.
“You fucking like this shit, don’t you?”
The words fell from his lips like a challenge, low and mocking, almost too soft for how sharp they cut. You flinched—not because he was wrong, but because he might not be. And that scared you more than anything. God, you were so beyond fucked. Your heart jackhammered against your ribs, a panicked rhythm that only made his eyes glint brighter, like he could hear it. Like he was savoring it. You had to go. Before your mom blew up the landline. Before your dad made some poor police officer canvas every square inch of the campus. Before Michael kept peeling you apart, layer by layer. Before you let him. You tore your gaze away from that too-knowing stare, eyes darting to the floor, to his boots, to anything that wasn’t the way his mouth looked when it curved like that.
“I’ll... I’ll come when you page me,” you mumbled, words tumbling over each other as you clutched the strap of your bag like it could anchor you.
Your voice cracked a little on that last word, and you hated that he heard it. You swallowed thickly, the realization hitting like a punch to the gut. You were done. There was no bargaining, no clever words left to twist this into something manageable. Michael had you exactly where he wanted you—cornered, vulnerable, and forced to comply. You could feel the coldness of his gaze as it bore into you, sharp and unrelenting. The weight of his presence, the weight of what he was holding over you, was suffocating. The room felt smaller now, the silence more oppressive than before. You could almost hear the click of your own pulse against your eardrums, a reminder that you had no other choice. Your options were stripped bare, and you hated every bit of it.
You couldn’t fight him. Not now. Not like this. His words were a weapon, and every syllable sent a jolt of fear through you. “One time,” you spoke, your voice unsteady but resigned, “I’ll come when you call. But you’ll give it back to me. You have to.”
You hated the way your heart raced, the way your body clenched in that quiet moment of submission. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. This wasn’t what you’d envisioned, not in any scenario. But here you were, striking some fragile, desperate deal with the devil in front of you. Michael didn’t speak at first. He just stared at you—those cold, piercing eyes never leaving your face. The silence between you stretched out, heavy and uncomfortable. Finally, he gave a small, dismissive grunt, as though your compliance was something he’d expected all along.
“Good,” he said, voice rough and low, just a single word that lingered like smoke in the air. And then, without another glance, he turned, moving toward the exit with the same indifference he always had.
You stood there for a moment, frozen, feeling like a puppet whose strings had been pulled too tight. The deal was struck. And for better or worse, your fate was tied to him now. You were tangled in the mess he’d made of your life, and there was no undoing it. He strode ahead without a word, long strides purposeful, boots echoing down the dim corridor like a ticking clock you couldn’t stop. It took you a second to register he was actually letting you go, and when it clicked, you startled into motion, hurrying to keep up. Your breath came quicker with every step—whether from exertion or adrenaline, you couldn’t quite tell—as you tried to match his pace.
By the time he reached the front entrance, you were just a step behind, slightly breathless, watching as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. They jingled softly in the hush of the empty library. He flipped through them without looking, like he’d done this routine a hundred times before, until he found the right one. With a low metallic click, the lock turned. He didn’t say anything. Just jerked his head toward the door and casually leaned back against the librarian’s desk, arms crossed, body language unreadable. You lingered for a beat, studying him like a trapped animal studies the open cage door, unsure if it’s a trick.
But then your hand reached out, slowly, and pushed. The door gave way without resistance. Relief hit you hard and fast—so much so you nearly stumbled outside. The night air was cold and crisp, brushing across your face like a slap. It grounded you. Reminded you that, yes, this was real. You were outside now. You turned around instinctively, eyes catching on him through the glass. He was already moving again, slipping the keys back into his pocket as he turned away. No words. No farewell. No smug smile. Just a quiet return to whatever janitorial duties he’d been performing before he stumbled across you and your little blue book of secrets.
That diary—your diary—was still with him. He vanished into the dark interior like he’d never been there at all. And you stood alone on the steps, spine stiff, heart a wreck. The door locked behind you with a soft, echoing click. And just like that, you were on the outside again, but not free. Not really. He still had it. Still had you.
God, you were so screwed.