Hey guess what? I've got a surprise for you. Can you guess what it is? Well, I'll tell you regardless... C'mere, gather round, come close.
It's chapter 5 of GOH.
I don't know what kinda games my mind is playing but my brain sorta just sat down and said "I don't know what sleep is so let's write like we're on crack, okay?" And I went along with it. So technically I lied when I said it would be finished at the end of the week, because it's only been like what, 2 days since chapter 4?
Also I may have hinted at a certain favourite White Masked Man making his return to someone in this chapter, but I never mentioned who. Who do YOU think it is? As per usual you can find all of the chapter warnings in the trigger section below so if you struggle with anything in particular please check that first because this chapter could prove to be somewhat sensitive for some audiences. Thanks! 💋
Taglist: @megafrost4 @dead-bxtch-walking @sugarstarxoxo @ireallyhateithere2 @necas7325 @michaels-orange-mask @reyloisperfect @randomyklol @vapurrrrwave @eldaryan @myers-meadow @goosecadet @liv-victoriano @mz-bats @horrorqueenn @chaotic-am @utena-akashiya @macabrecakes Ask to be added to the taglist 💜
Universe/Fandom: Halloween 1978 (Non-RZ) Rating: Mature/Adult. Minors keep your distance. Chapters: 5/? Chapter Triggers/Warnings: Strong language, Strong depictions of violence/gore, death, Angst, knifeplay, very mild depiction of non-explicit non-con, Emotional distress/Abuse, Fluff, Forgiveness. Overall themes: Tension, Drama, Slow burn, Abuse, Strong Language, Past trauma, Manipulation, Strong depictions of Violence/Gore, Phsycological/ Physical trauma, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Mental Illness, Murder, Romance, Angst, Loss, Death, Comfort, Mild humour, Romance, Friendship, Fluff, Smut, Stockholm Syndrome, Non-con themes, Knifeplay, Stalking, Marking, Obsessive/Posessive behaviour, Choking, Explicit Sexual content. Reader details: Female, first-person perspective. Characters: Female reader, Michael Myers (Non-RZ), Samuel Loomis, Laurie Strode, Jed Perkins (Non-canon OC), Jamie Harris (Non-canon OC), Parker Reed (Non-canon OC), Josh Hewit (Non-canon OC), Erin White (Non-canon OC)
Ghost Of Haddonfield: Chapter five
The cold. It's all you can feel and it's absolutely everywhere, surrounding you, embracing you in it's cruel arms and leaving not an inch of your skin untouched or unexplored. It kisses along your arms and up your neck, prickling the flesh with terrified goosebumps and raised hairs. It's not just the cold though, but the darkness. The dark, silken curtains of night had once again fallen and brought with it a horrible restlessness, leaving much of the room swallowed in thick, inky shadows that no amount of squinting could penetrate; something so very reminiscent of what you faced in Michael's cell. Not even the faint shimmers of a silver flecked sky through the glass window panes nor the angelic icy hue of the moon could push past the lingering darkness. It's as though they weren't even shadows at all, but rather some unnatural source or entity was existing where light entered but never exited.
Your icy finger tips cling to the blanket pulled over and around your body, coiled tightly in it for desperate warmth that never seemed to come. You're a shivering heap, and something is moving; moving back and forth very slowly within those eery pools of impenetrable black that painted the walls and floors. What's worse is that the shadows have been slowly approaching the safety of your bed over the last half an hour, creeping ever closer, and bringing with it whatever being is silently lurking and watching you from across the room. You know there's someone in there just patiently waiting for the right moment to pounce, you've felt that unnatural sense of being watched so very intently, though it had been most prominent on the night of Michael's escape where he'd subjected you to a portion of his sick personality. It's not something one forgets. It's not a memory that fades so easily as that of the scar he left.
The darkness is closing in, cornering you and leaving you bare and defenseless as it swallows up the opposite side of the room and drags it's malicious fingers along the metal-framed bottom of the bed. There's nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Why is this happening? Why is it happening again?
