Halloween II: The Nightmare Isn't Over
Martin, Jack., Halloween II. Zebra Books, New York, New York 1981.
| Loomis gets a shock | The Blond newscaster meets Michael |
| Nurse Karens demise |  Brackett
sees Annie |
Excerpt
1: Michael Myers Lives
From
Halloween II "The Night He Came Home"--Chapter Two
Loomis
forced himself up and went to the balcony.
His
eyes took in the grass below.
Let
me hold this last picture of him in my mind forever, he thought, for the longest
day that I live. Whenever I am afraid, or whenever anyone is afraid, I will be
able to dredge it up from memory and be assured that he and the evil he
represents are no more.
The
balcony. The flower trellis. The grass below, where he had fallen.
The
lawn.
Which
was empty.
He
slapped the wall with his hand.
Turned.
Grabbed the gun and staggered down the stairs. Out the door. Into the yard. He
dropped to his knees there.
A
patch of flattened, wet grass still held the outline of a body. It looked as if
it had been burned into the ground.
He
reached out, feeling the compressed blades of grass against his skin. The grass
was smooth when you rubbed it in one direction, rough the other. It was wetter
in the center. Very wet.
Wet
with blood.
Loomis
drew away from it and stood, staring wildly around the yard. The waving
branches. The smudges that were garden tools against the periphery. The sky, and
the night. Nothing else.
A
porch light winked on at the house next door.
A man
in his nightclothes leaned into the darkness, shading his eyes, peering out
between two grinning pumpkins on his porch.
"Just
what is going on out there?"
"Call
the police," said Loomis reflexively. "Tell the sheriff I've shot
him."
"Who?"
Loomis'
throat cleared and he found the full strength of his voice. "Tell them that
he's still on the loose!"
The
man clutched his pajamas and swayed uncertainly. "Is this some kind of
joke? I've been trick-or-treated to death tonight."
Loomis
held to the gun, the empty gun.
This
is it, he thought. I should have guessed.
Halloween
is over. The games. The roles. The cheap thrills.
Now
it really begins.
"You
don't know what death is," he said.
He
was on his way out of the yard.
As you may recall, at one point during Halloween II a blond reporter asks a gentlemen (comedian Dana Carvey)" talk to some kids, you need the parents permission to use their statement..."
That is all you hear from this reporter but in the Halloween II Novel she has a much bigger role and Michael Myers adds her to his growing list of victims. The Shape even confiscates her car for transportation to the hospital in his relentless pursuit of Laurie Strode. Our story picks up at the beginning of Chapter 5. Enjoy
The light came on.
The producer's eyes were bloodshot. It was past time to wrap.
"...CROWDS ARE MILLING AROUND AND THE POLICE HAVE CORDONED OFF THE ENTIRE AREA. TO REPEAT THREE YOUTHS HAVE BEEN FOUND MURDERED AT 3250 WOODBINE STREET IN THE NORTHWEST SECTION OF HADDONFIELD. DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STREET ANOTHER TEENAGED GIRL WAS FOUND ALIVE. SHE WAS EVIDENTLY ATTACKED BY THE SAME SUSPECT..."
The producer wove through the crowd and eded up back at the camera truck. The portable lights were emitting fine trails of steam that drifted upward and dissipated into the night sky, tracing a wispy path like the Milky Way through the stats. She pointed to her watch.
Mundy did not see her.
"...POLICE PUT OUT A ALL POINTS BULLETIN WITH A DESCRIPTION OF THE ASSAILANT. BLOCKADES HAVE BEEN ESTABLISHED AT ALL OF THE MAIN ARTERIES IN TOWN AND DETECTIVE GARY HUNT OF THE HADDONFIELD POLICE DEPARTMENT FEELS THAT THE SUSPECT WILL BE CAPTURED WITHIN A MATTER OF HOURS..."
He was staring hypnotically into the lens. He appeared to be absorbed in a kind of onanistic communion with the crystal eye of the camera. It was eerie. Almost as if he saw, or believed he could see, the good people of Haddonfield growing drowsy in their darkened living rooms, hanging on his every word in an unholy electronic séance.
