Halloween: The Official Movie Novelization

28

Laurie continued to patrol the streets of Haddonfield in her Nissan pickup, gazing left and right while listening to her police scanner. With fewer trick-or-treaters on the sidewalks or crossing the street, a solitary figure would stand out. His coveralls would blend into the shadows, but that mask, that ghoulishly pale mask, would expose him. Each time she saw someone in front of her, crossing the street or walking on the sidewalk, she flicked on the high beams to dispel the darkness and reveal them.

Though she had the Smith & Wesson revolver on the passenger seat, if she spotted him in the road, she would have to resist the urge to run him down with the pickup. After a moment’s consideration, she dismissed the idea. Why suppress that particular urge when Haddonfield had several good auto body shops?

Take him down, she thought, then take him out. A hit and shoot.

Since she’d learned of his escape from the transport bus, the day had acquired the oppressive feeling of a summer storm brewing, as if dark thunderheads had rolled in and it was only a matter of time before the damaging winds, hail, and lightning wreaked havoc on the town. Except this storm felt personal. Everyone else chose to ignore it or hope it went away.

She wouldn’t rely on the police this time. She wouldn’t even rely on her family. She would protect them with or without their help. She had resigned herself to her mission a long time ago. She had never lost the way.

The police scanner squawked, catching her attention.

“Base 100 all units. Intrusion in progress at 385 Meridian Avenue.”

“601 copy,” a familiar voice responded. Hawkins.

“This is it,” Laurie said to herself.

She checked the closest street sign, then pressed the accelerator.

Officer Frank Hawkins arrived first at 385 Meridian, parked his blue-and-white police cruiser at the curb, and circled to the back of the house, gun drawn, flashlight held beside it. Many of the interior lights burned bright, as if the residents hoped the display would scare away the intruder. As he turned the corner of the house and peered across the backyard, a flutter of movement caught his attention. He froze, gun aimed, finger tensing on the trigger—until his flashlight revealed he’d been about to drill a 9mm hole in a solitary bedsheet flapping in the breeze.

He paused, listening for anything unusual.

Behind the bedsheet and the clothesline, he saw an elaborate wooden playset, an expensive amalgamation of a fort and a jungle gym. No reason for a suburban kid to visit a playground when his own backyard had better equipment. Since the damn thing was big enough to hide a boy scout troop, he made a quick pass around it, checking and clearing any hidden recesses.

Once he came around the far side, he noticed somebody had left the back door open. Stepping through the door into a dark kitchen, he swept the room with his flashlight, finding no one. Silence.

“Warren County Sheriff’s Department,” he called, projecting his voice so anyone in the house would hear him. “Responding to a domestic disturbance!”

Cautiously, he stepped forward.

“I repeat! This is Office Hawkins. Please respond!”

The open door was the first sign at the scene that something was wrong. At this point, he had a tricky situation on his hands. The homeowner might be hiding, too scared to respond and possibly armed, possibly trigger-happy. And an intruder might be present, also hiding, possibly armed. Despite the open back door, he couldn’t assume the perp or the homeowner had fled. An intruder might have left the door open upon entering the residence. When you stacked unknown upon unknown, you increased the odds of somebody getting injured or killed, and that included the homeowner or the cop responding to the call. Hawkins kept his finger beside the trigger guard, rather than on the trigger. Less chance he would flinch and accidentally shoot mom, dad, or the kids.

Once he cleared the kitchen, he walked into the hall between the stairs and the living room. He heard indistinct voices from a television. To his right, he noticed scuffing on the wall beside the staircase, a cracked baluster—fresh damage.

As he climbed the stairs, he kept his feet close to the wall to counter any squeaky treads or risers. At the top of the staircase, he paused by the newel post and stared down the hallway, noticing a glow coming from a dark room at the end. Moving quietly, he approached the room, gun raised, tapping the trigger guard nervously with his index finger.

Pausing before the door, he took a deep breath, then pivoted into the doorway. His flashlight beam first caught the eyes of a small jack-o’-lantern with a candle in it on a toy shelf.

Kid’s room, he thought, judging by the toys and animal wallpaper.

The glow in the room emanated from a large aquarium. But someone had dropped a large jack-o’-lantern, carved with heart-shaped eyes and a friendly smile, into the fish tank, where it rested between an arch-shaped piece of white coral and a novelty volcano with orange lighting designed to look like an underwater lava eruption.

To the left of the aquarium sat a figure cloaked in a white sheet—taken from the clothesline?—with eye holes cut out to make a simple ghost costume.

Hawkins stepped forward, gun trained on the ghost.

Some kind of prank?

“Joke’s over, pal,” he said. “Remove the sheet—slowly—and keep your hands where I can see them.”

No movement. Not even a nervous twitch.

Hawkins had a bad feeling.

Keeping his gun aimed at the ghost figure, he reached forward with his other hand and carefully pulled away the sheet.

“Sweet Jesus,” he whispered in horror.

Beneath was a pretty blond teenager in a blood-drenched raglan shirt, dark jeans, and gray socks. No shoes. Possibly lives—lived—here. Another explanation occurred to him. Babysitter. He noted multiple stab wounds. Shoulder wound. Defensive cuts on her forearms. Throat slit open. Didn’t need a coroner’s assessment to know the last one was the cause of death.

Poor girl. Her killer had posed her on the chair, hands on her knees. Then turned her into a gruesome Halloween decoration.

But he’d mourn her loss later.