"Wake up," you whisper to yourself as you push your back to the very back of your bed, knees drawn tightly to your chest. "Please...Please, wake up. Th-this isn't real." Your words tremble from the cold and growing dread, pulling the blanket down your arm to reveal a small but deep scratch where you'd pinched the skin so hard it'd split. It does nothing. It doesn't pull you out of whatever hellish nightmare you're experiencing. Is it even a nightmare? It's impossible to tell.
Your eyes flick around the room desperately looking for something before finally landing on the small, empty drink glass that sat idly on the bedside table, reaching for it and swiftly smashing it against the wall. It shatters loudly and crumbles in large shards onto the floor, leaving but one large jagged piece in your palm. The lethal edge glints maliciously from being twisted back and forth subtly between your fingertips. You swallow, eying it apprehensively whilst tugging any fabric away from your upper arm. You have to be sure. If it's a nightmare, it should hopefully wake you up instantaneously. At least that's how it seemed to work in the movies…
With a steady breath you squeeze the shard tightly in your trembling grasp and slip the blanket into your mouth, beads of cold sweat already glistening on your forehead. Jamming the glass into the skin violently with one swift motion the pain erupts and blossoms into a searing agony that feels like a fire torch's flame being held to the precious skin. The sickening scream that comes from your mouth is only partially muffled by the blankets thin material, biting down so hard you thought your teeth might just shatter with the force. Streams of hot tears sting your eyes and dampen your cheeks in their salted warmth, trickling off your chin in steady succession one after another. The pain is so intense and vivid it turns your stomach, you're acutely aware of the sensation of the river of hot crimson cascading down the length of your arm to stain the pristine pearl sheets in dots of coppery bright red.
Nothing changes. You're still very much here. The darkness continues on it's steady path towards you, having already consumed everything up to the bed and halfway past the foot of it. "WAKE UP!" You cry, "FUCKING WAKE UP! YOU'RE NOT REAL! THIS ISN'T REAL!" You scream into the darkness with every ounce of your being, your voice cracks with every woeful and hopeless shriek. It was your last hope and not even that could save you; screaming into the void. After a final few minutes of sitting in the shame of your failure, the shadows finally creep over the last small pools of cool icy light pouring through the window, swallowing everything in its path until you're in nothing but an inky, black emptiness. It's cold and paralyzing. It feels as though your limbs are frozen in place, refusing to obey you, likened to invisible straps binding you in place much as if you were a psychotic patient.
And then you can hear it. The faint sound of breathing that cuts through the silent, still atmosphere like a hot, sharpened knife through flesh. If there were any warm blood left in your dry veins then it would've turned cold and left you paling. You know the sound. It's a unique noise where the breathing is only vaguely muffled behind something. You've heard it once before, it was in the exact same situation where light refused to penetrate dark to reveal that dreaded, ghostly latex face.
There's no time to react and no moment to scream, suddenly finding your body wrenched violently by your legs from the metal frame head and down onto your back. The weight of something heavy and unseen seemingly clambers onto you, sinking every ounce of it's being into your torso to practically straddle your hips. Sitting up is an impossible task, seeing as though your arms are paralysed and pinned either side of your thighs. No amount of thrashing or pulling frees them but instead conjures forth a harsh shove to your sternum as a large hand jams you back down into the mattress to hold you in place. You wince as the figure adjusts himself against you, noting how each of his thighs encase themselves tightly, almost posessively around the curves of your pelvis and constrict it. Your eyes squeeze shut to contain those wretched tears that always seem to plague you, containing and masking the dread that swirled wildly amongst dark irises.
There's a deep ache that blooms the harder he clenches, ensuring that you, the prey, remain ensnared beneath him. The palm remains planted firmly against your chest until he's certain that you'll abide by his silent demands before removing his hand entirely and propping it beside your head, followed by his other free hand. The frail mattress bows just shy of your face as he leans his weight into the material, seemingly looming over you. Judging from how the breathing becomes louder, you already know how close he is, examining you like an insect beneath a microscope that needs to be researched and understood. His left hand leaves the mattress and hovers over it briefly before meeting the soft flesh of your collarbone to trace curious and playful shapes against the skin with a featherlight touch that pulls a defiant shiver up your frozen spine to blossom through every nerve.