"NOT SINCE THAT NIGHT FIFTEEN YEARS AGO WHEN YOUNG MICHAEL MYERS TRAGICALLY MURDERED HIS SISTER CAN THE TOWN OF HADDONFIELD RECALL SUCH A NIGHT OF INFAMY..."
The producer exchange glances with her assistant.
"The camera loves him, Deb," said the assistant.
"He thinks so," said the producer.
"He's making ratings history tonight, that's for sure. Listen to him. Smooth as hammered shit. Mundy magic."
"You think that's why?" She leaned in next to the camera and tried in vain to catch the announcer's eye. But Mundy's syrupy voice drones on. "There's nothing else on the tube tonight except old movies. most people are still up hoping their kids come home. what are they supposed to do, wait for the morning paper?"
"Word gets around fast when there's a murder in a burg like this. I hear the station switchboard's tied up with calls."
The producer waved. Mundy ignored her.
"Poor schmucks," she said. "They should lock their doors and leave it to the professionals. Nothing else is going to happen tonight. He's done his dirty work, whoever he is. Probably laid up on skid row by now, sleeping it off."
"Yeah. But you can't blame them. What about the kids?"
"I wouldn't let my kids out on a night like this," she said. "If I had any kids. Which is about as likely as rocking horse shit. To many weirdoes out there. Christ, this whole town's a mausoleum. They have to tie tin cans to their puppy dogs' tails for excitement, you know? I'm not kidding."
"You want to wrap it and go to bed?"
"Define your terms," said the producer.
The assistant smiled hopefully.
"Wrap it up in here as soon as you can," she said. "As soon as ol' blue eyes falls out of love with himself for a beat."
"And then?"
"Then you and the crew get your tails over to the hospital. this story's the biggest thing to hit Haddonfield since Stoddard's Store stopped carrying HUSTLER."
"Bucking for a Emmy, boss?"
"I'm bucking for a way out of this chicken outfit, Barry. By whatever means it takes. If sleazy sex murders will do it for me, then bring on the blood-and-guts. Just as long as it's not my blood and my guts." She reached out and put her hand over the red light on top of the camera in a last bid to get the newsman's attention.
The assistant cocked an eye at her. "You haven't lived here very long," he said soberly, "you didn't grow up here. You don't know these people like I do. If it was your friends got offed tonight--"
"Spare me," she said, preoccupied. "Barry, don't you know better than to believe everything news people say--even me? Lighten up. I'm only protecting my image. I've really got the heart of a sweet, innocent girl."
The assistant smirked. "Where, boss? in a jar on your mantle?"
"Actually it is in the kitchen. I use it as a doorstop." She found a blank cue card and a grease pencil, wrote "ID" on it and held it below the camera.
"IN THE AFTERMATH OF THE KILLINGS. THE STREETS BETWEEN CHESTNUT AND TENTH ARE JAMMED WITH PEOPLE AND CARS....REPEATING THAT, UH, THESE STREETS ARE CHESTNUT AND TENTH...THEY'RE JUST JAMMED WITH BOTH PEOPLE AND CARS....."
The producer held up her index finger. She waved it until Mundy could not help but notice. Then she took her finger and slashed it across her throat from ear to ear with finality. She made a gagging expression, he tongue hanging out.
"WE NOW RETURN YOU TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING," said Mundy. "UNTIL THEN, PLEASE STAY TUNED FOR FURTHER..."
"CUT, already!" yelled the producer.
She floored the gas pedal of her Valiant and left the circus behind her.
In her rearview mirror she saw the last of the police lights bouncing off the Wallace and Doyle houses.
"A hot time in Hicksville," she muttered.
She flicked on the radio.
Music blipped past, songs about love or the lack of it, too much or too little, too late or too soon. The old story.
She glanced up. Ahead, a squad car was parked across the intersection of Tenth and Orange Grove.
She left her foot on the accelerator and slid her hands to the top of the wheel as if preparing to run it.
An officer climbed out of the car and flagged her down.
She sighed and eased up with her right foot.
She rolled down her window and pointed to the card in the window, on top of her dash.
