Trick or Treat

He felt responsible. That was the only way left to justify his obsession with his former patient. He felt responsible for not fighting the courts when they ordered that the evil be set free, for failing time and again to bring it to an end. For not being able to save the Myers family.
Which was why Dr. Samuel Loomis kept a close, continual watch on Haddonfield, especially around Halloween. And why he was currently driving like a maniac through dark, rain-drenched streets. Maybe the media hadn’t been able to recognize the style of the killing, but he'd known Michael Myers for too long. The question as to why he'd taken a victim seemingly at random – because Loomis knew that Michael never did /anything/ at random – was pushed aside. The evil was stirring again, and had to be stopped. That was all that mattered.

He pulled up in front of the dilapidated Myers house, knowing that if Michael wasn't there already he would be soon, and limped up the front walkway to the door. The dust on the floor was broken by footprints – one pair large, and the other small, both sets intermingled. Fear gnawed at him – someone, besides Michael and himself, was in the house.
A shout echoed through the house from an upstairs room. Loomis forgot all subtlety and charged up the stairs, leaning heavily on the rail to keep his limp from hindering him. There were thumps coming from the room on the left, and gasping sobs. He threw the door open –

And saw the last thing he expected to see.

Michael Myers – naked – reclining on a bed he could have dealt with. What made the entire scene so horrific was the young woman he was holding – who was holding him in return! – and was very willingly touching him and being touched by him.

Loomis assimilated all this in the second before Michael reacted, hurling out of the bed and grabbing his knife. Loomis also reacted instinctively, raising his gun and shooting Michael. The girl screamed and Michael jolted backwards a little, blood pouring down his shoulder.
Of course, that didn’t stop Myers for more then a second, but a second was all Loomis needed. He backed out into the corridor, drawing the fight away from the room. While the girl's innocence was debatable, he had no evidence that she was guilty of anything other then extremely poor taste in men.
Michael stalked forward, and as Loomis retreated he began to wonder if he hadn't done a very stupid thing…

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He was bleeding. Anna huddled on the bed, clutching the blankets to herself and watching through impossibly wide eyes. Michael strode into the corridor, knife raised, and some small corner of her mind noticed that he managed to be perfectly confident even in his birthday suit. Another shot rang out from the hall, galvanizing her to action, and she slid out from the under the covers and dressed hurriedly.
When she made it out into the hall, the intruder was leaning heavily against a wall, panting and aiming his gun at Michael. Michael was pacing forwards calmly. The man fired, missed, fired again. Michael jerked backwards, more blood leaking slowly down his skin. Anna clung to the doorframe, nails digging into the splintery old wood, too scared to scream.
The intruder fired again, hit again, and she found her voice and shrieked. He jumped and turned – and Michael took the opportunity to grab him by the throat. Anna watched in horror as her paramour's grip tightened, the man scrabbling frantically at his hands, eyes bulging…

"NO!"

Without thinking, she raced over and grabbed Michael's wrists, pulling futilely – he was much stronger then her. She began sobbing, pleading with Michael to let him go, not to kill. Michael removed one hand and pushed Anna away. She stumbled with the force of it and ended up pressed against the opposite wall. The intruder took advantage of the distraction and broke free, pelting down the stairs. Michael shoved his knife into the wall in frustration, then turned on Anna. She was trembling, face tear-streaked and terrified, but Michael didn't notice or care. He stalked over and she squeezed her eyes shut in fear, clutching at the wall as he came closer and grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her away from the wall…

He shook her. Not particularly hard – not as hard as she could sense he wanted to – but obviously angry with her. The he let her drop and she collapsed on the floor, sobbing. Anna heard his footsteps moving away, into the bedroom…

Without letting herself think, she pulled herself up and ran.

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Michael flew into the room in a rage, finding his coveralls in a tangle on the floor. He pulled them on and zipped them up, ignoring the blood that immediately stained the blue fabric, then moved back out into the hall, intending to find Anna and place her out of the way while he searched for Loomis.

She was gone.

If Michael spoke, he would have growled at that moment. He slammed one fist into the wall, then the other, leaving two large dent marks next to where he had thrust his knife earlier. She had /left/ him. The thought of this made him rip the knife from the damaged plaster and charge down the stairs. She couldn't have gone far: she'd been slow before; sluggish, even. She was somewhere in the neighborhood...

The night shrouded him, allowing him to move freely without being seen. There weren't any people crowding his path, no one in his way. Lucky for them. His murderous rage was far beyond what he'd ever felt, and when -- not if -- he found Anna, he wasn't sure how much self-control he could maintain.

And when he found Loomis...

Her body had been so warm beneath him, her gasps and sobs of pleasure pleasing him in turn. The moment had been exhilarating... and then Loomis had burst in, aiming his gun and firing. Michael seethed, red clouding his vision. Loomis had made her leave him. If he hadn't shown up, they'd still be in the bed, him caressing her and her whispering unintelligible words.

Anna would not be punished.

Loomis would suffer.

At that moment, a very foolish man stepped into his path, holding out a small cup. "Hey, man, got a quarter?"

Michael's fingers flexed around the knife handle, knuckles turning white.

The bum raised his brows and chuckled. "Halloween was a two weeks ago..."

The bum might have seen the brief flash of the knife's blade before he died; Michael didn't know. All he knew was that he was stabbing, and stabbing, and stabbing, until the man lay in a bloody heap at his feet. Michael stepped over him and continued his hunt.