You dare not open your eyes, even if you can't see him, you know he's there. Perhaps it was even somewhat of a game to him, building up such incredible strain until you ultimately crack. "Please...Stop…" you whimper through trembling lips as his fingers continue to toy with the skin, tenderly dragging back and forth over each collarbone. The touch is so sickeningly gentle, almost as if it were a gesture of affection. A silent request that you open your eyes to gaze upon him. They trail downwards slowly, grazing across the soft material hugging every dip and curve of your torso before pausing at the hem of the shirt and massaging tiny, warm circles into the skin under it.
Gentle thumbs hook under the fabric and begin pulling it upwards to reveal the plush canvas of flesh beneath. Soft and unharmed. He stops just as it reaches the subtle incline of each plush breast. You'd stopped breathing, trembling, terrified and hollow beneath this monster's manipulation. What was it that you feared more? Was it how alarmingly gentle he treated you? Or perhaps how soft his fingertips were? Maybe even the shocking heat they carried that left a trail of soothing warmth behind? Your body and mind are in a cruel brawl with one another, one defiant and melting into the touch but the other is on its knees crying, screaming and pleading for it to stop.
The hand retracts from your chest, leaving it cold again and crying for the sinful warmth to return once more for comfort. And so it does return after a brief moment, but something is different. Something changes. It's not the heated, tender touch of a lover but rather the cold, silver point of a steel blade that lingers atop the centre of your sternum. There's no force being applied. It simply nuzzles against the flesh, weighted down by its own handle and the balanced grasp of its owner. It travels upwards, gliding effortlessly over the bunched fabric covering your chest and continues onwards towards your neck, across your throat, over your jaw, past your cheekbone before finally settling directly at the corner of your right eye. The point is sharp, prodding at the delicate flesh with ease but not enough to cause any pain and taps lightly against the skin as though he were waiting for you to do something, or maybe even encouraging you; encouraging you to open those beautifully bewitching eyes for him to become lost within, but you can't help but squeeze them tighter in defiance. The sharp tip of the blade presses rather suddenly into your temple, pulling a soft hiss from your trembling lips when the point tests the elasticity of the skin, still not hard enough to puncture it yet. It was one of those silent warnings; 'Open your eyes or I'll make you.'
With an anxious and faint nod, you comply, slowly parting your lids from each other and allowing yourself to blink once more at the surrounding darkness that still consumed everything in the room aside from the faint glimmer of moonlight that spills in through the windows yet illuminated nothing. The blade eases away from your face and leaves a small indent in the skin where it'd been pushed against. The figure sits up briefly and rests all of his weight against your straddled hips. You know he's sat up from how the warmth that radiated from his hand beside your face all but vanishes, allowing the mattress to spring back from the imprint, but it's short lived. His left hand slinks around your throat, curling each finger tip tightly into the springy flesh beneath your jaw not so much to choke as it was simply to hold you in place, but the angle it forces you to look up in is very much intentional. Still, you fail to find the face your terrified eyes tirelessly seek out, until he shifts and leans forward in the slightest. Then, and only then, does the flush of pale moonlight illuminate exactly what he wants you to see.
A ghostly white latex mask glows eerily beneath the cool pearlescent light, washing over only a small portion of it down to his shoulders that remained covered by thick, navy blue mechanic overalls. You recognize the description of the clothes instantly, recalling back to when you'd snooped through the Sanitarium's private patient records.
The way his fingers encase your throat and jaw in one direction is a clear indication he wants you to see him, whatever his intentions may be. He tilts his head faintly, examining you whom he so expertly caged beneath his beastly frame. He lifts his right hand, clutching within his fingers the knife he'd previously threatened you with. It's perfectly sharp, silver blade glints in the haunting gleam of moonlight as he begins to slowly raise it far above his head as his knuckles pale with his tightened grip on the handle and that's when you realise Michael only wants you to gaze upon him knowing it would be the last face you ever see. His thumb pushes into the side of your throat, bordering on a possessive mannerism and resting firmly on top of one small area to silently please his senses to the steadily growing pace of your pulse beneath his touch. You can only pray that it's quick and painless.