"Press," she said.
The officer trained his flashlight in her face.
"You alone?"
"What does it look like?" she said.
He sauntered around the car, hitting the dirty windows with his beam.
"You're with the press, you say?"
"WWAR. Don't tell me you're going to ask for my registration. At a time like this."
"Nice night," he said.
"Yes," she said, "it sure is. It might rain tomorrow. Christmas is coming in a month and a half. Listen can I pass? I've got to get to Haddonfield Memorial. I'm sure you know there's been a--"
"Not a safe night, though to be out. Alone and all. Pretty young thing like you."
"I'm sorry. It's been a long day. Night." she shielded her eyes from the flashlight and tried another tack. "You're name's Rettig, isn't it?"
"Yes ma'am."
"I thought so. I remember you from that snake hunt out in Russellville last simmer. O was it the two-headed calf story over in Hardin?" She sat up in her seat, unbuttoning another notch in her blouse. "Have you been on this case from the beginning.?"
"Since the break-in at Staddards's this morning, yes, ma'am. you know, Sheriff Brackett left orders with the Highway Patrol to keep reporters away from the hospital till tomorrow. He wants to talk to that Strode girl first. If I were you--"
"Your not. I mean, I'm, glad you're not! Lucky for you. Well, I've got to get back to the station. Late updates and all that. You know how it is."
The deputy made a note of her license plate. "Well, you go ahead then," he said. Reluctantly. "Just be sure you stay on the main road. And don't go picking up any hitchhikers. You see any suspicious characters, you report it to---"
"I'll report straight to you. Or Sheriff Brackett. Whatever." She eased in the clutch and dropped into gear.
"The deputy tipped his hat. "You have a nice night now, hear?"
She started rolling.
"Wait a minute," called the deputy.
She groaned.
"Is anything wrong officer?"
"Better get that left front tire checked. She's runnin' pretty low."
"I'll do that." She waited. "Thank you very much."
"Be glad to give you a hand, if you'll pull to the side. 'Bout ready to be relieved here, anyway. How's your spare?"
"My spare's fine. I mean, I'll do it myself. I'll stop off on the way. I need gas, anyway."
"No stations open around here this time of night."
"I know where there's one. Hey. I'll bet you'd make a great interview for the Special Report tomorrow morning. Someone like you who knows everything about what's going on....have you ever seen yourself on television?"
"I'd have to check with the Captain..."
"You do that. And then check with us. With me. Or I'll call you. Don't call us, okay? We'll call you."
Before he could change his mind she drew away smoothly, waving out the window.
"Hicks nix pix in sticks," she said to herself.
She drove on.
His red light faded in the distance, finally obscured by the trees. Or by shadows across her back window. Shadows of whatever was in the back seat. Boxes or---
Karen had to take off her shoes in order to keep from slipping.
The therapy room was filling up with steam. It permeated her uniform and condensed in her stockings, rose up to the ceiling and began to rain back down along the white tiles in rivulets, flowing into mirages under he exercise machines and walking bars.
She slogged over the stainless steel tub.
Bud was buoyed back on his elbows. He had a look of absolute spoiled indulgence.
She kicked her toes though a puddle, sprinkling his face.
His eyelids opened lazily.
"Hurry up," he said with a dopey smile.
"I don't want to wrinkly my uniform." She hiked up her skirt and skinned off her pantyhose . She stood over him with the shrunken nylons in her hand.
Bud dunked his head under the churning surface and came up red as a lobster.
"Well?" he said. He reached for her ankle.
She dodged his hand. She watched him float over one of the jets. His hairy legs lifted, his kneecaps breaking the surface like bald heads. The roseate of his genitals bobbed on the water.
"Well?" she said.
The steam was rising.
Karen held to the rail and tiptoed to control room.
The glass was misted over. Bud stretched out in the tub. He was a pink blur through the window. he said something to her, but his voice was muffled by the double safety panes. With that and the clouds of steam which now enclosed the tub, they would be very much alone even if someone were to walk into this part of the room from the hall, which was not likely this hour. She stripped and folded her clothing on the shelf under the heating pipes. She set her stethoscope careful on top of the pile.
