THE FESTIVAL OF SAMHAIN
CHAPTER 4- LOCKED UP


...Michael Myers has been successfully rehabilitated thanks to Smith's Grove Warren County Sanitarium!!!

The words of sanitarium director Dr. David Starks echoed loudly inside the head of Dr. John Loomis as he stoically sat in his own cell there.

Loomis couldn't help but think how poetic it was that he was locked up at Smith's Grove, the very institution he practically used to run. The very same institution that, time and time again, had been tricked by Michael Myers into thinking they could successfully rehabilitate death and change its ways. It's too bad that he was the only one (plus his uncle Samuel before him) who knew the truth. If those in charge would have acted on their recommendations, the devil would have stayed locked up in hell. And a lot of poor souls would have been spared.

If he bleeds, I can kill him uncle...

Wearing the standard issue white t-shirt and sweat pants, the now-bald headed, gray-bearded Loomis sat in his chair and just stared out the window, not seeing the window, but looking past it-- into God knew what. He may have appeared empty on the outside, but on the inside, his mind was a race of emotions. The events of that night ten years ago constantly haunted him. John just couldn't help but replay the moment in time where his guilt overcame him-- the moment he heard that call come over the deputy's radio. He tried to tell those idiots. Over and over. Hell, he even insisted on going along in the ambulance. But that fucking deputy would have none of it, and as a result, his nemesis was still out there somewhere. Waiting. Inhumanly patient. To strike again.

Iíve been trained to kill, and even though I may now be old and slow, it doesnít show in my heart, or my trigger finger...

Even older and slower now, I'm afraid, Loomis thought. But I could damn sure still get the job done.

After that call, all he could think about was catching up to the scene before it was too late, and putting an end to IT once and for all, even if it meant losing his own life in the process. But the moment he tried, he was tackled by several soldiers and handcuffed by Sheriff Barnes, that ungrateful twat who couldn't carry Sheriff Robinson's jock.

A few months later, he was deemed insane by his other arch nemesis, Dr. David Starks, the chief of medical operations at Smith's Grove, and locked up for an "indeterminate period of rehabilitation". Ten years later, nothing had changed. He was still here, looking at the same four fucking walls every day and eating the same shit food that was so bad even the rats avoided it. He appealed his case many times, but each time Dr. Starks denied it, desperately trying to keep the truth hidden. Just like Halloween in 1978, Smith's Grove had tried to wash their hands of the whole mess. And just like in 1978, Michael Myers had nearly forced the closure of the entire clinic. He overheard many times that the governor had cut funding to the point where it had become a bare-bones operation, but it never led anywhere. After a decade, he started to cling to that as his only salvation. The place would close down and he could finally get out and finish what he started. But deep down, he knew that, no matter what happened, Dr. Starks would never let him out. That he was sure of.

"Enjoying the view?" came a soft, cheery voice that startled Loomis out of his gaze.

It was Nurse Margery Cheeks, who had come to administer his daily dose of medication.

Loomis didn't answer. He just remembered the irony of asking Michael the exact same thing the last time he attempted to treat him all that time ago.

Margery, the cheerful middle-aged nurse, had been responsible for Loomis for several years since all the budget cuts had forced her to work double-shifts, covering both the minimum and maximum security wards. Loomis found her positive attitude annoying, but he put up with it. What other choice did he have? If not her, it would be some other crony appointed by Dr. Starks. Might as well be someone he could halfway stand at least.

"Here you go for today, dear," Margery stated, handing him two brown pills that Dr. Loomis immediately recognized as thorazine.

Raging inside, but still not showing an ounce of emotion on the outside, he put the pills in his mouth and took a huge gulp of water.

A few seconds later, Margery opened his mouth with her plastic-gloved fingers and searched around to make sure he swallowed them both. "Good job," she exclaimed, talking to him like he was a child. She pulled her fingers back out of his mouth and lightly tapped his cheek in acceptance.

As Margery exited, an orderly in blue scrubs approached, carrying fresh pillow cases and bed sheets.

"Hey Carl!" a voice called out from down the hall, freezing the tall, lanky African-American in his tracks.

"What, man?" the orderly answered.

"Didja see the news?"

"No, dumbass, I've been pulling doubles so I can go to the new festival in Haddonfield tonight," the normally affable Carl blurted out. "Thought you were, too?"

"I am," the other orderly stated as his voice drew closer to the open doorway. "I caught a little on my lunch break. You won't believe it."

The orderly then paused, leaving Carl in suspense just long enough to annoy him. "What, Avery???"

"That girl, that Madison girl, the one that survived Michael Myers a while back...they found her body last night near Haddonfield. Someone gutted her like a fish."

"You're full of shit!" Carl fired back, clearly not even wanting to give him the time of day. "The news wouldn't report that."

"Ya know, I think I fucked her once," Avery quipped in his heavy Italian accent. "She was like a goddamn Bawbie doll though. She just laid there and made me do all da work."

"You think you've fucked EVERYONE once," Carl groaned, putting Avery in his place.

"Yeah, well, they found her body, along with some others," Avery informed him. "They were all butchered, like with a kitchen knife or somethin'."

Carl's eyes widened. "Butcher knife? Wait a minute, you don't think it was--"

At that point, two nurses walked by and Carl stopped mid-sentence before pulling his short, dark-haired compadre aside.

"You don't think it was Michael Myers?"

"Ya neva know," the stocky Avery quietly replied. "They just put aht an APB. Last I heard, they still don't have no suspect."

"And they neva found his bawdy."

Back inside his room, Dr. John Loomis' jaw dropped and the look of real shock had overtaken his face.

They might not have a suspect, but I sure do, he thought, glancing at the two men through the partially open door.

After ten long years, Michael Myers had finally made his move.


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