With one final squeeze of your neck, he brings the blade plummeting down into your chest with every ounce of his might, clean through your racing heart. The scream that leaves your lungs is empty and mute, shriveling into a choked gasp. You can feel the second the knife pierces your flesh and cuts effortlessly through all layers of the underlying muscle and bone in one quick motion. A perfect blend of searing agony and extreme, blunt aches blossom throughout your chest. It's a strange sensation to feel your heart stop beating in the span of a few seconds. One moment you're alive and feel the rhythm of your pulse, the next, savage steel puts a swift end to it's lively, warm-blooded beat.
Just for those last few seconds of consciousness can you feel the warmth of Michael leaning in close to your face, muffled breaths echoing from behind his pale mask, the lips of it lingering some place between your ear and cheekbone. He utters something so quietly it comes as nothing but a faint whisper like a warm and gentle breeze. Two words, gentle as a feather but clear as day even through the growing buzz in your ears.
You snap forward suddenly with a violent gasp as your hands dart forward to cling to the blanket draped lazily over your legs, blinking and panting like you'd been starved of oxygen for hours. Beads of salty sweat dampen not only your face, but the entirety of your body, having soaked through much of your light hospital gown. Panic stricken eyes flick vigorously around the room, trying to remember where you are and why you're there. A slow, trembling sigh bristles through your lips, releasing the stress of a cruel awakening. It was just a nightmare; the same nightmare you've been suffering with over the course of the last few nights in the hospital but each time growing progressively longer and more twisted in such creatively cruel ways. No matter how the nightmare begins it always ends with your demise at the hands of the man in the white mask.
You remember becoming agitated when the nurse asked if you needed something to help you sleep, mentioning that the dark bags under your eyes were becoming more prominent. Drugs are the absolute last thing you want keeping you asleep and forcing you to endure further mental torture; It always feels so horrifically real and you're not sure how much more of it you can handle without going utterly insane. Within those dreams when you die, you always wake up. So what would happen if you physically can't wake up?
Your tired, half lidded eyes linger on the clock that ticks away happily, grumbling in frustration from this newly found curse that plagued your mind every time you even thought about dozing off. It's seven thirty in the morning, on the dot, close to when nurses would begin visiting patients and serving miserable, bland breakfasts that typically only consist of fruit, cereal and a glass of water or cup of tea and coffee. If you were extra lucky it would be a slice of vaguely burnt toast, a few slices of dry or greasy bacon, a skimpy sausage and two tablespoons of already cold scrambled egg.
"Had enough of this place," you grumble quietly before slipping out of the creaky hospital bed and heading over to the nearby drawers to pull out a neatly rolled bath towel, slinging your overnight bag packed with necessities over your shoulder and leaving the room to scurry over to the patient bathrooms just across from the private ward. The halls are thankfully quiet at this hour. The door clicks shut behind you, locking it and tossing the bag into the corner of the room, quickly stripping free of your sweat drenched clothes and kicking them away whilst draping the towel over the metal railing screwed into the blue and white painted walls.
It's not a very comfortable bathroom, not like home, but it would get the job done at the very least even if there wasn't the soothing pleasure of a pre-heated room and a soft, fluffy bath mat to bury your feet in post-bathing rather than cold and slippery gritted gray tiling. The metal pipes leading up the wall groan and creak for a brief moment as the water comes charging through them and cascades from the shower head like a warm summer's rain, drenching your skin in streams of hot water that trickle down every dip and curve of exposed skin. You stand beneath the falling warmth that embraces you affectionately, tilting your head back and closing your eyes to simply take a moment to relax and let every trace of the world around you melt away, and yet you can still feel the dread in your chest waiting to take over again after your part ways from the comfort of peaceful hot water. Perhaps it only wants to protect you but there really isn't any danger, is there? It sits there like an angry ball propelling you towards an anxiety you just don't need.