The gauge indicated 104 degrees, the perfect temperature.
Back in the tiled area once more, the rumbling of the aerators effectively blocked every sound of the world outside this room. Billows of steam licked invitingly from the sunken tub. she pinned back her hair and descended.
The water closed around her neck.
Bud's hands were slippery fishes darting over her hips and thighs. Their toes nipped at each other. The changing waterline titled in front of her and merged with the misty white skyline of the ceramic floor beyond
If the door in the control room had opened and closed, neither of them noticed.
Eventually Bud gripped her more demandingly around the waist and lifted her up into the hot air. A steam of bubbles rolled up her spine.
She separated from him. "It's getting hotter in here," she observed.
"That's me," said Bud.
"You wish."
"I know." He encircled her and nuzzled her breasts.
She pushed him away again. Her fingers squeezed his hair. "I'm not kidding. It's too hot now."
Bud tried to hold her angles with his in a frog leg lock.
Karen tossed her head. "Check it, Bud," she said, using her impersonal nurse's voice."
"That gauge is stuck on a hundred and five. It hasn't moved. Nobody could move it. I know---I tried it when I got here. It would take King Kong to budge it. It must be wrong. Besides, baby, it's cold out there."
"It can get cold in here."
"Gotcha." said Bud resignedly.
He got out oof the tub, deflated.
He flat-footed it to the control room.
He went inside. It was hot in the glass room, too, though silent as the door closed. Karen was a hazy blur from here. Her clothes were piled neatly under the controls. He smiled.
"Where's your stethoscope, little girl? Lost it again, huh? Old Lady Alves is gonna start taking them out of your paycheck...."
He wiped the misty gauge with wet fingers.
It read 122 degrees.
"Wha-a-at?" said Bud. "Can't be right."
He touched the knob, drew his hand away and kissed his fingers.
It was hot.
"What the...?"
As he stood there massaging his chest hairs to a swirl, the temperature needle crept up another notch.
He grabbed the towel and reached for the valve.
A shadow passed over the gauge.
He looked up. And up.
The temperature gauge crept up to 127 degrees.
But he could not have seen it.
Karen ignored the misty activity in the control room. Bud's arms were jerking, in the shadows.
"Yank that thing, big man," she said, turning her back. "You've got strong hands. I know you can do it."
She sat on the edge of the tub and folded her arms under her dripping breasts. The water humped as if boiling.
She snagged a towel and dabbed her neck and shoulders. She lifted the hair away from her face with he red fingernails. She fanned the steam. It was becoming difficult to breathe. The back of her neck trickled with perspiration. She dabbed it again.
A hand touched her.
"Bud forget it. I have to get back to work."
The hand stayed where it was/
Her big tow dipped into a mound of aeration. She jerked her foot away.
"Ow, that's hotter than ever! Did you even do anything? We sure can't go back in now."
A hand slid around her neck to the hollow of her throat.
"Mmm, you wanna go for breakfast later?:
She took the hand in her hands and drew it down to her breastbone and close her eyes. The fingertips brushed her nipple.
She sighed. "I'm sorry. I just have to get back that's all." Eyes closed, she licked the finger, sucked it.
There was no response
"Come on, Bud, don't be this way......"
She stopped what she was doing. The fingers were dirty. Filthy.
She opened her eyes to the wrist, the arm----
To what was behind her.
Instantly she was bent in half and driven forward. Before she hit the water she wrenched around far enough to see Bud sprawled nude on the tiles of the control room, a stethoscope---her own---knotted around his Adam's apple. Then she was forced down and up and down. One, two, three, four, five, six times. Each time she was hauled up by the hair her face was redder and more blistered until her bubbling, choking screams ceased and there was only the hissing and the patient silent, curious shadow leaning over her, observing.
Finally it dropped her and left her there, half-in and half-out, her arms and one leg floating gracefully on the roiling waves, the skin of her face and breasts boiled and peeling loosed in long dangling strips.
The the shape stepped over her and moved on.
Back out into the hospital corridor.
It had not been difficult at all.