I’ve been a pretty big Halloween fan for a while, but apart from the original Halloween, I just haven’t really been impressed. I decided it’s time for me to write a Halloween fanfiction, and I’m just calling it: Michael Myers.
This horror is basically written from the point of view of Michael; he’s the protagonist, not the antagonist, and I promise you all, you’ve never seen Michael Myers like this.
Halloween is probably one of the best known horror flicks, and it’s certainly done very well, but I’m just not sure it’s aged well. Rob Zombie tried to retell the story, and don’t misunderstand, I love Rob Zombie, but I think this new version of Michael Myers is going to be better than Halloween.
Big words, I know, but here’s the second chapter of Michael Myers, a Halloween Fanfiction, by Aaron Dennis. That’s me…I’m Aaron Dennis….
No one had seen hide nor tail of Missy Myers or Tom Strode. When the police went by the house, the gruesome scene was evident; the six year old boy had killed his parents. At the police station, the Strodes were happy to take in their granddaughter, but no one wanted anything to do with little Michael Myers, who sat there, dangling his feet, wearing his bloody, green pyjamas, and holding a toy, makeup brush.
The psychiatrist on duty knew there was no home for the boy, no home except Smith’s Grove Sanitarium. By nightfall, an old man knelt down before the boy. Michael kept swinging his feet, staring at the motion.
“Hello,” the old man said. He had short, gray hair, and a soft tone. “I’m Doctor Loomis. Can you tell me your name?” Michael had no reaction. Loomis stood and whispered to another man for a moment. “Yes, Smith’s Grove will be the best place for a boy like this. Our methods yield results.” He then knelt down in front of the boy again. “They told me your name is Michael, Michael Myers. Come with me.”
Loomis stood and held out his hand. Again, Michael didn’t appear to comprehend the situation around him, so Loomis grabbed the boy’s empty hand, and he slid of the chair. Together, they walked down the tile floor, under fluorescent lights. Some of the officers gave the two scant looks, but they were all busy.
Outside the station, under an orange streetlamp, the two stood for a moment while a black car pulled around. It was drizzling, and Michael looked up to view the droplets of rain appear from within the cone of light. Then, he was gently pushed into the back seat of the car. Loomis slid in next to him. Michael began brushing his face with his sister’s toy.
“You like the way that feels,” Loomis stated. “It’s understandable. There are many boys and girls just like you. Tomorrow morning, after we get you all set up, you’ll get to meet them.”
The car drove out of the city, and down a dark road. There were no other cars, and thick oaks lined both sides of the street. It was a long ride, and Michael fell asleep in the car.
****
During the next, few months, Michael saw less and less of Doctor Loomis. He didn’t care one way or the other. The other boys and girls didn’t interest him, nor did they appear to have much of an interest in him. Some of them tried to touch him. One of them took the toy brush from his hands while he was sitting up in his cot.
Michael turned to face the boy; he was bigger than some of the others, and his face was cold and hard. Michael lunged out of his bed, bit the boy’s throat and rained down fists. They tumbled over, but Michael kept on slamming his hands down over the boy’s face. When the boy stopped moving, he retrieved his brush, sat back on his cot, and rocking his body back and forth, he traced circles over his face with the toy.
It wasn’t until the next morning that one of the women who came from time to time, one of the women who always brought Michael to another, strange man in a white coat, found the bigger boy dead on the tile floor. Since he was dead next to Michael, who was still covered in blood, the implications were obvious; she snatched the brush from his hand and broke it.
“If you can’t play nice, you can’t play at all,” she said and stood back with Missy Myers’s haughty derision, her smug smile of self satisfaction. Like a flash of lightning, Michael dove at her, but two men in white snatched the boy right out of the air. “Bad, little boys must be taught some manners.”
Michael jerked and pulled; he dragged his bare feet over the cold floor, but the men were relentless. They stuffed him in a chair with wheels, latched his hands to the arm rests, buckled his feet in place, and pulled something hard down over his face.
The chair’s squeaking sounded strange, but it was nice, peaceful; there was a certain rhythm to the sound. One turn and another began to disorient the boy, who saw very little through the slits in the plastic over his face. The way the overhead lights shone was pleasant, though. Then, everything came to a stop.
Something cold touched his arm. Something pointy went inside. His neck and shoulders seized for a moment. Finally, he felt very warm and comfortable.
****
“Michael, can you hear me?” It was Loomis’s voice. “They told me you became angry when the orderly broke your brush. I’m sorry she took your toy, but here at Smith’s Grove, we all have to get along, and if you can’t get along…you’ll have to learn to fight.”
The plastic was pulled from the boy’s face. He blinked a great deal at first; his vision was blurry, but everything was very bright. There were numerous boys and girls within Michael’s field of vision, but the only thing of interest was the feel of a cotton ball being rubbed over his cheek; Loomis was stimulating the boy.
He tried to reach for the cotton ball, but his hands and legs were still secured. Loomis pulled the cotton ball away and knelt down. He tilted Michael’s chin, but the boy made no eye contact.
“You can play with this cotton ball for a few minutes…if you can get to it.”
Loomis then walked beyond the other boys and girls. He stood by a darkened wall where there were no lights. Michael tried to climb from the chair.
“Hold on a sec’,” someone said.
The straps came undone, but before the boy had a chance to react, the lights overhead flashed like a strobe. The sight was stunning, but it quickly ended, however, the act animated the other boys and girls; they were all similarly clothed, as was Michael, in dark, green jumpsuits.
They all ran at him. They punched him, and grabbed him, and bit him. They held him down while the adults laughed and made strange comments. Some of them cheered names.
“C’mon, Michael,” Loomis yelled. “Come get the cotton ball!”
All the boy saw were ravenous glowers, contorted faces filled with wrath, but he wanted that ball of fluffy white. He thrashed, and he gnashed his teeth over someone’s hand. He threw one fist, and then another; he punched, and kicked, bit, and jammed his fingers into eyes. A bloodied mess, he grabbed a girl by her hair and slung her into another kid. He kicked one, and he stomped down over one more; all the while, he tried desperately to reach Doctor Loomis, who was then kneeling and holding out the cotton ball.
“You must win, Michael; you must beat them all, or you cannot play with this wonderful toy!”
Fists and feet struck the boy, but he felt no pain. Teeth crunched down over his shoulders, his fingers, but he didn’t care; he wanted that toy. Almost free from the angry masses, he ran while one boy held him by the collar, and one girl had her arms wrapped over his ankle, biting his leg. He pulled, and pulled, dragging himself to the cotton ball.
“That’s it, Michael, take it from me!”
He did, he got the white ball, and one of the kids tried to take it, but he smashed his fists over their head, fell onto the ground, and as the adults chuckled and rounded up the kids, he ran the ball over his face, but it got all wet, and cold, and red. In confusion, he looked at Loomis, who tried to establish eye contact.
“If you want that ball to stay white and soft, you’ll have to learn to fight better. Mister Ushiro can teach you how to do that, but you have to do everything he tells you, or you’ll never get another cotton ball….”
Thanks for reading chapter 2 of Michael Myers, a Halloween fanfiction by Aaron Dennis. Like, share, all that.