Your eyes part, bowing your head down to stare tiredly at your open palm as small streams of water trickle and pool in the center before overflowing and plummeting off the edges. The slash was already beginning to heal even after just a few days, having mostly lost it's angry red flush for a warm shade of baby pink. Your fingers curl around the freshly opened bar of soap sat on the edge of the nearby sink, rubbing it gently between your wet palms until it releases a mildly floral scented lather. It blankets your body in it's soothing smell after being glided over the damp flesh before being washed away along with the accompanying shampoo and conditioner that softened each lock and strand of hair.
The heated falling droplets come to a stop after flipping the shower off and stepping out of the drainage area. You snatch the towel from the nearby railing and begin drying the dampness from your hair and skin from head to toe until content then forage through the overnight bag for a fresh set of messily folded clothes, slipping into a pair of navy blue jeans, sneakers and a slightly baggy sweatshirt with the printing of a cute chibi-like Halloween ghost clutching a carved, grinning jack o'lantern. Once finished, you toss the wet towel into the laundry basket in the opposite corner by the entrance before unlocking the door and slinking back to your room to finish packing the rest of your belongings.
The oak door creaks open as you enter, but you pause in the doorway to gaze upon a familiar face who remained seated on the edge of your empty yet remade bed, widening your eyes somewhat at the sight. Some part of you wants to be surprised, but the rest is simply too tired to care. Parker sits there, idly flipping through a faded magazine but immediately sets it aside as he hears you enter. He greets you with an apprehensive smile which you fail to return, simply traipsing further into the room and slinging the bag onto the bed beside him, avoiding eye contact and yet you can still feel his pleading eyes following your every little movement.
"Why're you here?" You question blandly, void of all visible emotion as you proceed to fold the bloodied nursing uniform from some nights ago.
He clears his throat and readjusts himself to face you better in hopes you might take notice of him. "I heard about the accident," he murmurs, "I thought I'd come and offer you some company and...Reassurance."
You scoff, rolling your eyes and shaking your head as the words leave his mouth. Your tone drips with mockery, already irked by his mere presence let alone his typically pretentious mannerisms. "Wow, that's such a thoughtful gesture. I must be the luckiest woman alive, huh?"
"Why can't you just take something for what it is for once instead of always biting back with some snide remark?" He growls darkly.
The words freeze you in place for a moment. If this were a cartoon, steam would be billowing from either ear. You continue shoving things into the bag more and more furiously. "And why can't you just understand me when I say 'stay the hell away from me'?
"Because I care about you! I miss you!"
Such irony could quite easily have pulled a hearty cackle from your lungs but that would take precious energy; energy you don't wish to waste on him. Instead, an amused snort leaves you, smirking to yourself as you glance over to the pitiful man-child lurking in the corner of your eye. "You were neither of those things when you were busy screwing another woman in my bed whilst I was out breaking my fucking back earning an income for us. Didn't exactly miss me then, did you?"
Parker opens his mouth to spit back a retort, but only silence tumbles from his lips. He sighs and sheepishly rubs the back of his tidy, slicked hair. "Y'know I regretted it...I was under a lot of pressure and I got stressed and didn't know how to cope so I turned to drinking and-"
"Don't," you stop him. "I don't want to hear it."
He blinks in bewilderment, his lower lip offering the faintest of trembles. "What?"
"I don't care what your shitty reasoning was, Parker," you mumble, turning to face him with a half lidded stare so unforgiving and as cold as ice it might just freeze over the depths of hell. "I can put up with a lot. But what I refuse to put up with is a man who believes that everything he does when the going gets tough, holds no consequence. You don't throw a plate on the ground and then say 'sorry' to it and magically all is well again."
"We can start over! You know I'd do anything, everything can be perfect again! We'll have our own house and family and-"
"No!" You roar over him, angrily zipping the bag and throwing it over your shoulder. "There is no 'we' in this! Not anymore, it's just you and me. Don't you get it, Parker? You blew it. Right now I've had enough pain and suffering to last me half a lifetime. I'm tired-no, exhausted. If you want to do something for me, then just sit down, shut up and listen closely because I'm done repeating myself. You think you should matter to me still, yet you hurt me when I myself needed healing, you flung everything at me that could cause me to feel shame or guilt. Then you acted as if you were the victim and a martyr to boot. How can you matter to me when you became the antimatter of my psychology, when you single handedly created a black hole in my brain that threatened to destroy all that I was or ever could be? Your gas-lighting was aimed at reducing how well my logical brain functioned, to cause an imbalance between that and my creative brain, inducing a temporary psychosis that you then exploited for your own gain and, yes... used to pile on more guilt and shame. You sent me crazy on purpose. You are a monster and our breakup was long, long, long overdue. Everything is so fucking temporary...And I guess this was merely one of those things."