Her killer might still be inside the house.

Laurie arrived at the house after Hawkins. At least she assumed the sheriff’s department cruiser at the curb belonged to him. Climbing out of the pickup, her nerves on high alert, Laurie scanned the area, handgun pressed against her thigh.

He could be here. Anywhere.

She peered up and down the block, at the shadows between pools of light cast from street lamps. Jack-o’-lanterns glowed on porches and front steps, candle flames flickering in the breeze, creating a false sense of movement by shifting shadows around them.

POP!

Laurie flinched. Only a firecracker.

Turning toward the sound, she saw the silhouette of a small witch with the traditional pointed hat. The witch lit and tossed more firecrackers—POP! POP!

Two figures joined the witch, a skull head and a pumpkin head.

Kids. Out too late for their own good. Fooling around. No idea how dangerous this night—this block—has become.

“Get away from here!” Laurie yelled. “Go home. Get inside!”

Laughing, the three of them ran in the opposite direction, candy bags swaying behind them.

Laurie turned toward the house, her gaze moving to the upstairs windows. To the left, in a corner window, she saw a cop, Hawkins, gun drawn, tense. Detecting sudden movement to her right, she turned toward the window of the next room and saw The Shape standing there, staring at her, their locked gaze spanning forty years.

After so many years of preparing herself, she thought she’d be ready for this moment, that an icy calm would take hold of her. But she was wrong. Her heart raced in her chest and her breath froze in her throat after she gasped in alarm. Her muscles tensed so much that her whole body trembled.

She fought for control, forcing herself to take a few deep breaths, trying to regain her composure before she lost the moment, the chance to end him. Raising the revolver in her right hand, she braced her hand with her left palm. Her bolt-action rifle would have increased her chances of hitting him, but she’d had plenty of practice with the Smith & Wesson. She had to take her shot, literally.

BAM!

For a moment, she thought she’d scored a direct hit, and the sound of glass shattering seemed to come from the upstairs window breaking. But The Shape—the image of The Shape—split apart in several jagged pieces and fell away. Where he’d stood, she saw only the wooden backing of a full-length dressing mirror.

He was in the house—but she’d shot his reflection.

Hawkins had checked the closet, finding only bike helmets and toys on the shelves and some clothes on plastic hangers, and then peered under the bed, a less likely hiding space, when he heard the gunshot. If he could trust his ears, somebody outside the house had shot a bullet through a nearby room.

For a moment, he considered the possibility somebody outside had targeted him, so he placed his back to the wall, away from view through any of the windows. But a motion in the hallway caught his attention, a dark shape passing. In a crouch, he hurried out of the room, gun aimed down the hall.

The shape of a man in dark coveralls—identical to those worn by Stallion Service Center employees—descended the stairs, a large knife clutched in his right hand.

Son of a bitch!

“Stop or I’ll fire!”

The Shape continued unabated down the stairs.

Tracking his movement, Hawkins fired two shots at a downward angle.

BLAM! BLAM!

The Shape moved out of sight.

Hawkins hurried along the hallway, rushed down the stairs.

At the bottom he paused, unsure which way the murderer had gone. Then he noticed a trail, drops of blood leading toward the living room and the faint sound of the television. Proceeding with caution, he approached the archway into the living room with his gun raised. From a distance, he had the advantage against someone wielding a knife, but entering a new room with an unknown layout diminished that advantage.

He could see a wing chair and sofa, the windows overlooking the street, but the rest of the room remained out of sight. With a quick motion, he stepped through the archway and spun to his right, ready to counter an ambush with a quick shot or two.

Instead, he took an involuntary step backward, lowering his gun hand as he shook his head in dismay. Oh, Christ, another one.

A male teenager in a red plaid shirt and farmer overalls. But what drew Hawkins’ eyes was the manner of death. The poor kid was pinned to the wall, suspended several inches off the floor, the hilt of a large kitchen knife stuck through his neck. His face, turned to the right, had been smashed against the wall; the right side of his jaw looked broken, his eye bulging from the socket.

Mounted, like a ceremonial slaying.

Hawkins checked his right shoulder. The plaid shirt had been pulled down, exposing the skin and a simple tattoo: 10-31-18. For a fleeting moment, Hawkins had the weird idea the kid had a premonition of his own death and had the date tattooed on himself. Checking the ink, and the stippled blood near it, the tattoo was fresh, possibly done earlier in the day. He doubted the killer had tattooed his victim pre- or post-mortem. So, the victim must have placed some significance on the date.

All he could do was note it on his report.

Right now, he had a killer to apprehend.

Having missed with her first shot, Laurie crossed the yard, waiting to see if The Shape would emerge from the front door. But then, with a cop inside the house, and shots fired at him from outside, she decided he would most likely exit through the back of the house. Hawkins remained inside, no doubt conducting a search of his own. Laurie would guard the back.

Circling around the garage, she held her gun high, ready to fire at the first sign of him. No hesitation. Just put him down.

As soon as she cleared the corner, she saw him walking in the opposite direction, around the far side of the house. The darkness had nearly cloaked him, but the pale mask flashed the moment he turned. Moving forward hurriedly, she aimed and took a shot before he disappeared around the corner.

BAM!

The Shape staggered, taking a bullet to the back of the left shoulder, and fell from view on the far side of the house.

This is it, she thought, sensing her chance. Got him!

Eyes focused on the corner of the house, Laurie ran in pursuit.