Parker glares up at you as he pushes himself off the bed and folds his arms across his slowly heaving chest. His cold eyes match your own ferocity and bitterness. It seems he just can't take being force-fed the reality of the relationship's undoing. He steps forward, closing the already narrow gap between the two of you until you could feel the warmth of his breath beat across your face as he spoke. "If all I am to you is some evil character on some bad memory card that you access over and over, reminding me of my past errors over and over then I love you for always and forever, but I suppose our good times outnumber the bad by multitudes, although listening to you anyone would think it was a shit show."
You lock eyes with him, your voice deathly calm. "It was a shit show and you damn well know it. I swam for the light when I realised I could no longer breathe even when I tried to hold out for as long as I possibly could and you did everything in your power to drag me down into the abyss with you. You betrayed me, not the other way around."
Only a lover such as him can cause pain as deep as what you experienced. Only one all the way inside a heart can shatter it with just a few words. Worst part is - you know that, don't you? He claims that he loves you, he claims that he needs you, he destroys you and then the music starts all over again. Perhaps there's a part of Parker that feels low in status, powerless. There's a part of you that he resents, though if he really knew the inner workings of your mind then he'd never cope. There's a part of him that wants you to suffer as he supposedly does... and so every once in a while he would break your heart. Power. Unearned and undeserved revenge. Misery for both. Guilt for him. Sadness for you. Who wins? It's simply poison. If you're truly over this, then why does saying goodbye still hurt so much?
Your gaze softens for a moment, that blazing fire of internal hatred faltering as the memories of better days return to you, washing over the painful ones, even if just to numb them for a few seconds and remind you that things weren't always so difficult. Perhaps things could have been so very different if you'd convinced him to remain in New York with you. Afterall, this strange newly found behaviour of his only began to rear its ugly head almost instantly after moving, but why? He'd always been the one who so desperately wanted you to come with him. You lean in slowly, planting a delicate kiss upon his forehead and turning away to leave but he catches your wrist between his fingertips gently, barely holding you so that you might pull away as you please. You twist your head to face him with a questioning, quirked brow.
"Where are you going?" He asks in a genuinely curious if not concerned tone.
"Home. I can't stand being cooped up here any longer. I need my own space away from anywhere that looks or smells like a hospital."
Parker clenches his jaw tightly, feeling his stomach jerk violently in his body the longer he stands watching you, seemingly reflecting on his actions and processing your words and what it ultimately meant for the two of you. His throat tightens as his lips part, barely able to squeeze the words from his aching lungs. "Will...Will I see you again?
Your eyes meet his own after a long moment of silence between the two of you. You squint a little as you search his expression, not fully understanding why he cared enough to ask such a question. Why did he wait? Why did the man you once called your best friend, high school sweetheart, boyfriend, fiancé, to-be husband and now turned ex-lover wait this long to realise what he would ultimately lose? "How long is a piece of string, Parker?"
He shifts uncomfortably, staring at you like a lost child asking for directions. "If...If I find the answer, and change my ways, would you be willing to sit down and talk some time?"
"Some day, perhaps. I need space. I need time. Don't do this simply with the expectation to simply mend what we had before, nor because it's what I want to hear-but rather because you really do want to be a better person. If not for me, then at the very least do it for yourself because I know you're better than this." You offer him one final pitying glance before slipping your arm away from his gentle clutch, leaving him to soak up the silence of the empty room, the only sound gracing his ears being that of the clock that hung on the tasteless walls still marching on like an ever dutiful, proud soldier; Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tock tick, tock tick, tock tick...
Time, as great as love, is the unchangeable, for it is there at the end as it was at the start.
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